Original Post: 2012
I feel like tween-age Katie would be pretty impressed with how things have turned out for us. After all, I did finally get my braces off, my glasses were replaced with contacts and at one time, I had lost my "baby fat." (In a cruel twist of fate, it has returned because of an actual baby. That is now 3-years-old.) The want some worries of the angst ridden, real-life Judy Blume character who definitely played with Barbies too long are mostly all gone. I think that tween-age me would be happy about us.
Except for one thing.
What you may or may not know about me is that from the ages of 11- probably like 17, I was obsessed with teen heartthrob Brian Austin Green from the show Beverly Hills, 90210. And when I use the word obsessed, I am certain that is the word the police would have used. Had they ever found out. I was in LOVE with him. His bowl cut, his herringbone chain, his baggy Cross Colours pants, his "not a sweatshirt but has a hood" clothing choices and his keyboard musical talent. While he played a geek on the show, he was no geek to me. No, someone who survives seeing their childhood friend accidentally fatally shoot themselves, someone who abstains from sex with his older girlfriend, and someone who tracks down Color Me Badd at the Beverly Wiltshire only to expose infidelity, is no geek. Sad sack, maybe. But not a geek.
If you made it through that last paragraph, I think we can have a gentelmen's agreement that humility is out-the-window on my part. So, I will go on to tell you that I wrote him letters. Like, plural. I just thank God that the contents of such ramblings are not available in my long-term memory. I sent him pictures with those letters. To me, it seemed entirely possible that he would be in his trailer one day, between scenes, when he opened a pink envelope from Louisville, KY. When he read my prose, he would see how much we had in common. When he saw my picture, he would think "This is the girl for me. Someone, go to Louisville and find this girl." After that, I imagined there was a process whereby I had to fit in a glass slipper, but you get the idea. In summation, I would move to LA, marry Brian Austin Green, and get my own spin-off show produced by Aaron Spelling. And co-starring Randy Spelling, Tori's little brother. Because everyone in Hollywood has to pay their dues.
In case you were wondering, that did not pan out.
It became apparent that more drastic measures would have to be taken. And the universe heard me. Because the winter of my 6th grade year, Brian Austin Green did come to me. Well, Louisville. By way of a patron saint named Carl Casper. And his custom auto show.
How I missed the initial advertisements for this epic event is beyond me. My word, when you are 200lbs of fat, braces, glasses and insecurity, you don't get out much. TV becomes your best friend. But somehow, I had missed the commercial that went something like this:
"THIS WEEKEND, CARL CASPER CUSTOM AUTO SHOW PRESENTS A CAR THAT KIND OF LOOKS LIKE THE GENERAL LEE, KIT FROM "NIGHTRIDER's" cousin, KAT, AUSTIN FROM "DAYS OF OUR LIVES," SCHNEIDER FROM "ONE DAY AT A TIME." SEE THE SECONDARY DALLAS COWBOY CHEERLEADER SQUAD AND ALL THE GIRLS CUT FROM HOOTER'S TRY OUTS OVER THE LAST 10-YEARS (and Brian Austin Green.)
What the...
BAG is your headliner, man. Apparently, Carl Casper had not taken a Marketing class.
For one-night only, BAG would be in my town. Home field advantage. I began the week long "Can I go, ppppllllleeeeaaassssseeee" conversation with my parents. I figured it was an easy sell because my Dad likes cars, but it took a little work. Apparently, driving from the East End to Broadbent to stand in a seemingly never ending line so your "handsome" daughter can meet Davey Jones circa 1992 is not every parents priority. But there really isn't anything my Dad wouldn't do for me, so that Saturday night, dressed in my County Seat finest, a face full of the Clinique samples I had stolen from my Mom's bathroom and a pretty amazing scrunched up curly look held stoically in place by enough White Rain hairspray to put a hole in the ozone layer, we headed to meet my crush.
There, amid the smell of fried foods, new cars and "Kentucky," one thing became agonizingly clear; you were supposed to purchase tickets in advance. Great. As we approached the line, which I would estimate to be no shorter than 9million people, the "ticket taker" advised us that if you did not have a ticket, there would be no entrance. I am confident it was not that eloquent.
WHY ME?!?!?!?!?!?
Sensing my sorrow and probably fearful that some sort of hormonal episode was on the horizon, I saw my Dad spring to action. My Dad is an action guy, but this was pretty Bond. While I tried to un-fog my glasses from the tears and determine the culinary treat that would satiate my sadness, my Dad went back over to the ticket man. This was a real meeting of the minds; my Dad, holding advanced degrees and a super job and the ticket guy, not having what a dentist would call a "full" set of teeth and yet pulling dip cans out of literally every pocket on his person. I had no idea what my Dad could say to this man, the man with all the power, the ticket god, the all and powerful OZ... wait, did my Dad just slip him some cash? Oh, that is BOSS. Next thing I knew, I was in line.
With clear instructions from my Dad, I was to stay put in the line while he ventured out amid the car show. Clearly, my Dad needed to get away from all this drama having already secured "Father of the Year." So, I began to wait. And wait. And wait.
Because Swatch had recently gone out of style, I was without a timepiece those days. So who knows the hours that whittled away during that magical night. It was good, because I could plan my attack. I could rehearse what I would say to him, how I would wile him with my stiff but "beachy" hair, how I would advise him that next year, the ortho said my braces would most likely come off; to assure him that my parents had said as soon as I kept my room clean for a month, I could get contacts. Oh, so many things to tell him! So much love to fall in! But the curse with all that time became the realization that I was missing 2 things: a working camera and any kind of fan fare for him to sign.
Who does that?
Me, apparently. As this was my first real celebrity/future husband encounter, I didn't know the rules. And, because my generation had not been formally introduced to Brett Michaels yet, I didn't have the audacity to ask him to sign my body. "Are you there God? It's me, Margaret. Well, Margaret Kathryn, but I go by Katie. Listen..." And then I came to realize you could purchase pictures of this teen idol to have him sign. For $5. Which based on inflation from 1992, the crisis in Greece and the fiscal cliff, would cost you $400 today. I fished out the $20 my Dad had given me for "emergencies." What? Buying an 8x10 glossy to have his future son-in-law sign was an investment.
I won't bore you with the exact details of our first in-person meeting. Mainly because I would like to locate my diary in order to quote directly. (That's right, I had a diary and wrote in it every night. Especially that night. And I guarantee you that entry started with "Dear Diary..." ) Just know it was not the serendipitous occasion I thought it might be. There was no extended glance, no brush of my hand as he grasped for his Sharpie. No longing in his voice when he said "What's your name?" and I said "Katie" and he said "How do you spell that?" and I said "Just however you think." No spark.
Which was probably the beginning of the end. By 9th grade, I was pretty much 90210ut. BAG and his alter ego David Silver gotten in some pretty heavy stuff and clearly, he was too busy for me. I mean, he was trying to skip a grade, host a morning talk show at WBH and in the summer, he was marooned to the BH Beach Club to work on his keyboard rap in a cabana. Don't discount the fact that his Dad had recently remarried the most popular girl in school's Mom and they were having a baby.
When 90210 ended, I watched him fade into obscurity. Until, that is, he started dating Megan Fox. If you are not familiar with her, well, who isn't familiar with her? It was then that I would again see him in my precious People Magazines with his tattoos and Creatine created body. He was harsh looking; he hadn't aged well. Not like a Mark-Paul Gosslear. And he didn't have the long lived teen idol career of say a Scott Baio. Yes, well into my 20's I realized it was over.
Until last month.
Because that is when I saw this:
Yeah.
And because my favorite late night host Conan, also resides on TBS, I saw a ton of these promos. Each one a little knife in my heart. He was in a show, playing the leader of a band that exclusively plays weddings. I mean, have you ever? But looking in the mirror, I saw a little 13-year-old Katie staring back at me. And through her braced face and snacking, she would say "Just give it a try. Don't let your love fade away." But it was from there that I grew strength. And I looked at that tween and her dream and I squashed it, dead.
Where she would be so proud of me for the compliments I get on my less crunchy hair, the fact that I learned to apply make-up, my abandonment of bodysuits all together, I know that tweenage Katie would be upset with me for not giving BAG a second chance. But she needs to know that you cannot "crush" forever. That is why they call them crushes. Because they hurt like heck, but you get over them. Just like I am over BAG. (Really? I was in love with a guy whose monogram is BAG?)
That is on a list of about 1 million things I would have told tweenage Katie.
Also including: don't spend your babysitting money at The Disney Store, Jon Knight is gay, you will never be on the Mickey Mouse Club, focus your energies on European royalty, get better at math, clean your room so you can get those contacts, "Diary" is not a person- do not address it as such, pleated jeans only make you look fatter, reading on the bus is not making you any friends, starting a real life "Baby-Sitters Club" is not a venture capitalists move and everyone you have already asked to be in the baby-sitters club has kissed at least one boy, stop trying to make the dance team- you are only embarrassing yourself, wearing pink chuck taylor's does not make you ironic, En Vogue will not be around forever, Tiffany Amber Thiessen will drop the Amber and also struggle to lose baby weight years after her baby is grown...
Sorry, tween Katie. I just can't do it. But before you get too sad, know this:
Donna Martin graduates.
PS-I was a little worried that my Diane Sawyer like political commentary last week would somehow come back to bite me. I did receive lots of text and emails about my nonsensical rantings. From that, I offer you this:
1. Some anonymous emailer tried to explain to me how Obama won using math. Clearly, he/she is a devoted reader of this blog. Because I love math as much as I love the NFL and the DNC.
2. I need to double check it with the Pugh Institute and the City of Pawnee, but it looks like we all need to get ready to be 'Nsync. Just based on early voting.
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