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?
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Its Not Really a Sin If I (insert excuse here) Right?
At eleven years old I swore that I'd never let a boy touch me until we were married. At twelve I thought "Perhaps" as I felt Jimmy Henneberg's hot breath on my neck at the softball game, even though it smelled like nachos (with extra peppers). Thirteen, when Mikey Jacob's put his tongue in my mouth and hand up my shirt I considered..."Well, we'll probably get married someday anyway." (I never saw him again) Finally at fourteen as I heard my mattress squeak in perfect time with Queensryche on the cassette player the only thoughts were a silent prayer that Ronnie Bishop would fit under my bed just if my mom came home early.
As a Catholic I've been pre-conditioned to justify every action to make it favorable in the eyes of God. Getting completely drunk? Well Jesus turned water into wine, didn't he? Buying a new pair of slingbacks instead of giving to charity? Hey, these shoes will help me land a great job with fantastic salary and then I'll give away ALL my money! (well maybe half). Dry humping a guy on the lawn of a Jimmy Buffett concert? Jesus himself said "Love thy Neighbor."
In my youth I was the resident expert on pardonable misdeeds. If I was thinking about the seeing the paper boy in his underwear during church I was "trying to make new friends." Waiting with the other girls outside the locker room after a football game to try and get a peek, I was "Studying for my Biology final." Making out with a guy named Eric in a hayloft at a barn party while my boyfriend was passed out in the horse stables after drinking too much bootlegged Budweiser? I'm simply: "Encouraging Get-to-know-you activities among my peers."
How can even God argue with that logic? I'm still a good Catholic, I make Mass every week (almost) I got my Ashes a few weeks ago and am on my second week of Soda withdrawal for Lent (lack of caffeine is the excuse that I'm giving for any grammar mistakes in this blog by the way). I even make a point of going to Confession once in a while. I just don't spill everything. I mean c'mon now!
The most significant of these acts came when I let Cooper Smythe go "all the way" because he was studying to be a priest. His poor sad eyes begged as he spoke of a future with only cold, dark nights with God. How could I possibly t on say no to one of the true Catholic soldiers? I am nothing if not a woman of self-sacrifice. If that doesn't make me a full fledged member of the God Squad, well then I guess I'll just have to learn to walk on water.
As a Catholic I've been pre-conditioned to justify every action to make it favorable in the eyes of God. Getting completely drunk? Well Jesus turned water into wine, didn't he? Buying a new pair of slingbacks instead of giving to charity? Hey, these shoes will help me land a great job with fantastic salary and then I'll give away ALL my money! (well maybe half). Dry humping a guy on the lawn of a Jimmy Buffett concert? Jesus himself said "Love thy Neighbor."
In my youth I was the resident expert on pardonable misdeeds. If I was thinking about the seeing the paper boy in his underwear during church I was "trying to make new friends." Waiting with the other girls outside the locker room after a football game to try and get a peek, I was "Studying for my Biology final." Making out with a guy named Eric in a hayloft at a barn party while my boyfriend was passed out in the horse stables after drinking too much bootlegged Budweiser? I'm simply: "Encouraging Get-to-know-you activities among my peers."
How can even God argue with that logic? I'm still a good Catholic, I make Mass every week (almost) I got my Ashes a few weeks ago and am on my second week of Soda withdrawal for Lent (lack of caffeine is the excuse that I'm giving for any grammar mistakes in this blog by the way). I even make a point of going to Confession once in a while. I just don't spill everything. I mean c'mon now!
The most significant of these acts came when I let Cooper Smythe go "all the way" because he was studying to be a priest. His poor sad eyes begged as he spoke of a future with only cold, dark nights with God. How could I possibly t on say no to one of the true Catholic soldiers? I am nothing if not a woman of self-sacrifice. If that doesn't make me a full fledged member of the God Squad, well then I guess I'll just have to learn to walk on water.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Cable Education (or Porn Tutorial)
The product of strict Irish-Catholic parents, I was shielded from the very existence of sex from the beginning. And by shielded I mean hidden in a cave with only a sleeping bag, oil lamp and every book in the "Little House" series.
OK, maybe I'm being a tad dramatic. (not really) But in all seriousness, my parents kept a close eye on everything that I watched, read and listened to. It wasn't until my tenth year that I got real insight into exactly what it was that adults did for fun. And my education came from the well-known and quite revered 80's American Institution: Late Night Skinemax movies
Slumber parties were always peppered with after hours titles like: "The Playbirds," "Confessions of a Window Cleaner," and who could forget that French classic: "The Tender Cousins?" With the volume turned low, less it float up through the vents and into the ears of an unsuspecting mother. In our pink and blue ruffled nightgowns, my best friend Julie and I sat inches from the screen, our fingers dipped in a shared bowl of greasy popcorn, our heads turning at grotesque angles as we tried to figure out just exactly how a human being could bend that way without cracking in two.
As we stared at the twisted bodies on screen, all I could think was: ": Is that what you’re supposed to do with boys when you get older? How do they get through it without laughing?" I thought of all the boys I currently had crushes on: Ricky Schroder, Corey Feldman, Jesse, who sat next to me in Science always poked me with his pencil...I wondered if everyone took gymnastics in high school. How else would we get through this deed without needing immediate surgery?
How would I ever learn everything I needed to know? Stay tuned
OK, maybe I'm being a tad dramatic. (not really) But in all seriousness, my parents kept a close eye on everything that I watched, read and listened to. It wasn't until my tenth year that I got real insight into exactly what it was that adults did for fun. And my education came from the well-known and quite revered 80's American Institution: Late Night Skinemax movies
Slumber parties were always peppered with after hours titles like: "The Playbirds," "Confessions of a Window Cleaner," and who could forget that French classic: "The Tender Cousins?" With the volume turned low, less it float up through the vents and into the ears of an unsuspecting mother. In our pink and blue ruffled nightgowns, my best friend Julie and I sat inches from the screen, our fingers dipped in a shared bowl of greasy popcorn, our heads turning at grotesque angles as we tried to figure out just exactly how a human being could bend that way without cracking in two.
As we stared at the twisted bodies on screen, all I could think was: ": Is that what you’re supposed to do with boys when you get older? How do they get through it without laughing?" I thought of all the boys I currently had crushes on: Ricky Schroder, Corey Feldman, Jesse, who sat next to me in Science always poked me with his pencil...I wondered if everyone took gymnastics in high school. How else would we get through this deed without needing immediate surgery?
How would I ever learn everything I needed to know? Stay tuned
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Step right up ladies and gentlemen! Meet the amazing Commitment-Phobic Woman!
There are days that I feel like a circus freak. No, I'm not morbidly obese, nor do I have a moustache (at least not after a visit to the threader) Instead I am one of the rarest of species, a creature so unique and hard to find that I have my own exhibit in Ripley's Museum, right next to Bigfoot and the guy who can touch his tongue to his shoulder. (I'd actually like to meet him in person...anyone have his number? Is he single?)
I am the woman who is afraid of commitment!
That's right, a thirty--(cough, cough) year old female who ISN'T constantly on the hunt for a husband as the sound of her tell-tale biological clock rings thunderously through her twice pierced lobes. I guess you can say that I'm the type who loves to try things on in the dressing room, spin around and see how it looks on me, and then toss it back on the rack (sometimes without even putting it back on the little plastic hanger) before I'm actually tempted to have it set up permanent residence in my closet, and thus expect me to do nice things for it, like take it to the dry cleaners.
My earliest memory of this emotional wind sprint was at five years old, when I fell truly madly deeply in love with...some kid. He was a neighbor of my cousin, about 12, with smooth brown eyes that deflected over his pimpled chin. I strode up to my pre-teen Romeo and stated my intentions quite clearly. I would kiss him and kiss him now, and he'd do best to just bend down and take it like a man. He smiled through thick braces, patted me on the head...and ran away. Encouraged by the neighborhood kids I chased him through back yards and alleys, determined to catch what I deemed the ultimate prize. It was only my mother's stern voice calling for me that stopped our chase. We froze, predator and prey both red faced and breathing hard, facing each other in a high-noon esque showdown. We stared each other down, behind me a tumbleweed brushed down the concrete suburban street. He smiled again and moved my way. "OK kid, go on kiss me." He lowered himself to my Kindergarten height, his cheek mere centimeters from my severely bitten lips. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply and...ran away.
Hey, fishing wouldn't be any fun if all the fish just jumped up into your boat! Its all about the bait and hook right? Stay tuned
I am the woman who is afraid of commitment!
That's right, a thirty--(cough, cough) year old female who ISN'T constantly on the hunt for a husband as the sound of her tell-tale biological clock rings thunderously through her twice pierced lobes. I guess you can say that I'm the type who loves to try things on in the dressing room, spin around and see how it looks on me, and then toss it back on the rack (sometimes without even putting it back on the little plastic hanger) before I'm actually tempted to have it set up permanent residence in my closet, and thus expect me to do nice things for it, like take it to the dry cleaners.
My earliest memory of this emotional wind sprint was at five years old, when I fell truly madly deeply in love with...some kid. He was a neighbor of my cousin, about 12, with smooth brown eyes that deflected over his pimpled chin. I strode up to my pre-teen Romeo and stated my intentions quite clearly. I would kiss him and kiss him now, and he'd do best to just bend down and take it like a man. He smiled through thick braces, patted me on the head...and ran away. Encouraged by the neighborhood kids I chased him through back yards and alleys, determined to catch what I deemed the ultimate prize. It was only my mother's stern voice calling for me that stopped our chase. We froze, predator and prey both red faced and breathing hard, facing each other in a high-noon esque showdown. We stared each other down, behind me a tumbleweed brushed down the concrete suburban street. He smiled again and moved my way. "OK kid, go on kiss me." He lowered himself to my Kindergarten height, his cheek mere centimeters from my severely bitten lips. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply and...ran away.
Hey, fishing wouldn't be any fun if all the fish just jumped up into your boat! Its all about the bait and hook right? Stay tuned
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