Tucker: A Girl and Her Dream

Despite a recent increase in well-meaning suggestions that I try online dating, I am still not interested. But I am also never above rethinking my approach. My friends DO have a point: the internet is a powerful tool. So here you go, world. This is my version of dating online:

Dear Alan Tudyk,

I am done waiting; let’s do this.

After more than a decade writing comedy in Los Angeles, I have a practical PhD in enduring bullshit with patience and grace. But finding a man in this circus is its own special circle of hell, and this dainty Dante has had enough.

Sometimes, it is better to light a flamethrower than to curse the darkness. Here is my torch song.

You came blazing into my life just as I took my first adult steps. True, I have a long-standing passion for red heads, but it was your comedic brilliance that shined so bright as to win my heart. It was a time of many firsts for me – first job, first apartment, first car – but a girl never forgets her first drug-addicted gay German stripper.

A love that catches so intensely is destined to burn quickly out unless it is fed a steady diet of fuel. You kept my flame more than sated as a stoner waxing floors in Pittsburgh and a medieval squire waxing poetic about food. Some would have been turned off by your apparent identity issues, but this Scorpio loves a good puzzle. Were you German? British? American? I had no idea. It is so rare to find a man mysterious enough to keep a clever girl figuratively on her toes. (At 5’3” it is not at all uncommon for a man to keep me literally on my toes.)

Inevitably, every fiery romance must face the harsh cool winds of reality. I will admit, our flame flickered in those next few years. You married another woman – though I could hardly expect anyone to resist the allure of Gina Torres – and devoted your time to the one sport that was the bane of my public-school-dictated physical education. You went psycho, murdering children, humans, robots, and innocent Dolls, and even worse – you went blonde.

It was a difficult time for me, this search for your identity, and when I watched you get killed off not once (projectile through the chest), not twice (shot while on horseback), but three AND four times (as an alien lizard) I began to seriously question the viability of our spark. But I came to love and accept you for your many realities – even naked (and still blonde) shouting drug-fueled exultations from a rooftop. My naked heart climbed out that window and declared its love right back!

By then, this inferno had burned for a decade, and I was committed for life. A well-meaning lover surprised me with tickets to see An Evening Without Monty Python, and I delayed ending our dying relationship for two weeks so I wouldn’t miss my chance to see you live. (It is the worst thing I have ever done to a man, and I did it to the nicest guy I have ever dated. That is how hot this fire burns.) I applauded your accidental slaughter of a gaggle of annoying college kids who disturbed your woods. I watched a Michael Bay movie for you. My loyalty cannot be in doubt.

This conflagration I carry has grown from a spark to a blaze, through sputters, and into a bona fide bonfire; it is no mere torch – it is an eternal flame. Really, the only thing left is for us to meet. Of course, I expected that this would have happened by now. I planned to meet you when I asked you to play yourself in my indie film (cool and successful, she enters his life) or cast you in one of the other roles I have written specifically for you over the years. But the film industry moves at its own pace, and I am tired of waiting.

Sometimes, the universe needs a boot to the head, so the time has come to give Fate a swift kick in the rear. (This is not a mixed metaphor, as the world clearly has its head up its ass these days.) Thus, I send up this flare; it is yours to smother or let illuminate.

Let’s do this, Alan Tudyk. I will leave the light on for you.

Seriously, people send me stuff like this. Something’s gotta give.

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Born With a Broken Heart, Part II (Ginger Ail)

Hello. My name is Kate, and I am an addict. They say admitting you have a problem is the first step toward recovery, but I have owned my addiction for years now and it doesn’t appear to be going anywhere. Experts also say it is important to understand the root cause of your addiction before you can treat it. I have always though it resulted from my first experience with love, back in Kindergarten; my mother thinks the formative event was my open-heart surgery when I was two. If I am right, then I have spent over three decades trying to recapture the superficial magic of a first crush. If she is right, then my problem is merely a savior complex.

Does it really matter, though? Either way, the end result is the same: my abnormal, unhealthy, increasingly destructive addiction to red-headed men.

I hear you scoffing at me, deriding my deviant drug of choice, but this addiction, no matter how irrational, is real. My experimentation with redheads started as soon as I was outside the home, crushing on the one freckle-faced flame head in my elementary school. After my first taste, I continued to send my affections down roads less traveled, favoring the goofy red-haired Mouseketeer instead of traditional cuties like Justin (Timberlake) or Ryan (Gosling). Between the two Coreys, I chose Team Haim, not Feldman.

My experimentation quickly formed a habit, as is the common progression with addiction. When all of my peers tacked posters of Kirk Cameron and Rob Lowe to their walls, I dreamed of dating Seth Green (long before Buffy). I even created a fictional character based on that redhead from the Mickey Mouse Club, and imagined a fantasy world where he lived with an idealized version of me. By high school, I was obsessively giving my heart to the brightest red hair in the room.

Stage three of addiction is when the habit starts to prompt risky behavior and abuse. For me, that was college. My inability to go without a ginger fix led to four years of emotional dysfunction with my Eggplant, and kept me from fully realizing any other, healthier relationships. In later years I went completely irrational, at one point dating two guys and refusing to choose between them even though one was clearly more mature and respectful – simply because the other had such gorgeous copper hair. There was even a time when this kid argued with me about whether half of something was the same as 50% – he took the side against math, and I still didn’t break up with him, because, man, that ginger was tasty. Its hold on me was absolute. When my adoration of carrot-topped actors progressed to a brief but actual crush on Carrot Top, I knew the problem was serious.

But it was too late. My dependency was complete. I needed ginger in my life all the time. The fantasy world I had created around my beloved red Mousketeer took over my dreams – I could not fall asleep without visiting that mythical ginger every night. On several occasions, I tried to convince my brown-haired boyfriend to dye his hair red, or at least copper. Once, my gay best friend (a blonde – I have never been attracted to blondes) dyed his hair red, and I made the picture of him the screen saver on my computer!

Things were out of control. My best friend married a copper-top, and I wrote a whole movie about it. I spent a week doing research on redheads in history, then composed a poem titled, “A Taste for Ginger.” In class, I openly doted over my red-haired students, in flagrant violation of both classroom ethics and common-sense age restrictions. Ron Weasley became my ideal man.

Any one of these shameful acts could have been my rock bottom – a couple of them certainly should have been – but my deviance knew no bounds. I kept sinking, self-respect a thing of the past.

My first major wake-up call came when I agreed to date a boy with bright red hair who I knew to be an immature pot head. He asked me out via text message two minutes after finishing a two-hour stint in the same room with me – a deal breaker for any healthy person – and then he called me a tease to my face on our second date because I didn’t sleep with him. Did I slap him in the face as he so rightly deserved? No; I was actually sad to see him go. All of my judgment and standards were lost, and yet, there was still farther to fall.

Absolute rock bottom came – as so many rock bottoms do – at a wedding. When I found myself in a hotel bathroom stall with a boy I had already dated and dismissed, someone I knew to be disrespectful (not to mention ten years my junior), just because he was a delicious six-foot-two drink of ginger water? That was when I finally felt the cold, hard stone beneath my face.

Recovery in the years since has been slow and unsteady. I was okay for a while after the wedding, fueled more by a renewed sense of shame than a desire to kick my ginger habit. But there are still so many temptations out there! Donal Logue and Louis C.K. certainly don’t make things easier, and even though Alan Tudyk hasn’t had red hair since Firefly, I still have to go see any movie he is in – even if it’s a piece of crap like Transformers 3.

Last year, I relapsed completely. I found myself on a date with an adorable ginger depressive, simultaneously flirting with our hunky red-haired bartender, and trying to figure out how to convince both of them to make out with me. Then, when J.K. Rowling wrote in an online interview that Hermione Weasly (neė Granger) would have been better off with Harry Potter, I cursed her name and nearly broke my computer monitor. Clearly, my taste for ginger isn’t going anywhere.

For what it’s worth, I do think my mother is right about the root cause of my addiction. Our concept of beauty is largely a product of the influential people and experiences of our childhood, and having a red-haired heart surgeon save your life at age two certainly must leave an impression. It makes sense that, ever since, my heart has been searching for another redhead to make it whole.

I am an addict, and I always will be. After more than thirty years chasing the sweet taste of ginger, I have come to accept my fate. Still, I believe it can get better. While I may never kick this orangutan off my back, I can try what every addict knows is the next best thing: replace this addiction with a new one. So look out, all you Jewish men out there; this shiksa goddess needs some sugar.