Some People from Movies that I’d Like Be Friends with (if they were real)

The guy who owns the candy store, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. He seemed very knowing, didn’t he?

Dr. Lesh, Poltergeist. The woman with the red hair and glasses that came to investigate the house before the psychic midget lady. When she took a swig out of that flask and offered it to Jo Beth Williams, I knew she was a caring, compassionate soul. Even at the age of seven.

The Psychic Midget Lady, Poltergeist. Hello? CREEP-Y. But cool. She could tell me how many hearts my house has.

Michelle Pfeiffer’s character Stephanie, Grease II. Wait. Scratch that. I wanted to BE Stephanie. There was nothing cooler than when she climbed up that ladder and sang “Cool Rider.” I even admired her nervous breakdown at the school talent show after she heard Maxwell Cauffield (the nerd masquerading as the cool rider) had died. The girl won best in show for her breakdown! (Watching Stephanie, I couldn’t help relate with blonde Annette’s loser little sister with the skate board.)

The entire Corleone family, The Godfather. I’m partial to the old days, when Vito and Clemenza started out by stealing that rug; I would’ve liked to have been in on that action. And Vito was so fair, as long as you remained loyal. I wouldn’t have minded babysitting unruly Sonny. I would’ve done it for free.

Jeremy, the leader of the rats, The Secret of Nymn. Although it’s a cartoon and I know rats can’t talk or steal power, even at a young age I was inspired by his knife-fight with the rebel rat that slayed Nicodemus. He totally kicked ass. Oh how I wanted the widow mouse Mrs. Brisbey to end up with Jeremy. Was it only I who noticed some sexual tension between the two of them? It still irritates me is that it’s not really clear what happens at the end. Are they gonna be together or what?

Michael Moore, Roger and Me, Bowling for Columbine and Fahrenheit 9/11. Since I was kicked out of college and have smoked many joints (activities which wouldn’t necessarily exclude me from the presidency), I probably won’t be president one day so there’ll be no reason for him to document my moves and, thus, resent him. Whether you agree with his politics, you have to admit we all want the Michael Moores of the world on our side.

Parker Posey’s temp-worker character, Clock Watchers. When she screams, “We’re like corporate orphans, only I don’t want to be a part of their family!” I imagine going to happy hour with her and commiserating on our awful situation. When she got fired, I would’ve packed up my pencils and walked out with her.

Kermit the Frog, any of the Muppet Movies. He doesn’t realize how cool he is and that’s endearing. Kermit: sweet, calm and always in charge.

Melanie Griffith’s character, Working Girl. I think after all she’s been through, she’d be an excellent boss. Perhaps she could hire me as her assistant. And then maybe I’d get reimbursed for post-graduate courses.

Dawn Wiener, Welcome to the Dollhouse. Let’s face it: I am Dawn Wiener. Perhaps together we could elicit more members for our “special people club.”

Billy Bob Thornton’s character, Bad Santa. We all want someone to tell us like it is.

Betty Davis’ character, Baby Jane, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? My friendship with Baby Jane wouldn’t be genuine I have to admit. If I were friendly with her, I totally would pretend to be all into making her a star again, playing piano while she sang. I’d call the liquor store for her and order all her bottles of scotch and gin. After she passed out, I would sneak upstairs to free her invalid sister. Then I could be friends with Joan Crawford’s character, the real star anyway.

Max Fisher, Rushmore. He’s just so industrious. I should’ve joined more clubs.

Han Solo, Star Wars trilogy. He’s Han Solo.

Indiana Jones, Indiana Jones trilogy. He’s, well, Indiana Jones.

Dr. Richard Kimble, The Fugitive. He’s… you know.

Any Harrison Ford role.

Holly Golightly, Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She’s somewhat self-involved and I don’t have to imagine how infuriating that can be. But then I also don’t have to imagine how much fun it’d probably be to bask in her presence.

Daddy Warbucks, Annie. I could make him love me as a daughter. He’d take me out of the orphanage and treat all my friends to a huge party during which he and I tap dance. And then I could ride in a helicopter with FDR and Eleanor. (After we sing a reprise of Tomorrow in the Oval Office.)

My Blood is Good

I currently have no less than four bites of unknown origin on my ankles and feet. They're really itchy. They're also really tiny, clearly not spider bites. It's evident when a spider's paid me a visit: Spider-bite sites on my body swell to the size of the average fig.

Apparently certain sections of my home are also home to spider colonies. They get me when I'm either upstairs or in the backyard for eight minutes. I believe they've also established residence in our car, as I've ended up with figs on my legs after long trips to Long Island. My husband refuses to acknowledge the situation and its detriment on my well-being, willfully ignoring the SPIDER WEBS permanently affixed to the INSIDE of our windshield. "It's fine," he tells me. "Spiders are actually good." After such proclamations, I can generally be relied upon to respond something to the effect of: "I'm going to get a exterminator and you'll have nothing to say about it. Just try to stop me!" And then he reminds me that we refuse to have an exterminator anywhere near our property because we love our helpless, angelic cat and we're concerned about effects on the environment. I regularly conclude that bi-weekly spider bites (throughout the whole year) are part of my lot in life. They're actually part of my charm. Once I come to terms with this, I feel fine; I'm accepting. And then my husband can be counted on to downplay the size of my spider bites and the pain associated with them.

Incidentally the spider car is named "Bug II," the natural replacement to my first vehicle, "The Bug Mobile." The name *had* nothing to do with anything other than the fact my family's nickname for me is "Bug." Now, however, I've recognized this connection as a fate manufactured by the gods. It's one of my "cosmic jokes"--a phrase I believed I coined as a teen (and of which I was inordinately proud).

Evidence of such jokes? I seem to have gotten all the “bad” genes in the family; I'm the runt of the litter. I am literally allergic to daylight. Welts occur if ever the sun meets an uncovered piece of Judy-flesh for an extended period of time. Ann Marie and Robert? Tanned and gorgeous. Further, they're both math geniuses and I'm, um, the "creative" one. I'm also the least athletic of my siblings. And I'm the one in the family that gets all the bug bites. Neither Ann Marie nor Robert, to my knowledge, has ever complained about having 22--count 'em, 22!--insect bites on one leg. (One summer my father and I took to counting my bites. We stopped after counting that one leg.)

I remember telling Sister Anina (my grade school’s librarian and keeper of the supply closet) that I had “22 bug bites on my leg!” She remarked that it was because I had “sweet blood.” Hmmm. Sweet blood. I liked the sound of that. Perhaps it had something to do with my dad's mom? My paternal grandmother's maiden name was Bloodgood. She was of Native American lineage so we always assumed the exotic name derived from our Lenni Lenape heritage. Ann Marie has begun doing genealogy research and it appears that the name might be of Dutch origin, an interesting notion but not one to explore in this moment. Wherever the “Bloodgood” comes from (I trust Ann Marie's discipline to chart us back at least several hundred years), the name has a particular, poignant meaning for me.

My blood is good. At least to insects. All sorts of insects.