I’ve been a sappy romantic ever since my first crush when I fell in love with James Darren in Gidget. After seven visits to the neighborhood theater, long before DVD’s, swooning over every platonic (by today’s standards in teen movies) show of affection, I could quote nearly every line.
But I never affected boys the way I planned. To impress one apartment of college young men, I baked pumpkin pies and donned a new wig — the ones retailers sold in the 70′s for $19.95 (the same price Earl Scheib charged to paint your car).
Hot pads had vanished. I stuck my head slightly inside the oven. While touching the filling with my fingertips, hissing sounded from the cavity. I recalled baking as a relatively quiet experience. I patted my face. Nothing hurt. The noise, I mused, was the oven’s boisterous sound of epicurean delight — similar to Meg Ryan’s notable dining encounter in When Harry Met Sally. Until I walked in the living room. Through muffled hysterics, eligible suitors in the room pointed to my head. Synthetic hairs had melted flat to my scalp. I possessed an uncanny ability to melt all kinds of objects — everything except hearts.
“Get an imaginary lover,” Holly, my sister, had suggested after my divorce. I shrugged my shoulders. “Name him something thrilling. Then dream up amazing and erotic experiences.” I named my ideal guy Fabulous Fred. The only dream lover my mind conjured up was Fantastic Sam. As exciting as it ever got was I woke up one morning with a new hairdo.
My oldest turned twelve before I tackled the dating nightmare again. She seemed to understand, and had added excitedly, “I’m glad you’re going through this before me so I can see how to do it.”
Trying my hand at homemade Hallmark, I’d sketched a birthday card for my latest flame spark. I suppose, in that moment, my connection between romance and writing was unconsciously formed. “Guess I’d better put some boobs on her, huh?” I asked the GAP who eyed my artistic attempt.
“Who’s the lady?”
“Me.”
“Don’t bother then,” she said.
Her gratitude hadn’t lasted through the night. “I was wrong,” the GAP commented. “I should have gone through it first, so you could see how silly you’re acting.”
Sweet talkers stayed around for the short haul. “There’s only two chances,” reflected Glib Glenn, “I’ll never see you again.”
“And what might they be?” I’d inquired skeptically.
“First, if I die on the way home.”
“What’s the second reason?”
“If I die on the way home,” he said.
That might have impressed any other woman — a man so determined to see her again that the sole thing stopping him would be death. But I got worried about his ability to remember what he had said thirty seconds ago.
Tex, outfitted in cowboy boots and hat, nearly captured my heart. “Ah likes you,” he drawled, “even better’n a horse!” I think he picked up that line from a bad Hallmark card. But he seemed disenchanted with me when I couldn’t spit out the name of Tonto’s steed.
I joined Parents Without Partners and built up courage to attend a Valentine’s dance. My parents had kept the kids overnight. It felt like parole.
The first man asking me to dance sensed my discomfort. “Are you nervous?” he asked.
“Very. And don’t mind if I lead,” I said. “It’s a problem I had during my marriage, too.”
Then Mike invited me to dance. “What time do you have to be home?” he inquired, azure blue eyes staring at me.
“Nine in the morning.”
His dreamy eyes opened wider, a little taken aback. My answer might have sounded a bit brazen.
“No, no” I squirmed. “That’s what time I have to pick up the kids.” The conversation then moved to things like work, cars, and leaky roofs.
“I’m having my ceiling replastered,” I commented as interestingly as possible. He was a good listener. “I’m having it textured. Not the kind that looks like sprayed on popcorn — like in cheap motels.”
He gave me that look again — the big eyes and open mouth. “I mean I don’t know anything about cheap motels,” I stuttered.
The look was still there. I covered my eyes with my hand. “I don’t know anything about expensive motels either.”
“That’s hard to believe coming from a woman who doesn’t have to be home until nine in the morning,” he laughed.
I was doomed. I needed lessons on talking suave without sounding like a hooker. AC Mike installed air conditioning in my home then like a cool breeze, he blew away.
The Reporter and I had been an item for years before we plunged into uncharted regions of matrimonial bliss (or was that abyss?). I convinced him relationships were supposed to progress. Though I openly admit, I haven’t a clue to the definition of progress. I told my then-boyfriend, he had to decide. “Marry me and you’ll never be Penny-less.”
His whole body flinched. “Can I have a while to decide?”
“Like how long?”
“I’ll call you in a month.” His voice perked up. It was that same “Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah” sound I hummed under my breath when I pulled the rug out from underneath my cousin’s feet many years ago.
Three weeks later, a flat voice on the other end of the receiver cracked. “Okay, I guess so.” The caller sounded despondent and woozy. I heard sniveling. Only then did I recognize my future husband’s resignation to my suggestion. See how romance just happens to me.
Then every once in a blue moon you get a second chance at blatant sappy romance. A few years ago, following tuxedo-clad Italians marching through New Orleans’ French Quarter, my daughter Coco who’d been shaped by hours of the VHS version of Gidget, and I, chased after James Darren, the parade’s grand marshal. We yelled and waved our arms overhead, chanting, “Moondoggie, Moondoggie.” Coco said I sounded like an eight-year-old girl at a Justin Bieber concert. Don’t believe her. I handled myself very maturely.
At least a hundred years old, but looking no worse for the wear, he waved back. Be still my heart.
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