Friday, I’m In Love

So I’m flipping through magazines while Sam takes a bath* and I see this little gem about George Clooney and his most recent break-up, and how one of his friends allegedly said, off the record, that they had little in common (QUELLE SURPRISE!) and how he’s very intelligent and politically astute, but tends to go for women who do not challenge him, and are not his equal.

Wait … you don’t SAY, O Friend of George? You’re saying that a smart, accomplished, handsome, 50-year-old man has little in common with an Italian model 20 years his junior? YOU DON’T SAY. I can’t explain why this stuck in my craw so much, or why I’m continuing to mull it over, rolling it around in my mouth like like a root beer barrel (and I hate root beer!), but there it is. I mean, it’s the world’s biggest no-shitter, the concept that attractive, powerful men — particularly celebrity types — have a tendency to go for young marshmallows, but it drives me absolutely BAZONKERS. Yes, Michael Buble, I’m SURE you, at 35, with reasonable intelligence, have a TON in common with a 24-year-old Argentinian model. I’m SO SURE in fifty years, when her looks have faded and she’s looking ganked out and a little raw from too much Botox, that you will have TONS to say to each other. TONS.

It drives me absolutely nuts, mostly because it just reminds me that some men (and let’s face it, women), when given vast opportunity, fail to make the smart decision by choosing what’s best for them, and instead, pick what’s easy and attractive. It’s like this creepy primal thing playing out in grand scale. MEN CHOOSE HOT WOMEN. Basically, they eat the damned light fruit (OH YES, I DID, TRUE BLOOD) all the time, when they should be leaping into the abyss, FOR THE LOVE.

*I don’t know why I feel like it’s important for me to distinguish that I read magazines sitting on the toilet, lid closed, while Sam is in tub with her plastic buddies, vs., you know, sitting on the toilet with a basket full of magazines doing unmentionable bidness. IT JUST IS. And yes, I am a terrible mother who flips through magazines while her kid bathes instead of making the experience interactive and wild and fun! Sometimes, kid plays by herself. I’m there, of course, watching, and so is Sunny. It’s Sunny’s JOB to manage bathtime, in her mind, and she takes it very, very seriously. “It’s TUBBY TIME! HEY LADIES!” I yell before we get Sam’s towel and head to the bathroom. And damn if Sunny doesn’t haul her ass up from wherever she is to make sure she’s present and accounted for during every second of Sam’s bath.

Second of all, Friday Night Lights comes to an end tonight (Friday, July 15), and I know I sound like a total loser, but it’s really quite emotional for me, even though I’ve seen the whole season already. I’ve grown attached to the characters in genuine way that I haven’t been on television in years, maybe ever. It’s one thing to be be entertained by something like True Blood, but another to find yourself really emotionally connected to an entire family, albeit wholly fictional. I don’t usually do this sort of thing, but as some of you know, I write for Smart Pop Books on occasion (I love them so, and I’m not just saying this, their editor-in-chief is among the best I’ve ever worked for), and they’ve done an anthology on the show that I’m a part of. I just … I love this whole book. My favorite essay, for the record, is Jacob Clifton’s (yes, TWoP Jacob) essay, “Come Home: Identities in West Texas.”

It’s not coming out in print until August, but it is available as an e-book from Amazon and the like, and even if you hate my writing, you should check it out, because there’s so much good, smart stuff in it aside from what I wrote, honestly. I think it might be my favorite book of theirs, although The Girl Who Was On Fire is AMAZING.

(For this one, in case you were wondering, I wrote about the Taylors’ marriage.)

Either way, if you aren’t watching Friday Night Lights, it’s not too late to catch the whole show in its entirety. I DARE you to watch it and not shed a tear and/or have at LEAST one naughty dream about Tim Riggins. I DARE YOU.

And finally, because Adam posted this picture on Google+ and I’d damn near forgotten about it, here, have a picture of us with OJ Simpson from our honeymoon. Yes, really. YES, REALLY. Also, he was wasted, I was trying to swim away later, and I accidentally kicked his girlfriend in the stomach. And then he made some CRAZY OFF THE WALL INAPPROPRIATE comments about marriage and how his last one (NICOLE) didn’t end so well. Which, OMFG. Also, I’m pretty sure Adam would want me to note that he is not actually that short, but is in the water, squatting down, for reasons that are unclear. But I promise, he’s six feet tall. OJ, however, is a flipping giant. HIS HANDS. HIS GIANT HANDS.

*The Cure

60 comments July 14th, 2011