Looking back at the long list of men that have set up residence in my ever vast imagination, (there's always a flashing "vacancy" sign---newcomers welcome!) I have to say that one group in particular has earned the most frequent guest reward miles. There have been men in cars, men on skis, men in uniform; but none beat the tried and true favorites that never seem to let you down: Men On Screen.
My first love was Bobby Brady of the infamous "Bunch." My five year old eyes stared longingly at his dark hair and spattering of freckles; our Happily ever After separated only by the thick glass barrier of my parents' Zenith console. I daydreamed of being a Kindergarten Bride and joining his already overcrowded family. (I think as newlyweds we should've been allowed Greg's attic room)and I'd learn to cook pancakes and change diapers for our babies, who would be lovingly hand delivered by the stork within days of the wedding.
Faithful readers of this blog know that when it comes to the opposite sex, I have the attention span of a hunting dog on No-Doz. When I tired of whiny Bobby I moved on to Will Robinson of "Lost in Space," Nicholas Bradford of "Eight is Enough" and during a particularly energetic summer of 1979, I proclaimed undying devotion for every boy cast member of "Zoom."
Through the years this long-distance crush with Hollywood continued to blossom, and like most plants, it grew several large diseased weeds. As one half of my pre-adolescent dreamt of being Ricky Schroder's steady girl, the other half wondered what it would be like to tour with Menudo. Jr High brought Tiger Beat Magazine and armed with a roving eye and safety scissors my bedroom walls were soon papered with incomparable studs such as Johnny Depp, River Phoenix and Andre Gower. Even as the phone rang with boys from the neighborhood, my mind would invariably drift to Corey Feldman's favorite pizza topping.
You really can't blame me. Every woman (and probably man) knows that if we had to choose between the local dating pool and the two-dimensional guy on the IMAX screen, we're going to choose the latter. Think about it: guys in movies and magazines are always well groomed, cultured, full of clever witticisms and never leave the toilet seat up. They're rich, have impeccable manners and the word tardiness isn't in their vocabulary. Oh yeah, and they love the mall, especially the Chanel store.
The movies that we film in our mind are the best escape route we have, ans as we get older the plot lines change to fit the present needs. What started out as Bobby Brady carrying me off on a horse through a field of English wildflowers has morphed into Ryan Reynolds bending me over a room service cart in a suite at the Malibu Four Seasons.
I'll admit, there's nothing like the real thing, but sometimes a diversion is good for the spirit. Which is why even nowadays I'll allow my mind to drift to a far away place where ice cream has no calories, bikini waxes are painless, and every GQ model is at my beck and call. Hey, maybe I've just discovered what heaven is all about!
Monday, March 15, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
18 and Life
I've always had a thing for younger men. Ricky, the first boy who held my hand was a sweet bird of youth; he was ten, I eleven. I still remember the way his blond hair stuck out underneath his red baseball cap, and the way his green eyes matched the patches of grass in the sandlot. Features that I'm sure made him extremely popular in jail, where I heard he last resides.
When I hit my mid 30's, the tidal wave of social prevalence came crashing onto the SS Quinn with terrifying force. If its true that hindsight is 20/20, then I can see clear to Budapest even on a cloudy day. There have been many instances of my desperate attempts to cling to youth, the least of which involved warm winds, Kid Rock's "All Summer Long" and a pink bra hanging from the antenna of a fast moving pickup truck. Trust me, nothing says humiliation like hearing yourself say: "What seems to be the problem officer?" while shielding your chest from behind a wet t-shirt and searching in vain for your insurance card.
Just when I had given into the idea that public indecency should be left to those under 25, I was introduced to a new trend that was sweeping the nation quicker than acid washed jeans. Demi Moore was the first big name, Cameron Diaz and Mariah Carey quickly followed suit. Before we could blink "Cougars" had taken over the world.
Now I'm technically not old enough to be a Cougar (that's 40+) but I am a "Puma--Cougar in Training." I know this because I joined a Facebook group that said so. I'm expecting the welcome kit and official certificate of achievement to arrive by Fed Ex any day now.
Perhaps its the absence of wrinkles, or the hearty frat boy laugh that reels me in, but I find myself in these sensual (read: comedic) situations at least three times a year; and after each escapade I sit and wonder: why? Why would I dry hump a baby faced college kid on the lawn of a concert only to walk away with a hickey the shape (and roughly the size of) Idaho? Or allow a Robert Pattinson lookalike to grind up against me and lick Tequila off my neck at my cousin's wedding? Am I longing for the adventures I never had in my 20's due to circumstance, or I am in a permanent state of Arrested Development?
All I know is that thanks to sunscreen and Ms Clairol I don't look a day over 24 (OK 26...27?) and I figure I'd better use it while it lasts. If I'm in danger of becoming that 50 year old chick who still strolls college campuses, well I guess there's worse things I could be. (Like the 60 year old chick who does that) In the meantime I'll just keep taking the punches as they come. Now if you'll excuse me, I've just gotten three texts that Taylor Lautner has turned 18. Road trip anyone?
When I hit my mid 30's, the tidal wave of social prevalence came crashing onto the SS Quinn with terrifying force. If its true that hindsight is 20/20, then I can see clear to Budapest even on a cloudy day. There have been many instances of my desperate attempts to cling to youth, the least of which involved warm winds, Kid Rock's "All Summer Long" and a pink bra hanging from the antenna of a fast moving pickup truck. Trust me, nothing says humiliation like hearing yourself say: "What seems to be the problem officer?" while shielding your chest from behind a wet t-shirt and searching in vain for your insurance card.
Just when I had given into the idea that public indecency should be left to those under 25, I was introduced to a new trend that was sweeping the nation quicker than acid washed jeans. Demi Moore was the first big name, Cameron Diaz and Mariah Carey quickly followed suit. Before we could blink "Cougars" had taken over the world.
Now I'm technically not old enough to be a Cougar (that's 40+) but I am a "Puma--Cougar in Training." I know this because I joined a Facebook group that said so. I'm expecting the welcome kit and official certificate of achievement to arrive by Fed Ex any day now.
Perhaps its the absence of wrinkles, or the hearty frat boy laugh that reels me in, but I find myself in these sensual (read: comedic) situations at least three times a year; and after each escapade I sit and wonder: why? Why would I dry hump a baby faced college kid on the lawn of a concert only to walk away with a hickey the shape (and roughly the size of) Idaho? Or allow a Robert Pattinson lookalike to grind up against me and lick Tequila off my neck at my cousin's wedding? Am I longing for the adventures I never had in my 20's due to circumstance, or I am in a permanent state of Arrested Development?
All I know is that thanks to sunscreen and Ms Clairol I don't look a day over 24 (OK 26...27?) and I figure I'd better use it while it lasts. If I'm in danger of becoming that 50 year old chick who still strolls college campuses, well I guess there's worse things I could be. (Like the 60 year old chick who does that) In the meantime I'll just keep taking the punches as they come. Now if you'll excuse me, I've just gotten three texts that Taylor Lautner has turned 18. Road trip anyone?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
