“I’ve had it up to way beyond my eyeballs with so many straight men giving the big starry moon-eyes to all the Zooey Deschanel-types in the movie and television world.” – Jen Ronan gives us a tongue-in-cheek look at her pet peeves.
Explainer: for those not familiar with the term a Manic Pixie Dream Girl is a relatively new TV trope. They are the wistful, inexplicably cute and quirky, girl who fall for the somewhat dark and brooding male. Alongside being fairly two-dimensional, they put their own happiness second to pursue this (often boring) love & teach them about the joys of life.
So, yeah, kind of sad when you think about it.
But we digress, take it away, Jen!
Who lives like that in the real world? So perfectly, so unique, so ukulele. With their floaty gait, their impossibly voluminous acres of shiny Ariel The Mermaid-style hair that never looks out of place. Unlike mine, which gets a layer of static frizz in anything other than desert climate. Not for them the pain of taking a brave step in deciding to leave your hair down when you go somewhere for once. (I never take that decision lightly).
They will never know the pain and humiliation of the wispy distressed shit-pile that is their unruly mop-head as it blows across their freshly painted face, blowing right onto their nude shimmery lipgloss, like sleepy mosquitoes stuck in tree-sap. It is not in their destiny to attempt to remove the aforementioned wad of hair from the glorified glue-trap adorning your cake-hole. They will never understand the consequence of such a thing.
Which, of course, is a sticky glittery snail-trail across your dusky rose-powdered cheek. All this before you try to make your way into town without being hit by a car. Or worse yet, a bus filled with every ex-boyfriend and every man you’ve worshipped from afar but never quite got beyond him ‘liking’ your Happy Birthday post on his Facebook wall.
Not that I’m projecting my own issues or anything. It’s just that some of us girls who the outside world would consider ‘quirky’ or ‘alternative’ have very little similarity to those Manic Pixie Dream Girl Types. My off-the-wall ‘wacky’ behaviour with men (you know when you send too many texts/voicemails/vials of blood and tears) doesn’t result in me ultimately “Getting The Guy”, who secretly finds my whole breakdown so adorable. It usually ends with me getting blocked on Facebook, and/or being cautioned by the guards. No acoustic whispered falsetto versions of Smiths classics fade out on my stupidity, just silence and abject humiliation as i swear to never forget my meds again.
Flowery print dresses, cardigans and shiny black patent Mary Jane shoes may look good on Zooey Deschanel, or Summer or whoever the feck she’s called – but with my lack of average height, extra poundage and what elderly relatives call ‘just that kind of a face’, I look less Indie Chick and more Mormon Polygamist Wife On The Run. If nothing else guys, I know my limits.
Maybe I’m just projecting. It’s possible that I’m simply bitter and jealous, and need to shurrup and get over myself. You be the judge. In the meantime, if you know anyone looking to buy a barely-used ukulele and an even newer High Nelly with a pink wicker basket, hit me up.
The Deschanel Effect – A Poem
Zooey, Zooey, how do you dooey
Your sighs so wistful and hair so flooey
There is no man alive who doesn’t love yooey
But why don’t they ever love me?
See, I am a girl whose look is left-field
I existed for years before your bell pealed
Then one day New Girl made all their hearts yield
But why don’t they ever love me?
I’ve tried to perfect your aloof vacant stare
I’ve bought surf-spray to copy your beach-tousled hair
But instead I end up like a crazy drowned mare
Oh, why don’t they ever love me?
They all want to save you from your inner turmoil
You never lose your temper or let your blood boil
If I showed my rage then their pants they would soil
I can see why they might not love me…
The manic pixie dream-girl will one day implode
She’ll ride her High Nelly down Reality Road
When she farts while you witness your boner erode
Please – don’t you ever call me.
By Jen Ronan