I've got a crush on who?

My first boyfriend was a lot older than me. Blonde hair, blue eyes, soft, almost feminine features. I was 8. He was in his 20s. His name was Shaun Cassidy, and the Hardy Boys rocked my world. When my parents got me his album "Born Late" for Christmas (he was a hyphenate before hyphenates were the standard), I swooned over the cover photo. And drove my parents crazy with the Do Ron Ron.

Then came Andy Gibb. Another pretty singer. Doomed. I don't like to talk about it. There were brief dalliances after that: Donny Osmond. Willie Aames from "Eight is Enough". The Six Million Dollar Man.

Then Rick Springfield entered my life. Another singer/actor. Even
then, I had a type. I faithfully watched Dr. Noah Drake on "General
Hospital" every afternoon. He was my idea of after school special. And
when he released "Working Class Dog", I kept wondering what Jesse's Girl had that I didn't. Well, okay, at that point, boobs.

1983. John Taylor. Now that, that was a love that lasted for years. I wanted to dye my bangs like him. Mom said no. I always felt a little bad for the girls who liked Nick Rhodes the best. It seemed rather pointless. I read Smash Hits, devouring every little morsel of info about JT. I can still remember his birthdate. I would tape Duran Duran videos off Much Music and watch them until the tape went all funny. To this day, I think I would probably throw up a little if I had the chance to meet him.

Why do we develop infatuations with celebrities? Is it because fame is so alluring, even to our 8 year-old selves? Or are the objects of our affections really that much more charming/good looking/fascinating? Really - if Colin Farrell worked at your local coffee shop, would he still be swoon material? Perhaps. Or would you just be miffed that the guy getting you your latte kept trying to look down your shirt? I can tell you, however, that if Taye Diggs was my dentist or worked at my bank, I'd be knocking my teeth out or losing my bank card just so I could go talk to him.

Even now, in my extremely late 30s (ahem), I still get celebrity crushes all the time. George Clooney is a Crush Emeritus. He's on my list. If you don't know what list I'm talking about, you clearly weren't a fan of Friends. Disturbingly, he's also on my Mom's list, or would be if she had a list. Someone call my therapist.

I also have temporary, intense, very of-the-moment crushes. Like Anderson Cooper. Several members of the World Cup champion Spanish soccer team. Scarlett Johansson. A few years back, it was the Today Show's Vatican analyst, Father Thomas someone. Yes, I had the decency to feel bad about that one. But in my defence, he's cute, smart, single, and lives in Italy.

My crushes, however, are not as unconditional, nor as pure, as they once were. Certain things will end a crush. Multiple arrests. Appearing on "Larry King". Being Larry King. I expect even my fake boyfriends to have standards. A while back, Jeffrey Dean Morgan (late of Grey's Anatomy) was tops in my books for a few months. Those eyes! That voice! Then, I saw a picture of him at a party, smoking. Deal breaker. I broke up with him. A girl has to draw the line somewhere. Now if I could just learn to apply those same exacting criteria to actual boyfriends, I might be getting somewhere.

Say cheese!

So there's this website that made the rounds a while back - you've probably been emailed the link. My Heritage.com. It purports to use a photo of you to tell you which famous people you resemble. Since I hate photos of myself, finding one where my face was front and centre was tough. But I was bored and I figured hey - it'll amuse the cats. Oh - and fyi, it doesn't work on pictures of cats.

I scanned three photos. Didn't get any repeat matches, despite the fact that the photos were taken within a 3 day time span. I guess I changed a lot.

The first pic in particular proved to be a winner - I look one percent more like renowned Russian wordsmith Leo Tolstoy than I do like renowned British poofster Cliff Richard.

Next photo. I was deemed 64% Michelle Rodriguez. I was torn; happy that I was a girl, but hated her on "Lost". I was also, horrifyingly, 59 % Paris Hilton. Which is ironic, since Paris Hilton is actually 59% semen. Emma Watson, Hermione from the Harry Potter films, came in at 55%. Encouraging -she's cute. Mary Kate Olsen (but not Ashley. Aren't they twins? Ergo...) and Christie Brinkley were also in the mix. Figures - good news, I'm 53% 70s supermodel; bad news, I once slept with Billy Joel. Oddly, the best results came from the photo in which I'd been downing wine since 11 am. Apparently, even websites find me more attractive when I'm drinking...

But the best, the absolute pinnacle, had to be the photo where not one woman showed up in the results. I was a man, baby. Or, more accurately, men. In addition to several Asian gentlemen (um, what?) I'd never heard of, I scored what might be either the funniest or the saddest result ever:

I'm 59% Rick James, bitch! Super freaky, indeed.

I wore what?

I came of age in the 80s. That should give you a small clue as to some of the closet catastrophes for which I was responsible.

I'm going to skip over the childhood ponchos, the Dorothy Hamill haircut, the sweater from the Sears catalogue that had leg o'mutton sleeves. If there is blame to be placed, I blame my mother.

One particularly shining moment happened in late grade 8 / early grade 9. Knickers were big. As were ruffle sleeved shirts. I'm sure my friends and I looked like a cut rate touring company of "The Pirates of Penzance."

My first really big fashion decision was what to wear to my grade 9 prom. Granted, it was only the junior prom, but still - I wanted to look nice. I ended up looking like the youngest member of the secretarial pool. It was this sort of shirtdress with stripes and a tie at the neck. I guess my mom didn't want the boys to get the wrong idea. They didn't.

Some would put my interpretation of the Madonna look on this list. Say what you will about Madonna, but her whole Holiday/ Desperately Seeking Susan look was young, fun and pretty accessible. The fingerless gloves, the leggings, the pile of black rubber bracelets. Parents may have hated it, but at least I wasn't whining because all my friends had a real Louis Vuitton bag and $250 jeans and so why couldn't I? I think the total bill for that trend was about $25, not $1250. And really, would you rather have your teenager wearing layers of cut up t-shirts and leggings like then, or a halter and jeans with the 2-inch gyno-rise like now?

Save for a few pairs of socks and maybe a belt or a bracelet, I didn’t jump on the neon bandwagon. One of my closest friends, however, not so discerning. Here, in her own words, is her story:

One lasting picture comes to mind. I had just finished shopping with my mom at Yorkdale mall. It was the year neon was big. And the picture that was captured at Mrs. A's (my mom's friend who lived just outside of Toronto) always causes a cringe. I was in her kitchen. I had a white sweatshirt on with a random florescent letter - the sweatshirt was
tucked into my jeans! I had florescent yellow suspenders on over the
sweatshirt. The socks I wore were green florescent ankle socks with lace trim, and there were big florescent objects dangling from my ears. The outfit was topped off with a string of florescent orange plastic pearls. I had braces and my hair was cut short on one side, longer on the other side. It was like the Flock of Seagulls vomited on me.

I didn’t know her then. Thank God. The fashion crimes for which we could have been held responsible would rival the The Nuremberg Trials.

My senior prom. My mom would only pay for the dress if I agreed not to wear black. I had wanted something fairly sleek, until I saw The Dress in a magazine advertisement. I didn't do drugs as a teenager, so I have no excuse for looking like the love child of Scarlett O'Hara and Little Bo Peep. I was an antibellum vision in pale blue. Rosettes and lace overlays and a sweetheart neckline, oh my! There was also baby's breath in my hair - a fashion faux pas de deux, if you will.

The late 80s/early 90s were a write off. Trying to pick the worst outfit would be like a sartorial Sophie's Choice - how could I choose just one? Though there was one particular ensemble during the grunge era that I adored at the time. Now, thoughts of it make me cringe. A long velvet dress with a black background and a large, though muted, all over floral pattern. I think they were cabbage roses. I paired this with either cowboy boots or purple Docs. There was also a chapeau. Bottle green velvet ( I had more velvet on me than an Edwardian settee). Front part of the brim turned up and adorned with three velvet flowers (one purple, one saffron, one deep red). Looking back, I must've looked like Laura Ingalls on her way to the rodeo, after a quick stop to roll Paddington Bear for his hat.


I'd like to think that I've managed to avoid too many out and out disasters in the last decade or so. For the most part. A few notable exceptions - stretch denim capris. I'm 5'3". Capri anything ain't good. A purple faux fur vest. I love it, but I look like Barney's wet dream.

However, fashion maturation has a downside. So does fashion masturbation, quite frankly. The downside is this: when you commit a fashion crime, there's a very good chance you have no one to blame but yourself. And possibly the salesgirl.