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This Gidget Finally Gets Her Moondoggie:

February 6, 2006 by in category Archives tagged as , ,

By Bobbie Cimo

I think every girl growing up wishes she was like someone she has seen in the movies. Well, I was no exception to the rule. The moment I saw the original Gidget, starring Sandra Dee, I fell in with the character and with of course, her leading man, Moondoggie. Moondoggies have come and gone, but to me, nothing compares to the original one, James Darren. Or as his friends call him, Jimmy. Me, I just call him Gorgeous.

So in love with the movie, I named my first car “Gidget”. Once, I had a puppy…well, you guessed it…I named her Gidget, too. But I think the most memorable thing I did, in honor of my idol, was when I asked my father to put my bicycle up on cement blocks, lifting the wheels off the ground, so I could balance my feet on the pedals and pretend I was on my very own surfboard, shooting the curls. By the way, did I mention I wasn’t a well-balanced child? .

As I was growing up, it saddened me when I grew past 5’2”— because we all know Gidget was pint-size. We won’t even discuss the weight issue. Once on vacation in Hawaii, I tossed myself across a surfboard and asked a total stranger to take my picture. I don’t know what was more dangerous, taking a chance that the stranger could run off with my camera, or me falling in the ocean and unable to swim! Luckily, they both turned out okay.

Years later in Vegas, with camera in hand—they didn’t call me the Kodak Kid, for nothing—I happened into Caesar’s Palace, which was a top hangout for celebrities in its day. That particular night was no different. Everyone appearing in town was out to celebrate Tom Jones’ birthday. For those of you too young to know, Tom Jones was a young sexy singer who sang on stage while women tossed their undies to him. And in case you’re wondering— No, I was not one of them.

I was standing in the marble corridor, in front of a bank of elevators that led to the penthouse suites, when I looked up and saw Tom Jones and my very own Moondoggie coming towards me. James Darren AKA Moondoggie, looking more gorgeous in person that I could have imagined, and he couldn’t have been nicer when I asked if I could have my picture taken with him. What I remembered most, was that he held me tightly against his chest, as we posed together. Oh, and that my father referred to him as Bobby Darin to his face—which didn’t go over all that well, since Bobby Darin had just died a few months before. But Moondoggie was quick to forgive. I wish I could say I remember all of our conversation, but because I have a tendency to zone-out whenever I become overwhelmed, I can’t tell you what we talked about. All I know for sure is that the picture turned out beautifully and it’s proudly displayed in my office at home to this day.

James Darren went on to star in several TV shows, and even became a successful television director. In the last few years he has revived his singing career— recorded a new CD and began making personal appearances tours.

A few years back, when I heard he’d be appearing in Orange County, I decided to venture out to one of his performances. Not only did I have an excellent seat, but I managed to hook up with an aspiring Kodak Kid named Kim. From a younger generation then mine, she was just as in love with Moondoggie as I had been at her age. Kim offered to take a picture of me and Moondoggie as he signed my CD. Posing for the photo with him, I told him of my pictures from that night in Vegas. He said he had just been talking to Tom the night before and then he asked me if wouldn’t mind sending copies of the photos to him. Me refuse Moondoggie? Never!

I dug up my old pictures and found the negatives. But when I had them develop, I found they were as yellow as Bucky Beaver’s teeth before he used Ipana toothpaste. (This might be too old for our younger readers) After I had new negatives made from the original photos, I ended up spending $50.00! But, after all, it was for my idol!

I happily mailed the photos, but not before writing and rewriting the perfect note to go inside the packet. Several months passed without a word or a thank-you note. I worried that perhaps they had never reached him. Not only was I out $50.00, but my Moondoggie would probably think I had flaked out on him.

The following year of—2003, I think it was—I learned James Darren would be appearing at an outdoor concert at the Santa Monica Park. I dragged my sister along, insisting she had to see him in concert. He had gotten older, but looked just a delicious as he did in his youth. Again, I got an excellent seat. And after the concert was over, I went over to where he was signing autographs. I waited until nearly everyone had left before asking if he had remembered the pictures I had promised, and if he had gotten them. My heart sank when I heard him say, in a matter fact tone, “Yeah, I did get them.” Is that all he could say to me? But then he said, “Don’t go away. Can you wait a moment?”

After he finished signing his last autograph, I went around the table to stand next to where he was seated. He turned and looked up at me. Then, in a most sincere voice, he said, “Thank you so much for sending those pictures to me.” I answered politely, “You’re welcome.” Just as I turned to walk away, Moondoggie got up from his chair and took hold of my hand and slowly pulled me near. In the fashion of a Gidget movie, he brushed his lips against mine…and sweetly kissed me on the mouth.

What could be more perfect but to be standing next to the Pacific Ocean, being kissed under the stars by Moondoggie? I’m almost certain if he had his fraternity pin, he would have asked me to wear it. Just like with Sandra Dee, I would have replied, “Oh-boy, would I!”

And that’s how this Gidget finally got her Moondoggie.

Bobbie Cimo
OCC/RWA Program’s Director

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He Let Me Have Viggo

February 5, 2006 by in category Archives tagged as

By Geralyn Ruane

My fiancé Ron puts up with a lot from me, but I never expected him to put up with Viggo.

I am thirty-four years old; I pay taxes; I am engaged to be married. My life contains several outward signs that I am an adult. Yet I have this seriously girly celebrity crush on Viggo Mortensen – the guy who plays the emotionally scarred hero Aragorn in The Lord of the Rings movies. Sure, Viggo’s also a poet, photographer, painter, and political activist (see? here I go!) – but it’s still a celebrity crush. I buy magazines such as GQ, Vanity Fair and Cowboys and Indians when he’s on the cover (and I haven’t read magazines for fun since my subscription of Highlights ran out); I order books of his photography from Amazon; I have a “Viggo” wishlist on Tivo; I visit Viggo fan websites with alarming frequency. I haven’t acted this cuckoo since I spent my middle school library time looking up magazine articles about Duran Duran! And that was over twenty years ago! Part of me is ashamed of this gash of immaturity blazing through my life . . . but the other part will talk to almost anyone about Viggo.

But Ron is cool with it.

I could never be that way if the situation were reversed. If he were to bring home magazines with . . . say . . . Salma Hayek on the cover and visit her fan websites on the net, I’d be like, “Dude, what is up with you and Salma Hayek?”

So why isn’t Ron ticked off? I asked him that very question not so long ago. He simply said he wasn’t jealous. He knows I love him.

And he also knows that I have this tendency to obsess. I went to see Bridget Jones’s Diary in the theatre 6 times, seeing how many new allusions to Pride and Prejudice I could spot each time. When I was a Lakers fan, I owned 9 T-shirts, 4 flags on my car, 3 game jerseys, 1 ball cap, and a winter jacket – and I wanted to paint my house purple and gold. When I was crazy about the show The Crocodile Hunter, I ordered an extra pay channel so I could see one more episode a day.

Yup. I can obsess. Last year, I stood outside a Borders waiting for it to open because the first customers to buy the Return of the King DVD got a free, really HOT poster of a fierce and wild Aragorn, aka Viggo. I was the only idiot waiting, but I got my poster of Viggo! For my birthday, Ron framed that poster for me. A custom, hand-made frame that he did himself at some framing place that lets you do that. All because he knew I would love it.

Ron gets me. He knows how silly and compulsive and crazy I can be, but he doesn’t try to change me or chide me or fix me. He loves me, Viggo crush and all.

By Geralyn Ruane
Author of “Jane Austen Meets the New York Giants”
in Marlo Thomas’ book THE RIGHT WORDS AT THE RIGHT TIME, Vol. 2, April 2006

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I’ve Been Faking It All These Years…

February 4, 2006 by in category Archives tagged as

(Confessions of a car nut’s wife)

By Barbara DeLong

Oh yes, I can make all the proper noises at all the proper times – the ooh’s and aah’s, the gasps of delight, the sucked in breath when mere words won’t suffice. The “wow, that’s hot,” when I just have to say something. And being a mere man, whose love of cars is barely five mph behind his love for his wife, my husband doesn’t catch on.

Okay, make that ten mph.

As he talks about his Mustang, my eyes glaze over; my mind wanders to thoughts of dinner. Will I make the halibut?

“…and I don’t think I’ll get the hi-po spark plugs…”

I shake my head. Naw, fish is not my favorite. Maybe the juicy porterhouse I’ve had marinating in those exotic herbs and spices.

“…the Flowmasters give the car a throaty roar, don’t you think?”

“Ooh, yes, yes, YES!” I enthuse, agreeing to my choice of succulent steak.

He looks so satisfied, bless his heart.

I wasn’t always this good. In that first romantic blush, during the courtship dance that’s as old as time, I blew it once in awhile.

“…then it dropped a valve into the piston.”

“Hmmm, great,” I purred, thinking about our cozy date the night before.

“Not great. Bad. Very bad,” he’d said.

What can I tell you? There was a learning curve.

Now, after thirty-five years of marriage, I’ve taken faking an interest in cars to an art form. At least, I thought I had. I may have faltered these past couple of years, which could explain how I ended up being on the board of the Mustang Club as editor of their newsletter. I had a weak moment and got sucked into his world as surely as 92 Octane gets sucked into Bosch forty-two pound injectors. Ah well, could be worse. I could be writing a romance set in the world of cars – wait a minute. I am writing a romance set in the world of cars. “Joy Ride” is my road rally romance-in-progress.

Which reminds me . . .

“Honey, I need some advice.” I trail him out to the garage, notepad in hand. “Tell me, should my hero’s ’65 Mustang have the original V8?”

“I’d give it a Cobra 5.0 engine with a Vortech supercharger and a Crane high lift cam,” he says.

Funny, as I’m listening to him, I know just what he’s talking about.

And my eyes don’t glaze over once.

Barbara DeLong

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Love Is…

February 3, 2006 by in category Archives tagged as

By Catherine Snodgrass

People measure romance differently. For most it’s flowers, quiet walks on the beach, a romantic candlelit dinner, or perhaps a box of candy. For me, nothing says love more than ice chips. My husband and I had been married nine years when I had to have major surgery. Now, he’s always been the traditional romantic, but I knew the man really and truly loved me more than anything else in the world when I woke up in my room and he was sitting by my side. All I could have was ice chips. Not only did he have the ice chips ready, but he also made “the supreme sacrifice of having an ice cream sundae” in order to get a plastic spoon to feed the ice chips to me. All the hospital had were wooden tongue depressors and he knew I hated to touch rough wood much less put it in my mouth.

Catherine Snodgrass
http://www.catherinesnodgrass.com
aka Cailtyn Willows www.caitlynwillows.com
Author newsletter: CatherineSnodgrassNewsletter-subscribe@yahoogroups.com

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Valentine’s Day? The Truth Comes Out

February 2, 2006 by in category Archives tagged as

By Barbara McCauley

When I was asked to write a Valentine Day’s blog for OCC, my mind absolutely went blank. I mean blank, as in, nothing there. Empty. No memories of long-stemmed roses. No intimate dinners arranged by my darling husband. No diamonds that say, “I love you.” No box of chocolates or surprise trip to…well, anywhere.

I wracked my brain. There had to be something I could write about—even one romantic Valentine evening or hastily picked up bouquet of flowers from a corner street vendor. I rummaged through a box of cards I’ve kept throughout the years (got distracted reading all those cute hand made cards from my kids) I was hoping something would jog my memory. Nada.

This was downright embarrassing.

I was feeling just a tad inadequate, knowing that all the other blogs would be heart warming, sigh evoking stories of romantic husbands who bring home champagne and sprinkle rose petals on the bed. (The only rose petals on my bed would have been the ones stuck in my hair when I came in from the garden) I thought, well, I am a writer. I could make up a story. Who would be the wiser?

I would.

Whatever I wrote, I knew it had to be true, and it had to be heartfelt.
So I thought about my husband and everything he does do and has done, not what he hadn’t….

He always fills my car with gas for me (he knows I hate to) He stays up late to help me with website projects. (because I don’t know how) He rubs my back. (my favorite) He’s very very patient when I’m having a hormonal day. (often) He’s building a storybook garden for me and did all the heavy work in the garden, even when he’d rather be doing a hundred other things. He makes me coffee in the morning before he goes to work and leaves me notes wishing me a happy day. If we wake up in the middle of the night, he’ll always tell me he loves me.

Jeez. I could go on and on.

So maybe he isn’t that great at remembering birthdays and anniversaries and special occasions. I realize I don’t care.

He remembers what’s most important in a relationship. The little things that in the end mean a lot more to me than a diamond necklace or roses or even a trip to Paris.
I don’t have to wait for Valentine’s Day for him to show me he loves me. He does it every day, in a hundred ways.

I’m one hell of a lucky girl.

Barbara McCauley

PS. And what do I do for him for Valentine’s Day? A card,(sometimes) a heart shaped meat loaf or macaroni and cheese. (Two of his favorite meals) Aren’t we a pair?

Barbara McCauley
http://www.barbaramccauley.com/
NAME YOUR PRICE, December Desire, 2005
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