Now, Cosmo usually gives us five or six snappy blurbs on the cover designed, as all cover blurbs are, to get the reader to quit staring at the cover and fork over four dollars to read the magazine, or at least pick it up and stare at it while in the check stand line. Another article in the Emmy issue advises Cosmo girls to "Get the Ass You Deserve," which I thought was a guide for women who wanted to cement a committed relationship with an emotionally stunted male, but turned out to be just another bunch of exercises.
I hope that admitting this does not ruin my chances with Emmy forever, but it's been weeks, possibly months since I've even had a grilled cheese. Let me hasten to add, if any of you are concerned about my well-being, that I've been getting my minimum daily requirement of grease and sodium from other sources. I wouldn't cut grilled cheese totally out of my diet without substituting nutritionally equivalent foods, like carne asada fries and peanut butter Oreos, lest I submit my body to the throes of cholesterol withdrawal. I'm no fanatic, but I don't believe in taking chances with my health.
Emmy, these guys who tell you they only need two things are just saying that so you'll give them one of them. Really, we need beer, too. And colossal flat screen TV's. And cell phones with good data plans so we can Google stuff in the middle of heated arguments about college football games that happened a decade ago. Basically, we're all bottomless pits of needs and wants, like most other Americans, but we only need one thing from you. And if you offer us a grilled cheese afterwards, are we going to turn you down? Hell, no.
It occurs to me that you might think so highly of the male need for grilled cheese because that's the only thing you know how to cook. Who could blame you for that? You're already a highly respected celebrity, co-lead with William Macy in your hit HBO series and rising girl-about-Tinseltown. Nobody expects you to be some kind of magician in the kitchen. Although if you want to try something different, all you have to do is boil a bunch of water, drop a box of spaghetti into it—not really the box, just the contents of the box, if you were confused there—let it boil for ten minutes, dump a jar of Ragu over it afterwards, and you have pasta marinara. Just letting you know, in case you ever meet a guy who turns up his nose at your grilled cheese. Which is unlikely.
I don't want you to think of any of this as criticism, Emmy. I just want to let you know, as gently as possible, that those guys who tell you they only need sex and grilled cheese are only being 50% truthful. I have more respect for you than that. I'm not really in you dating pool, so to speak, but if I was, I would exhaust all of my resources in keeping you wined, dined, and entertained. It would be a whirlwind of fun and bliss. When you would ask me "But when are you going to want my grilled cheese?" I would nod my head sagely and say "Soon, my dear. Very soon." But I would actually run out of money and credit first, and be sensibly dumped by you and forced to stand at a major intersection all day holding a cardboard sign that said WENT BROKE DATING EMMY ROSSUM. I'M NOT BEGGING—I'M JUST BRAGGING.
And if people insisted on giving me money anyway, I'd spend it all on grilled cheese.