I learned something distressing earlier this month. Recently, my better half (no, I don't mean the cat, I mean Warren) and I began watching back seasons of Battlestar Galactica on DVD. If you are hopelessly behind the times on your pop culture references, those in the know refer to this show as "BSG", which is far easier to type. Actually, Warren's been watching and I've been half-watching, which is saying something, as I usually don't find the sci-fi genre particularly compelling. I've always been a little leery of anything that encourages people who walk around talking in nonexistent languages and making weird hand motions, for one, and I don't find the thought of alternative realities tremendously thrilling. The idea that parallel worlds could possibly exist is more demoralizing than anything else; I probably have just as many unfinished chores to do in the fourth, fifth and sixth dimensions as I do here. But I digress. Anyway, I discovered that Warren's interest in BSG isn't purely artistic, nosirree. There's more to it for him than just an appreciation of the topical yet timeless storylines, the poignant dialogue, the special effects. Warren's got an ulterior motive. He's got a jones for Starbuck.
In case you've been eschewing TV in favor of attaining bodhisattva status or pursuing a leisurely re-reading of The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, Lt. Kara Thrace Starbuck is the
gun-totin' cigar-smokin' whiskey-drinkin' ass-kickin' fighter pilot babe-in-residence on Galactica. Generally, you can count on at least one scene per episode that will require her to take off her jumpsuit and strut around in her bulletproof vest thingummerbob while either a) playing cards, b) disobeying orders, c) pummeling some male soldier-type character into mashed potatoes, or d) doing all three simultaneously. I ask you, how the hell do I compete with that? I whined said as much to Warren, who immediately chose to interpret my fears to mean that I'll be hitting the gym full force. "Does that mean you're going to get all buff and toned like Starbuck?" he asked eagerly, face alight like a little child's on Christmas Day. "You mean you want me to start kicking your ass on a regular basis?" I responded sweetly, deliberately misinterpreting his point. "Sure, I can do that." Warren's face fell about six stories. Somehow I don't think that's the reaction he was hoping to get.
After thinking it over, I don't know why I found Warren's lust for interest in a burlygirl all that surprising. When Warren and I were first dating, and therefore on our best, pre-taking-each-other-for-granted behavior, we went for a hike on a warm summer's day. As I walked ahead of him, I unthinkingly did what I always do when I'm exerting myself in the great outdoors, and I, um, blew my nose without benefit of tissues. (NB: I'm pretty damn good at it, too - seldom any blowback or unwanted residual slime hanging about.) "You did a snot shot," Warren marveled in tones of sheer astonishment, "you just did a snot shot. I saw you do a snot shot. Did you just do a snot shot?"
"Oh hell," I thought to myself, "here I go and find one of the only straight, smart, gainfully employed, non-neurotic, unmarried males under the age of 50 in the greater Boston area I've ever met who doesn't head for the hills at the prospect of having me for an actual exclusive girlfriend, and I go and gross him out beyond recompense. Nice going." But I was wrong. Warren wasn't repulsed by my distinct lack of couth; he was thrilled - because it meant he could do snot shots with wild and reckless abandon his own self. Apparently, his previous girlfriend wasn't as relaxed about proper tissue etiquette as yours truly is. Or gross. You could say gross. Regardless, the point is, Warren has a sneaking attraction to women who are willing to transgress standards of ladylike behavior on occasion. Like, most of the time.
Well, not being one to stand idly by and watch my husband salivate all over the screen, I thought perhaps I should go out and get a pop culture crush object of my own to wave about in his face. Unfortunately, given the fact that I have approximately thirty-five minutes to myself each day in which to do any pleasure reading, TV watching, email responding, personal grooming, et. al., that I might feel inclined to do, my ability to accrue a vast selection of potential crush objects is very limited. Given the shows I watch, I have three basic options.
The first option is Mike Delfino from Desperate Housewives. I know, being a woman of a certain age
and stage in life, that I'm supposed to get all breathless over the thought of a bit of rough with a hidden soft side and no visible plumber butt showing. Imagine, he can think deep thoughts AND fix a clogged drain! What woman wouldn't want that? Sadly, ole Mike really doesn't do it for me. Yeah, he's kinda cute and all, the tattoo is tasteful and can barely be seen peeking out from his t-shirt sleeve, the gut-to-waist ratio is firmly in his favor. Despite all that, I don't go all weak at the knees when he comes on-screen. While he sounds good on paper, the whole is actually less than the sum of its parts in this case. He's just missing that certain oomph I want in a crush object. Next!
We watch Survivor regularly, so there's always Jeff Probst, but please: The shirts? The manly-yet-slightly-artsy necklace thingie he wears? The cheesy, pseudo-dramatic "insights" shared after each week's ritual bloodletting? How does the man look in the mirror and not crack up laughing? Moving on!
The only other show I get to watch with any degree of regularity is Curious George, so I have to consider The Man With The Yellow Hat, even if he is animated. Again, on paper, he looks pretty good - runs marathons, appears to be gainfully employed, speaks in whole sentences - but there are a
few red flags. Or rather, yellow flags. I have some concerns about the whole yellow thing going on. The man wears the same suit every day, and let's face it, YSL Pour Homme it ain't. Yellow is a difficult color for most of us to wear, and quite frankly, I don't fancy standing next to someone whose clothing is going to make me look jaundiced all the time. Even leaving aside the fact that it's a blindingly bright shade of yellow, that suit isn't exactly the most stylishly cut set of garments. The Man exacerbates the problem by tucking his pants into his boots, which makes him look like a total dorkenheimer, and then we get to the boots themselves. On the one hand, the boots could connote a certain proclivity toward kinkiness that could be a bit of a turn-on, given the Man's otherwise completely straight-arrow appearance; on the other hand, they could just indicate that he hasn't looked in the mirror since, oh, ever. Finally, I really don't relish the thought of having to compete with Curious George for the Man's attention. Let's face it, if you had to choose between listening to me bitch about my exhausting life, frustrating day, and irritating kids, or watching a cute little monkey frolic about getting into picturesque mischief, which would you choose? Yeah, I thought so. Clearly I need to take some serious steps if I expect to find a crush object who will stir Warren's competitive juices. I guess I will just have to watch a lot more TV. As they say, if you want something done right, sometimes you gotta do it yourself.