The Proper Southern Lady: EPIC FAIL

June 30, 2016July 21, 2016 / One Scary Mom aka middleagedingenue / Leave a comment

Do you really have to have a reason to post a photo of Designing Women?

As part of the generation caught between Suzy Homemaker and Gloria Steinem, plenty of women in my age group grew up conflicted and confused. Especially Southern women. Specifically intelligent Southern women. Should we aspire to spend our days cleaning the house wearing our stylish dresses and pearls? Should we await the arrival of our lovely children with homemade cookies and milk, and our husbands with his slippers and a perfectly shaken martini?

Or should we burn our bras, forego early marriage for a college education (needless to say join a sorority) and career, to be the woman who could have it all? It was an unspoken assumption that proper Southern girls had two, maybe three career choices. Girls could be teachers, nurses, or secretaries. A calling, a calling, and there’s always that coveted MRS degree.

The perfect example of that conflict is that I owned both an Easy Bake Oven AND my own microscope. Couldn’t care less about keeping the house, but would rather read all day. This caused a lot of friction in my childhood.

This conundrum has plagued many women in my generation. Some of tried the former, some the latter. Some of tried to juggle both. Some of us have wonderful lives, regardless of the choice. Some of us regret our choices to this day and are still trying to clean up the messes.

The Fundamentals of Good Manners

The Proper Southern Lady has a code of manners and etiquette that, from a very early age she is taught. It includes such niceties as always saying ma’am and sir, please and thank you, rules about when it is acceptable to wear white shoes and pants, writing “thank you” notes (God forbid, you don’t do that), trying not to giggle during the blessing or in church, how gossip is tacky unless you preface the news with “Bless her heart” or a similar sentiment. Ladies do not raise their voices, do not smoke cigarettes, drink beer out of a can or bottle – preferably not at all. A proper lady does not walk around with a cocktail in her hand. She must remain seated and wait until someone delivers the drink. And Lord have mercy, a proper Southern lady never curses. Oh, my word! or I swan! are as salty as she is allowed to be. My grandmother would scold us for saying “dang” or “durn” or calling someone a fool. A lady should never have to open a door for herself. In social situations, the Southern lady does not speak of herself but listens and politely responds to others when spoken to. She must never, ever monopolize the conversation, or attempt to be the center of attention. Trust me, you will be talked about later, bless your heart.

Not all these are bad things – the thank you notes, the white shoes and pants, ma’am and sir – those are ingrained in my brain. The others….we’ll get right on those, won’t we ladies?

However, the “rule” or manner that has been drilled into all of us Southern ladies and has caused the most inner turmoil is this one:

Others first, yourself last.

Self-denial and deference to others are the cornerstones of good Southern manners, particularly for ladies. Otherwise, you are acting needy and selfish, and that will not do. Nor will it keep a man satisfied.

I am here to say that all that antiquated bullshit is exactly that. Bullshit. That housewife vs. feminist conflict created a whole new breed of Southern Woman and we say to hell with that old putrid trash. Learn to say no.Trust me, always putting everyone’s needs and feelings before your own gets you exactly NOWHERE, except overwhelmed, chronically depressed, filled with self-doubt and feelings of worthlessness. I am walking, talking proof. Not to mention, it all leaves you emotionally drained and completely exhausted. I can’t help but think it’s one of the reasons why some Southern women are so dead-set on owning a gun. (I do, and only I know where it is.) You just never know, do you?

I understand the concept of the rule, Jesus laying down his life and all, (FYI: I’m not Jesus and neither are you, but he seems like a nice enough guy) but I guarantee that rule was thought up by some controlling, power-happy son of a bitch in an attempt to hold dominion over his wife and women in general. He did it in order to be the first served while the women, preferably pregnant, slaved all afternoon over the hot stove cooking his damn supper. Screw that bastard and all the bastards who follow in his footsteps. I was rebelling against this practice in my family when I was 8 years old. I say if that’s the kind of woman you want, go buy your bastard self a fuckin’ robot wife. They have them in Japan, I heard.

Of course as compassionate human beings, we all have to put others’ needs first at one point or another, especially if there are children involved. With children, that simply goes with the territory. Not making yourself a priority should be out of the goodness of your heart, not because of some old social more. But to live your whole life as someone’s doormat? Umm, no. That is a recipe for disaster and a one-way ticket to the Betty Ford Clinic or prison.

I have to confess that I have lived years of my adult life under the deceitful cloud of selflessness. I have let some of the so-called men in my life try to “mold” me, control my education and career path, have listened to them berate me, tell me I’m not as smart as I think I am. This is verbal abuse. Abuse. It changed how I felt about myself and my own intelligence and abilities, and my basic worthiness as a human being. Turns out, I was way smarter than he was. I left his ass.

Feelings of inferiority and being taught to “stay out of other people’s private business” have caused me to not speak up when I knew I should have, one situation in particular that eventually ended in tragedy. It will always linger in the back of my mind that I could have helped prevent it if I had just spoken up. Since then, I’ve held my tongue and my pain surrounding this event so not to hurt anyone else’s feelings or intrude, damaging my own psyche in the process.

Then, one day, I realized I couldn’t do it anymore. I had been “well-mannered” for long as possible. I lost it.Went CRASHING straight to the depths. I had no choice but to focus on myself. Decades worth of internalized pain, grief, regret, anger all came flooding out, and it is not done yet. It will be over when I’m done processing, and I refuse to make excuses or sacrifices at my own expense. Not to say that I’m going to be a callous bitch – unless the occasion calls for a bitch. I will always put my child before myself. Putting your child first is natural for a parent – but that too is a delicate balance. You don’t want them growing up to be entitled little tyrants.

As far as that stupid “rule” goes, from now on, the people I consider more important than myself are going to be my choice and it damn sure won’t be every Tom, Dick, and Harry. I’m changing, damn it.

I will try to do one positive thing every day. I will try to do one thing for myself every day. I will tell my daughter how beautiful, intelligent, and funny she is. Every day. I’m going to be brave & tell those I love that I love them. You never know if it will be your last chance. If I had done this 22 years ago, I have no doubt things would have turned out to be very different. Even with that knowledge, we learn to appreciate what we have, be grateful that life course-corrects. Settle into joy.

With all these changes, if you can’t accept me for who I am, for who I have been, having crawled through all the dirt, pain, blood, insanity, death, ugliness, regret, and anger that made me who I am today, well, I see that as your problem, bless your heart.

We Need A Break….

May 23, 2016June 20, 2016 / One Scary Mom aka middleagedingenue / 1 Comment

bepeas

As I mentioned in an earlier post, Nashville, Tootsie’s, And Handing Someone Their Ass, I recently did the tourist thing in my hometown with a bunch of out of town friends. Yes we took our turns on a sin wagon. Wandering from venue to venue, I noticed something. Every band that had a female singer did a rendition of “Goodbye, Earl”. You remember – that song by the Dixie Chicks on their Fly album released in 1999. 1999, the good old days before a person with a vagina would never have the audacity to express a personal political opinion. Oops. Natalie Maines happened to express her disagreement with W’s ginned up war and then all hell broke loose.”Shut up and sing!” Country music fans had a conniption fit, radio stations stopped playing their music sometime in 2003, because ‘Murica! Many of the ex-fans had to take to their fainting couches due to an attack of the vapors. What an idiotic fiasco, especially when you consider how these very same “patriots” behaved when the U.S. elected its first bi-racial president. Twice. Take a look at Charlie Daniels Facebook page sometime. No really. He posts the most hateful, racist, borderline treasonous vitriol. And I don’t see anyone burning his sucky CDs in the street. He is such a hypocrite, I’d be afraid to stand any closer than 10 feet from him. I would expect a lightening strike at any time. Two words for him, his grunts, and all the anti-Chick losers out there: ignorant hypocrites. But I digress.

Back to the point. Every music venue plays the song, either live or on piped in music. That’s when I began to notice a curious phenomenon.

When the song begins, every woman in the place first screamed with excitement. All of us. Girls there for 21st birthdays, bachelorette parties, 30th, 40th, 50th birthday celebration. Women who ran the complete gamut. All women. No men.

And every single one of them (my group included) sang at the top of their lungs, every single word of that song. Some of those girls were barely out of diapers when Earl had to die. It’s a great song. It’s many people’s go-to karaoke song (this writer included). So clever, upbeat, fun, and with a happy ending!

What I found so interesting was the fact that Goodbye, Earl – a 17-year-old song about two best friends poisoning and disposing of the body of a wife-beating domestic abuser – seems to resonate with so many women.

Why do you think that is?

Is it because we all have a man in our lives we’d like to kill sometimes? Is it because women, despite all the advances we have made, are still treated like second-class citizens, as some politicians of a certain religious bent want nothing more than to walk us back to the 1800s. The weaker sex, my ass. Is it because actual restraining orders and the like are ever truly enforced? Domestic abusers are pretty much allowed to run wild and free, even after a police report is filed. Fact: Law enforcement is supposed to confiscate the firearms of these guys. Do they? The only answer anymore is MORE GUNS! ” If that woman had owned a gun, that never would have happened.” I can hear them now. Is it as simple as the fact that women love the idea of having at least one friend close enough to help them dispose of a body, if necessary. We do treasure our girl friends.

I suppose the answer lies in the grey areas between all of the above. Or maybe it’s simply a subconscious fantasy all females share. Passed down through our DNA.

In the mean time, I have the most delicious recipe for black-eyed peas. Hit me up if you’d like it.

Nashville, Tootsie’s, And Handing Someone Their Ass

April 26, 2016April 27, 2016 / One Scary Mom aka middleagedingenue / Leave a comment

Warning – Profanity. You know who you are.

Recently, several friends (6) and I did the “Downtown Nashville” thing, magically transformed into 16- year-olds again. We only had security called on us twice. We rented two hotel rooms, went to a concert at the outdoor amphitheater, and basically bar hopped the rest of the weekend we were there. We even did do one kinda-sorta cultural thing – we went to the Country Music Hall of Fame. For days, we enjoyed the city and the company of each other. I could go into more detail because we have some hilarious anecdotes , but most of us are upstanding, respectable professionals and moms. What happens in Nashvegas stays in Nashvegas. Suffice it to say a great time was had by all.

Except for this one thing. And you know me. I’m going to clamp down on the offense and shake the life out of it.

In “modern Nashville”, almost every freaking establishment has a rooftop bar. Nashville is so different from what it was just a couple of years ago. And we will not go into the underage drinking, weight limits, and fire hazard posed by cramming SO many people into such small spaces – third floor, most of them. Talk about a city losing its historical integrity. I find it heartbreaking, but then again, I’m not the one raking in the bucks hand over fist.

On to the bitch-fest.

So, we were on the rooftop deathtrap at Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge on a Saturday afternoon. Seven of us. It was packed so tightly, you could barely exhale without touching another person. Our gang, being the vain creatures that we are (with good reason, mind you), and loving to document everything, we asked this random kid to take a photo. (I say kid – he was probably in his early 20s.) He agreed. We all lined up and posed, all the while this zygote in a green baseball shirt is telling us how good we look, how hot we are, yada, yada. You know the schtick. We thanked him, went back to attending to the business of alcohol consumption and discussing how we could parcour from bar to bar. Little Man went back to his crew, probably to measure their dicks.

It wasn’t too long before we got hot, claustrophobic, and wanted to move on. As we were worming our way through the crowd, I was the last of our group to squeeze through the writhing mass of humanity. Right past the Little Man and his buddies. Close enough that I overheard their conversation. Had he ever changed his tune about the seven beautiful ladies whose photo he had taken. Little Man was mocking us to his friends, making fun of how old we are, and how we bought every word of his gibberish.

Disclaimer: I may look sweet, and I am kind and sweet, but fuck with me or my friends and family and I will cut a bitch, regardless of gender. With my sharp tongue, of course.

In this instance, however, if the place had not been so crowded and I had room to rare back and kick the little twit in his newly descended testicles, you better believe I would have, battery charge or not. I could have easily claimed he had groped me. Of course, I have had much more experience than Little Man sweet-talking my way out of trouble.

Since my friends and I never had the chance to respond to his youthful boorishness (which is NOT a quality that enhances your chances of getting laid, btw), I’d like to take this opportunity to send a message to him in this space.

Dear Frat Boy In The Green Baseball Shirt,

I am one of the “beautiful, hot, sexy” women that you were mocking to your friends Saturday, April 16, between 4 pm and 5 on the rooftop of Tootsie’s. You took our photo, remember? Guess what? I heard every word you said as we were leaving and informed my friends of what a snotty little asshole you are. We considered coming back and confronting you, but decided you were not worth the time or effort, because guess what, dear? You, yourself, most likely, have enough trouble with women. You, Little Man, are not all that. In fact, in Cougarland, you are not even worth a second glance. And if you had taken a second to familiarize yourself with your surroundings, we, the old women, were all in better shape than the majority of your contemporaries. My, how times and standards have changed.

Another thing. When I was your age, I wouldn’t even have made eye contact, much less the effort to talk to you. I was so out of your league, as were my friends, that I could have made you cry within 30 seconds. I’ve done it before (pretty recently, actually) and damn sure could do it again. Yes, pretty girls DO have a code of ethics, just like you’ve always suspected. And of course, it is not all based on looks. We do make exceptions for intelligence, sense of humor, talent, and kindness.

Little Millenial boy, I wish I had gotten your contact information. First, I would call your mama and tell her that you were behaving like a rude little son of a bitch. Secondly, how I would love to see what you and your friends look like in 30 years. Fat, bald, and knuckle-dragging no doubt. Hell, you ain’t even cute now. Time will not be kind.

I believe I speak for all my friends when I say “Fuck you, kid.” Beauty comes from the inside as well, and hearing you show off to your friends demonstrated to us all how ass-ugly you really are.

Until we meet again…gird your loins, you little bastard.

This post in no way reflects my opinion of the majority of men. I love men. I’m just as comfortable hanging out with a group of men as I am with a group of women. Just not assholes.

One

April 2, 2015June 27, 2015 / One Scary Mom aka middleagedingenue / Leave a comment

One is enough. Forever. In fact, it’s one too many. Traumatizing, it is. More so than seeing that first crow’s foot. Or when you realized you couldn’t just cut a few calories, work out a little and lose 10 lbs. in a week. This one – there’s a finality to it. And base, raw humiliation.

Most women (and probably some guys) “of a certain age” know what I’m talking about. That one stray, discolored fiber on the carpet. That tiny little spot on the rug. More than likely, very few people will even have the opportunity to see it, let alone notice it. But you know it’s there. Down there. Like a big, giant gray neon sign flashing “You’re old! You’re old!”

Next you’re faced with the dilemma – what do I DO with this invader? Pluck? Dye? Ignore? Accept? Dispense with the whole business? (Ouch) Watch the Sex in the City episode where it happens to Samantha so you don’t feel like such an elderly freak? (Season 6. Episode 12, for future reference.)

Or flaunt the fact that you have no filter and write about it in hopes that others will commiserate with you.

Or write an ode to it:

O Bastard wire

You are the most loathsome

Because you are solitary

You are the harbinger

And I curse you to Hades

You’ve heard the saying “Getting old is not for pussies.” ? Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but horrifyingly enough, it is.

Dirty Socks, Dirty Words (Rated PG-13 for Language)

March 12, 2015March 12, 2015 / One Scary Mom aka middleagedingenue

Confession time. I work blue. I have a potty mouth. Have since I was 12 years old. That’s no shock to anyone who follows me, has ever met me, talked to me. And certainly not to anyone who has ever had cocktails with me.

An author I follow on Facebook posted this photo, stating that she wanted these socks. Being that I think they’re fun, optimistic, and cool, I shared the photo, stating that I needed a pair. That’s it. And since most of my Facebook friends are adults (I have the kids on a special list so I can hide inappropriate things from them), I didn’t think a thing about it.

Shortly following my posting, this popped up in the comments section. “No cussing on Facebook. I hate that word.” Umm, okay. Good for you, I guess. After I let that sink in a while, you can imagine the thoughts and feelings that went through my head. First of all, being that I am a grown-ass woman with a mind of my own, and since I really don’t like being bossed around, I had to respond. That comment began “Seriously? Talk to the sock.” and went on from there. It wasn’t mean. Merely factual. After that, the post kind of took on a life of its own, as these things often do. My friends, all big fans of the 1st Amendment, no doubt, and who also happen to be potty mouths, came to my defense. All because of a pair of clever, cute sock with a POSITIVE message, from a company that donates part of their proceeds to Doctors Without Borders. Liberal heathens.

This got me to thinking about bad words, dirty words, “cuss” words. Most of the words our society defines as profanity have to do with normal human bodily functions or parts, while some, I admit, are kind of offensive. Like the ones that are derogatory toward females (not really many male equivalents, if you think about it). And I understand that some folks don’t care to use or hear them. That’s fine. I do understand that it’s a generational thing as well. Some older folks don’t like “dirty talk”. I respect that.

I don’t have to use profanity. I’m well-read, fairly articulate, and pretty well-educated. Hell, I’m a fuckin’ WRITER. I know words.

Truth is, I like profanity. I like to use it. I think it has its place. Especially for shock value. That delights me to no end. Profanity is like a spice. Us it appropriately and sparingly.

So in honor of my delicate Facebook friend, I decided to compose what I call MY BIG LIST OF THE MOST OFFENSIVE WORDS IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. And guess what? Fuck isn’t even on it.

MY BIG LIST OF THE MOST OFFENSIVE WORDS (and/or terms) IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE

Murder. Massacre. School shooting. Killing. Bloody. Sniper. Shooter. Senseless. Attack. Assault. Hate. Bias. Oppression. Racism (and every racial or religious slur that goes along with it). Homophobia. (Ditto). Misogyny. Discrimination. Disenfranchise. Hate crime. War. Bomb. Genocide. Abuse. Slavery. Rape. Mutilation. Violence. Poverty. Hunger. Need. Illness. Want. Denial. Greed. Materialism. Ostentatious. Sanctimony. Judgment. Hypocrisy. Disrespect. Inequality. Gullible. Rigid. Fear (of anyone different than you). Blasphemy (as in religion used to further your own personal or political agenda. Also to frighten or threaten.). Anti-choice. Anti-science. Willful ignorance (“What is “What Fox “News” has created, Alex?”) I’m sure I’ll be adding to the list as time goes on.

These are the words we should try to abolish from our national lexicon. They’re hurtful, evil, and nasty. They represent things that do real harm in the world. They can ruin or end lives. They have real life consequences. I doubt anyone is going to die from that pair of socks.

I don’t know about you, but I’d much prefer to look at a rather innocuous accessory that has “fuck” woven into them than to see evidence of any of the words listed above. Guess I should never watch the news or go on Facebook, huh? Lest I go around in a perpetual state of shock. Thankfully, there have been great strides made in technology of late. Like the remote control and the unfollow button on Facebook. I use the shit out of that thing. Otherwise, I might take it upon myself to go on to someone’s private, personal space and tell them what they can or cannot post. Yikes!

But alas, the people who really need to grasp that concept probably don’t give a fuck. To each his own, I suppose.

And by the way, CARPE the FUCK out of this DIEM!

The Gauntlet Has Been Thrown

February 26, 2015March 3, 2015 / One Scary Mom aka middleagedingenue

Oh, Cindy. You’ve done it now.

Edit: Since I posted this, I’ve been told this photo is fake. But it is still ON, Cindy.

The legendary supermodel Cindy Crawford recently released an unretouched photo of herself in lingerie. First of all, I applaud her. In a society where so much of a women’s worth is measured by appearance, I think this was a very brave act. She looks like a normal middle-aged mom. A pretty good-looking one at that. With the average size of the American woman today being a size 14, she is normalizing normal. Bravo!

Vain creature that I am, however, I take this photo as a challenge. By the summer, I hope to be posting my own similar photo. Without the fur or feathers or whatever that is. I see this as possibly the only opportunity in my lifetime to be able to say that I rival Cindy Crawford in a two-piece. Yep, I can jack up my boobs and tone up the old abs. I’ll never have the height, but my daughter does have a fedora I can borrow.

What this photo has really done is set me back on a regular course of exercise, which I desperately needed to do anyway. It wasn’t that long ago that I spent half the day, 6 days a week at the gym. I worked with personal trainers who nearly killed me. Although I haven’t been completely sedentary, I’ve slacked off quite a bit since my gym rat days.

Winter is a crappy time to work out, especially to start a routine. Your natural instinct is to hibernate, cook and eat. At least mine is. My exercise of choice is hiking the hills in the beautiful parks near my home. And I am NOT doing that in below freezing weather. Sorry. I’ve been using our elliptical and weight machines, and adding to my routine gradually. Regular exercise releases endorphins and they go a long way toward an improved mood. We all could use a bit of that, with this nasty, gray winter we’ve had. With me, it also becomes something of an obsession. Once I get in the routine, I feel guilty if I miss a day. (I know, I’m working on that obsession thing.)

So thank you, Cindy, for posting this photo. You’re an inspiration for the over-40 crowd. You’ve also inspired me to get up offa my thang and get my ass back in gear. I appreciated that. We can all use a good swift kick once in a while.

What Do You Want From Me?

February 25, 2015April 6, 2015 / One Scary Mom aka middleagedingenue

You want to hear something interesting?
I used to write for a progressive political blog site. Some of my posts got tens of thousands of hits. Because believe it or not, I can be sarcastic, caustic and biting. Funny and bitchy at the same time. I have a sharp tongue and can piss off large groups of people without batting an eye. Just by telling the truth, presenting facts and the results of research, or by being a woman with an opinion. I did my homework and always had facts and stats to back up my every point. I’m a feminist and a Libtard and I wear those badges proudly. Yeah, I made money . But after a while, and several death & rape threats, I had to give it up. For my own peace of mind, health, and the safety of my family. So I wouldn’t turn into something as spiteful and cruel my detractors. It just wasn’t worth it.
These days, I write a kinder, gentler blog. It’s not about politics or anything controversial. That’s by design. It’s about my life as a middle-aged woman who is still trying to find her way. And guess what? Practically no one reads it.

I’m confused. Do people want me to be a bitch? Because I can accommodate. I can always write under a nom de plume. As Ouiser would say “I’m not as sweet as I used to be”.

I set a goal for myself recently. My goal is to be humorous without being as catty, or mocking people for being ignorant and misguided. (Politicians and public figures are still fair game, however. They ask for it.) You know what? It’s damn difficult. I think I’ve watched The Daily Show for entirely too long. Jon Stewart’s sense of humor has seeped into my subconscious. Not that it’s a bad thing. Maybe I should audition to be his replacement.

Contrary to the old proverb “You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar”, my current experience has proven the exact opposite. And you know what attracts more than either of these? Bullshit. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions on that one.

But who wants a bunch of flies buzzing around anyway?

My Crush With Eyeliner

January 9, 2015March 3, 2015 / One Scary Mom aka middleagedingenue

I am smitten
I’m the real thing (I’m the real thing)
We all invent ourselves
And you know me

We’ve all had them. I’ve nurtured them as far back as I can remember. Celebrity crushes. Granted, I was an odd kid. I flew that freak flag early. I liked Marvin Hamlisch and Art Garfunkel. Then I graduated to Donny Osmond, Michael Jackson, and Tony DeFranco. And more than a couple of those kids from Zoom. Actually, I wanted to move to Boston, Mass (02134!) to audition. My parents put the kibosh on that mighty quick. (Me: “They have telephones in Boston too, ya know!” My dad worked for Bell Telephone.) But I really got walloped when I discovered the first “love of my life” – Robbie Benson. There was no other boy so sensitive, so sweet, so kind, so beautiful. And that voice. I have to admit, I have watched Beauty and The Beast more times than I care to admit, as a grown woman, no doubt. He’s still spectacular, by the way. Currently at Indiana University’s film department. My brother-in-law, the soon to be famous screenwriter knows him. When I found out that little nugget of info, I’m afraid I behaved like a junior varsity cheerleader for a couple of seconds, in the presence of my in-laws no less. As an adolescent, I was totally smitten with Robbie and dealing with feelings I’d never experienced before. I didn’t know what to do with them. It was a little scary. And there was no way I was ready to experience those emotions with a real boy. So, I did what worked for me. Thumb tacked photos from Tiger Beat & Teen Beat magazines to my bedroom wall. Pretended to be getting ready to go on dates. Kissed my hand and hugged my pillow. Obsessed over Ice Castles.

And I must admit, I also had a poster of Barry Manilow on my teenage bedroom wall, so I still let a bit of that freak flag flying, and it let me know I wasn’t ready for a full commitment. But hey, at least I had a “type”. I’ve always had a thing for nice Jewish boys. Unfortunately they were in short supply in southwestern Kentucky.

I can still remember the first grown man I ever found attractive (besides Marvin and Art). That would be Richard Dreyfuss in The Goodbye Girl. I was 13. He was 30-ish. There was something about that energetic, rakish, intelligent charm of his. What a smart-ass. And that guitar. It was also when I discovered my deep and abiding love for Neil Simon.

My daughter has celebrity crushes now, too. There are pictures of a boy band on her bedroom wall. And there’s one actor in particular she’s quite taken with. He’s quite a bit older. She’s 14 – he’s 27. (She would KILL me if she knew I was writing about this.) We were talking about our crushes at dinner the other night – and she asked “What would you do if I dated someone older?” “How much older?” ” 27.” Dad immediately mentioned jail, as I chimed in, casually, of course, about castration. When we found out it was Evan Peters she’s crushing on, that lightened the mood a bit. By the time she’s legal, he will have had time to get through his first marriage/divorce and be ready for a younger woman. Good to go. I have no problem with that. Except she finishes college. That’s non-negotiable.

I’m aware that I’m probably not the best role model, fostering these infatuations, since I have quite a storied and illustrious history of that type of behavior myself. I used to have a big thing for John Corbett when he was on Northern Exposure (but who didn’t, right?). And Johnny Depp – I thought he was my ideal man. I was even willing to forgive him for the whole Kate Moss debacle. Then he took a partner, had kids, seemed to settle down. About the same time I did. How nice for us both.

After I married, had a child and became a stay-at-home mom, my sources for crush material were pretty limited. I didn’t have time for many movies, t.v. or new music, so I mined the sources that I had. Anthony, the blue one from The Wiggles – say what you will, but the man is hot. Steve from Blues Clues – there was just something about him. You just could tell there was a little freak under that green rugby shirt. But one horrifying day, while the kid was watching Dora The Explorer, I heard myself say “That Diego is going to be a hottie when he grows up”. I said that shit out loud! Even I knew that was so wrong on SO many levels. Measures had to be taken for the good of the entire household. So we limited t.v. time for the kid. I started watching more appropriate, adult-oriented programing – Six Feet Under and Carnivale. And LOST. I did like Billy and Brother Justin on those shows, however, but not to crush-level. I was merely obsessed with LOST. Not the boys, the entire show.

All the while, I still carried little torches for both John and Johnny. My boyfriends. Until I found out John had taken up with an older woman (not that there’s anything wrong with that) and Johnny had left his partner, Vanessa, and was cavorting with some 27 year old chippy. It was then and there I took out my big black Sharpie and crossed them off my “list”. When you date someone young enough to be your child, you are a cliche’. Johnny had become a cliche’. And despite it all, I do have standards, you know.

The unfortunate John/Johnny curb-kicking incidents actually turned out for the best. Now I have time to devote to my latest fiance –Paul Rudd. I think he is the perfect male specimen. I want some recognition when People Magazine names him 2015’s Sexiest Man Alive. and he gets catapulted to international super-stardom when Ant-Man is released. I also want to go on public record that I’ve called dibs. I called those long ago, btw. Just in case. One never knows when dibs will come in handy. When I see those beautiful head shots and publicity stills I want to launch into a stream of expletives, for some reason. Call it some rare form of estrogen-induced Tourette Syndrome. I don’t know. It’s totally involuntary, I promise.

Lately, I have been going onto the sci-fi/Marvel fan-boy boards and setting them straight about Ant Man (in theatres summer 2015). Some of them have already judged and condemned the film. You wouldn’t believe the level of exposition on the subject. These people know so much about this comic book universe, honestly some of the posts look like so many doctoral dissertations. Truly amazing, I have to say. So, I’ve made it my mission to share with them my expertise in film and entertainment marketing. How Disney may have finally realized they need to target various demographics for this film – not just comic fans but the mom crowd, the ladies in Paul’s actual age range. We are going to see that movie. Those fan boys can sit home and quibble online about how it differs from the comic, the canon, how the suit is wrong, how his antennae are askew, whatever it is they go on about. Because it’s what they love to do. However, they’ll see the movie too. They won’t be able to help themselves.

But moms – and 40-ish women – we will see this movie. We will go in droves, on girls’ night out, having dinner and cocktails first, to lust after this beautiful man. We will pass over the money without even thinking about it: for it’s money we have and stimulation we lack. We will sit in the dark, with our smuggled cocktails and low-fat popcorn, on a perfect summer evening. And it will be as if we’ve dipped ourselves in magic waters. We, who don’t really give a shit about plot, or canon, or FX – any of that other superfluous noise – will be in those multiplex seats. The one constant through all the years, Disney, has been fantasy. It reminds us of all that once was hot, and that could be again. Women will come, Disney. We will most definitely come.

But really, all Disney needed to do was release this photo. Done. Sold. Here’s my money. And don’t forget. Dibs.

Son*&^%$FU***BIT*&^%cCK**DAMN*&#^$%@#KER!

I’ve been smitten with Paul since his Kirby days on Sisters in the ’90s. A filmmaker who moves to Minnesota to run a video store – my God, a man after my own film school attending/video store managing heart! He was like the male ME! I honestly thought were trying to kill me! Later I found out he had lived in the same suburb of Kansas City during the same time I lived there. Was at the same university. WHAT? Why oh why, didn’t I follow my heart and major in theatre, like I’ve always wanted to do? And why oh WHY did I have a stupid boyfriend in college? Paul likes to dance, I like to dance. Plus he’s so goofy/funny and a talented, versatile actor. He manages to be funny without being mean. Trust me, that’s more difficult than it appears. And he such a nice person. He’s been with his wife for 14+ years and they have two kids. What a great guy. No wonder I want to kiss and date him. If I had a notebook, I would for sure write his name all over it. True fact, he’s the only one left on my “list” right now. Should that astronomically unlikely opportunity present itself, there are going to have to be serious negotiations involving spouses, waivers, codicils, and the like. Or it might be time to unveil my idea for my new religion. One that includes “brother husbands”. Think about it….

While we grown-ups know this is all in good fun, I want to make sure my teen daughter realizes the difference between a healthy fantasy life and dipping one’s toe into the dark pool of obsession. (Did you know there’s an actual identified mental illness for celebrity obsession? It’s called Celebrity Worship Syndrome. <Shut up. I’m seeking professional help.> ) Or acting out the fantasy with real boys, God forbid. I’m sure as hell not ready for that. And neither is she. And neither are those young men in One Direction or Evan Peters. Right, guys?

Real-life relationships are difficult to navigate, especially as a teen. I believe it can be healthy and good practice for “the real thing” to have a celebrity crush. Just as long as there’s no isolation, disconnect with reality, avoidance of real relationships, stalking, OCD-related behavior or just plain weirdness involved.

Believe me, I know the warning signs. I’ve been close to the edge. Just ask Diego.

Crush With Eyeliner by REM Video by Spike Jonze