Monday, August 28, 2006
Such a slip happened recently. The Wife confessed to harboring an attraction to...
wait for it...
so cold, so very cold...
I'm an adult. I've had relationships before. I know that eyes wander, that shiny objects crossing your field of vision will briefly register, but Tucker Carlson?
Trying to control the damage, she explained that she likes him more since he lost the bowtie (so how long has this been going on, anyway?...), and that the attraction is entirely physical. She ignores what he actually says. He's just a piece of man-candy, a Republican stud-horse roaming the plains of basic cable, desperately in search of a haircut.
I projectile-vomit just thinking about it.
She has confessed crushes before, but none of them was anywhere near so objectionable. In childhood, she admits, there was a crush on Randolph Mantooth, from Emergency. (My answer to that would be Elizabeth Montgomery, from Bewitched.) Harrison Ford, Keifer Sutherland, and Jake Gyllenhaal have all elicited her approval, but none of those bothered me, either. And she tolerates my crushes on Chris Jansing, Winona Ryder, and Maggie Gyllenhaal, so that's cool. (We have to figure out a way to sneak into a Gyllenhaal family reunion. Hmm.)
(We just heard that this season, Tucker will be on Dancing With the Stars. TW says she will watch through her fingers. I'm planning to spend lots of time in other rooms.)
Ever the WASP, my first instinct is just to sit in silent judgment of her, letting the daggers from my eyes and the icicles from my word balloons (“if you like that sort of thing”) do a number on her self-esteem. But I don't want to be divorced, and it's hard to maintain that kind of distance when a five-year-old and a two-year-old are running around.
Clearly, a retaliatory crush is in order. But on whom? The Wife doesn't care about politics, so I can't just watch Fox News, pick some blonde plutocrat, and elicit the same reaction. (“Honey, have you ever noticed how cute Monica Crowley is when she talks about Nixon?” Nope. Can't do it.) Lindsay Lohan or Nicky Hilton would only elicit mild disappointment, rather than the intestinal convulsions that are so clearly called for. Angelina Jolie is simply assumed. No, I need one that would strike her as really gross.
Cher would work, except I'm heterosexual. Courtney Love would gross her out, but she'd gross me out, too. No, I need someone really disturbing, someone who would generate the “I don't know you at all” response to mirror my own.
Martha Stewart? No. Katie Couric? Huh-uh. Hillary Clinton? Getting warmer, but no.
Wait, I've got it!
The divorced/virgin, Christian/slut, celebrity-for-no-particular-reason herself. That'll work. And I hear she's available!
Revenge shall be mine...
I hope you don't mind my saying, but there's a slight extent to which you're missing the point on the Tucker Carlson thing. The problem with him is not simply, or even primarily, aesthetic -- it's not just the bowtie, or even the grinding smugness. It's the consistently appalling positions he stakes out every time he opens his mouth. What you need is the kind of person that makes TW look at you -- as you are now looking at her -- and genuinely question whether she ever knew you at all. Ann Coulter is much too easy, and much too obviously just not so.
My nominee? Libby Dole.
Jenna Bush might be a good choice.
Ann Coulter reminds me of the Cryptkeeper, but without the charm. I couldn't even fake that.
But then, my first celebrity crush, at about age 11, was on Michael J. Fox as Alex P. Keaton, in Family Ties, which I suspect is what led to my shameful history of attraction to obnoxiously preppy, conservative types.
I can't explain it. It's sick. But somehow the obnoxiousness is PART of the appeal.
Many years ago I read an article by a young man unable to handle his young wife's attraction to... Ed Asner. So I think you could have it worse.
DD: Affection for bowties remains an unsolved mystery of the female heart; there's no explaining it. Also the shaggy hair.
Good luck with your project!
Try Katherine Harris: pneumatic, upbeat and as corrupting as the day is long.
Or Michelle Malkin: corrosive, pixielike and reptilian.