Fan Love & Fictional Lovers

Bold, scary, but slightly anonymous confession:  I've been madly, deeply, hopelessly in love with Bobby Goren for many years now. I've been well aware that my affections are (mostly) wasted on an imaginary man. But I've also been comforted by the fact that I'm not alone in my deep love for this quirky and thoughtful tall, cool drink of a detective. In fact, I'd guess there are hundreds of women in the world who consider Bobby their lover, if not boyfriend or even husband. Hell, there might be a few guys out there who feel that way, too.

What I've come to realize -- and it was a bit of a shock -- is that what makes Bobby Goren great is not his thoughtfulness, compassion, and the 5 o'clock shadow I've lusted after. No, what makes him so incredibly wonderful is his total adoration of me. Yes, for all my love and affection for him it's the fact that he adores me that makes him utterly perfect. He sees the best in me; he never misunderstands me; and, most of all, he'll never reject me. These are the qualities that make him the perfect mate.  And one that can never really exist.

How did I come to this sad truth? It finally hit me after spending a marvelous long evening "chattering" with Vincent D'Onofrio,  the actor who brings my Bobby to life. It's important, I think, to realize that "my Bobby" isn't necessarily his Bobby. And, after having spent those hours chattering with him, I know that my Bobby is way better than his. He has to be.

So there we all were -- maybe hundreds of us (who can say, since only those willing to put ourselves out there and post anything are visible?) -- gathered together in a quasi-real shared lived experience with the man we've come to know as the physical manifestation of Bobby Goren. A man we place a tad higher on the pedestal than the rest of us.  VDO and his fans, together at the same moment, in the same sort of space. Chattering. Some of us asking questions, some of us just making comments. And he, bless him, sorting through the gajillions of queries, trying to answer as many as he could and staying up until 1:00 in the morning just so the West Coast fans could chat and watch his show simultaneously.

It was a little crazy, what with all of us clamoring for his attention, nay his affection. And some of us receiving it as he answered and, at times, even referred to a few by name and joked with others. But at the end of it all, I was left wondering if all of our affections weren't just a bit misplaced. I mean, we virtually threw ourselves at his feet, looked up, way up, and hoped for a little acknowledgment. When we got a taste of it, we wanted more. But, at the end of it all, what did we get? I'm still not sure. But it seemed pretty clear to me that the actor, for all the great qualities we could see in him, and all the great fun we had with him, didn't know us. Not the way we wanted him to. He had his own interests and his own issues and, well, let's face it, he had his own mind; he was himself (on his best behavior no doubt, just like the rest of us). But he was his own Self. And he didn't know me, or understand me or any of those things Bobby does. And when I woke up the next morning and turned on the LOCI marathon of the day, I started to cry.

I looked at Bobby Goren on the screen and I saw 2 Bobbys. One was Vincent's Bobby. He had the quirks and the stammering and the leaning and that delicious raspy voice that Vincent brings to his character. After having a night filled with Vincent chatter, it was hard to separate the man from the character. But behind Vincent's Bobby, I thought I caught a glimpse of mine. The one who's been with me now for about 10 years. The one who adores me and gives me everything I need. The one who knows me like no other. And I cried.

Years ago on some LOCI message board I asked the question: "Why do I love this man so very, very much and why does this love hurt so deeply?" And I put out there in cyberspace this tiny answer to myself: "Is it because he's not real and I'll never, ever get to meet him?" Some thoughtful person responded to my little query with a resounding "Yes."  So, years ago I knew the truth but it took that somewhat real life encounter to feel it. To know that my Bobby is truly a figment of my imagination. And part of me is about to say goodbye to him. Maybe for good. But another part is screaming to hang on. How can my Bobby leave me?
I'm still not sure if he will but I think I see him slipping out the door and waving goodbye. And I think it's probably a good thing, but I'm still crying because I'll miss him so very, very much.
I already do.

Fall

Why I love Fall:

excellent sleeping weather
crisp, cool air
old America songs (Ventura Highway!)
joy of roasting green chiles
Mid-Autumn Moon Festival
sweaters!
cool river waters
hot air balloons

and the memories of every fall past

Stupid Remarks

A brief one today... Senior ladies looking at the salsas and spice mixes and the ever-popular queso dip mix. "ooh," one of them says "Kiss-oh dip"

For the record, it's pronounced kay-so. I'm just sayin'.

See, nobody reads this thing so I'll use it as a rant-blog. As if other blogs are any different.

And, if anybody cares, I'm failing miserably with my "Waddell Radio."

Stupid Questions

When I first started this blog thing, I was planning on writing down the stupidest question I'd been asked each week. Well, wouldn't you know, no one really asked anything too stupid in the first few months of this blog's history.

Now a couple of years have passed. Can't believe that one. And today I was prompted once again to silently say "what a stupid question." So here goes. Maybe it will be the start of a newer blog.

So this afternoon this older couple came into the shop and looked at all the stuff, local and made-in-China alike. They pick up the bamboo salad bowls and ask "Are these made here?"

Bamboo. Okay, I knew someone not too far away who had a couple of bamboo trees in his yard but, please, this is Taos, New Mexico. Even if a bamboo tree or two could grow here there wouldn't be enough for a forest to then be cut down to then make the bamboo bowls. Seriously.

That one wins this week's Dumb Question of the Week prize for sure. Congrats.

What do these tourists think anyway?

So, the Shop is housed in, well, a house. A house that was built around 1940 so it’s kinda old, considering the recent housing boom and all. But, no, it’s not Colonial Olde or anything like that. So this woman walks in -- barges in really. Shoving her way around the rooms she says, “is this an Original house?” I give her that look like “uhm, are you from Mars?” Original. “No,” I want to say, “It’s a copy.” So I squint some more at her (what can I say, it was 4:00 and I’d about had it with wonky tourists asking dumb-ass questions). She repeats, like I’m the one with three heads (or no head at all), “is it, you know, Original.” I finally give up the who’s-dumber game and say, “well, it was built in the ‘40s.” With what I can only describe as a “haunting look” she stares me down then responds: “The 1840s?” She’s disgusted at my response.

Later, she tries to get back into my good graces by telling me she used to work in a tourist town. The Bahamas. As if we’re in this secret society together. Only she’s the wonky tourist this time out. What is it about tourists???? Do they not do their homework? Do they just fall back on Romantic stereotypes? To be fair, a couple shops over is, in fact, a former home that was built in the 1800s or whenever. I think it's a museum now. A museum that sells gifty-things. So I guess it’s not completely wonky to think our very 1940s-looking house was built a hundred years earlier. I guess.

I’ve had and heard worse. Each week I try to secretly award a “loser question of the week” prize. This week I have to say the prize goes to the woman who, when looking at a bunch of small rainbow-painted wooden bowls, bearing the “Made in Thailand” logo, asks: “What do you use these for?” I tell her, “Well, I use them for M&Ms but other people put nuts in them and some people use them for paper clips.” (Truth be told, I don't actually own one of these kind of crummy painted wooden bowls we order in bulk from the giant wholesale-to-kitchen-shops company. But if I did, I probably would fill them with M&Ms) “Oh!” she laughs, “I thought maybe you used them to grind peppers or something.” Yeah, that’s right, we sit on our mud floors grinding dried chile peppers in specially painted wooden bowls Made in Thailand. We’re just so exotic.

Holidays

It's that time of year again. Time when women of a certain age are wished a "Happy Mother's Day!" whether we like it or not. Whether we have kids or not. Whether, in fact, we are Mothers or not. I don't know if it's the P.C.-ness of the times or if I just reached that age. (You know, that time long after the kid who bags your groceries starts calling you "Ma'am.") I never used to be wished a "Happy Mother's Day!" Now, even if it's the week before Mother's Day, some well-meaning cashier at the local supermarket takes it upon herself to wish me something I don't really deserve to have wished upon me. Nor, honestly, do I want it heaped on me -- this reminder that I, being of a certain age, don't actually have any children and, given the increasing frequency of flashes of intense heat and waking up to find my hair, sheets and pillowcase are more than a little damp, (and, no, I didn't sleepwalk my way into the shower), am not going to have any of those imagined children. No. I'm not going to be a Mother. And no, I don't really appreciate the reminder.

I find it more than a bit ironic that Mother's Day, as we Hallmark it today, was "officially" created by a woman who, the Internet reveals, "had spent many years looking after her ailing mother. This is why she preferred to remain a spinster." Ah, she had a legit excuse.

Now I'm all for phoning my mom and even sending her a little trinket from the Shop. But I think it's a little rude and pushy to be wishing it on any female ...of a certain age. When is the starting age anyway? How do you figure that out? Do you dare wish it on a 20-something? Even if that is the "ideal" age, biologically. Aren't you taking a big risk, assuming a woman's age and then assuming she has kids? I notice guys don't wish it on me. No, just women. And I thought it was just women-with-kids. Mothers. Mothers who thought it was polite and kind to share the greeting. Share the day. As if it were mid-December when you can get away with a "Happy Holidays" that just about covers anyone. But then, I'm in the shop, (the Tuesday before Mother's Day) with Sally who works there when she's not off at the Ski Resort teaching wary ladies how to bunny hop down the slopes. Sally, it should be noted, is over 50 and has no kids. She's there at the shop to change the window (the window display hasn't been touched since before Thanksgiving). In walks another woman. In her 50s I'd guess but who can tell??? Anyway, as this potential-but-no-such-luck customer starts to leave, Sally grins wide and says "Happy Mother's Day!!!!"

Huh? Why, Sally, why?????? I guess Sally doesn't mind it when someone says it to her. Just being nice I guess. But I can't. I just can't. And I won't. And I'm really, really, glad I don't have to work on Mother's Day. And for sure I'm not going anywhere near a grocery store. In fact, I'm not leaving my house until it's over.

The Break-In

For the moment, I work in a Kitchen Shop. In a small Tourist Town.

The customers, I imagine, will give me fodder for this blog that I now dive into. I have no idea if anyone will ever read it. For sure, I'm not gonna tell anyone about it. At least not now. But it feels good to imagine an audience for my rambling commentary on this life.

So, a couple of weeks ago we were broken into. It's only happened once before, 15 years ago (I learned this from the owner -- I certainly haven't been working there that long). The guy or guys (I can't imagine a girl would go to all the effort for such little in return), used a crowbar on the back door. Then they broke a glass window on another door, then they cut through some horrific mesh wire that was attached to the window frame. (note: silver lining -- that mesh wire kept snagging my nice cashmere sweaters so I'm glad it's gone). Instead of figuring out that a little latch was all that separated them from the innards of the shop, they climbed through the broken window and torn mesh. I hope they got hurt, or at least got their clothes snagged.

They didn't take a whole lot and they didn't trash the place. They did know that we keep the good knives in the back room. The cops think some guy's gonna be selling them out of the back of his truck to students in the "new!" culinary arts program at the local college. I'm thinking they might show up on ebay one of these days. It's a little disturbing how many suspicious Wusthof knives are up for bid there.

I don't really know what to make of it all. Stupid, yes. Disturbing, yes. Surprising? nope. And, in the end, it gave our little street something to talk about other than the bad economy and how no one's buying anything.

So, until Memorial Day when the hordes of motorcycle-riding dentists show up... we'll have to settle for thieves and the occasional pink sweatpants with accompanying pink balloons t-shirt 60-year old grumpy lady who says: "Bleh! This is made in China?! "