Ahem, OK. To celebrate the fact that I am a cute and desirable woman, evidenced by the fact that, tonight, the guy stocking the ice cream at Von’s came on to me (“are you sure I can’t get you anything special?” — ah, you warm my elderly heart, young man), I will now describe two milestones in my journey of, ah, internal awakenings …

David Cassidy. He was my first, my last, my everything. Bobby Sherman was a chump compared to Keith Partridge. I was so young when I had my crush, that I was very unclear about the whole thing. I fantasized about us getting married, coming back to our honeymoon suite, sharing a moviestar kiss (that’s what I called dramatic passionate showy makeouts — which I would sometimes try to get my brothers to do with me — lord). After the kiss, David and I would just slowly … sink out of frame. I had no idea would happen after that.

I was a little older when I watched Blow Up on television. To the best of my recollection, that was when I had one of my very first, you know, down-there feelings. In fact, it was during the first photography scene in which the skinny, strungout looking model poses for David Hemmings (who does the now-stereotypical mod-photographer thing: “Go go! Lovely! That’s it! YES!”) She writhes on the floor as he straddles her, kissing her neck once before he abruptly gets up and slumps to a couch, in a post-coital state.

(it’s for a different post — my parents’ startlingly inappropriate notions of what they considered “acceptable viewing”.)

So, anyway, just putting that out to the universe, as I am hoping to find someone with whom to sink out of frame — soon.