Saturday, August 23, 2003

I, like so many of my generation (X, is how they used to refer to it), grew up watching Disney fairy tales. You know, the ones pre-Little Mermaid, where the heroines were ten shades of pathetic. I mean, how big of a moron is Snow White? The dwarves friggin told her, "don't open the door for anyone!" much less a scary looking crone who just happens to be her jealous psycho homicidal stepmom in cognito. "Just take a bite of the apple," my big fat arse. She had it coming. I watch it all the time on my limited edition Snow While DVD. I have the facts straight.

Anyhoo, most of these movies feature...a prince. Usually, the prince shows up, has little personality, delivers a smooch and reverses all the damage endured by the heroine for the last 90 minutes. And many of us Generation Xers grew up looking for our own princes in daily life. I can say, I think I've found mine.

But, unlike these animated duds of yesteryear, my prince is rather different. My prince's physical presentation is more t-shirt and jeans than shining armor. He hasn't really had an opportunity to slay any dragons or villians (although he's willing to lay some smack down on my ex), and he doesn't yodel about meeting me once upon a dream, mainly because he has been my best friend for years, and has put up with me through all my moods, and he knows better to yodel around me, because he knows I'll laugh my arse off at him.

What he does do is hold doors open for me. He says he won't cheat on me. He loves my dog. He shares my obliviousness that we elicit stares from young college frat types at Aunt Sarah's Pancake House because we're loudly and happily yammering away for the eightieth time about how much of a genius John Belushi is. And what really seals it is when he looks deep into my eyes and utters some obscure movie/TV/radio/Eddie Izzard/ Park quote, then pauses so that I will finish it:

BIG: Cartman, what are you talking about? You weren't in 'Nam.
ME: (impersonating Cartman) Yes I was. Shh. If you listen closely, you can hear Charley in the trees.

Much laughter then ensues. And, if we're at Aunt Sarah's Pancake House, more stares from the young college frat types.

I love you Ozzy. Love, Sharon.

Comments: Post a Comment

<< Home

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?