My fifth grade Catechism teacher, Sister Petulencia would always frown when she’d admonish us about breaking one of “The Biggies”. I’m talking about one of the Ten Commandments and that big sin is, of course, “thou shalt not steal”.
I thought about that old penguin when I considered writing this post. Why? Because “Men Who Will Never Love Me” is a premise that’s been done before, namely by other bloggers. But I’m going to give it the Old Laurie try. You know, put my own patented spin on it.
Is it stealing?
So, just get over it, ghost of Sister Petulencia. Put that part Inquisition torture device/part ruler back in your habit pocket and for God’s sake, smile. Can’t you nuns ever smile?
I can feel her hovering above me in this nebulous, but judgmental ectoplasmic cloud. I KNOW she’s frowning. Make no mistake–disapproval has a face and if I remember correctly, it also has a large chin mole with hair growing out of it.
Nuns. .I’ve never known a surlier bunch of broads.
Let’s take a look at the reasons why and there are many. In order to be in the Order, they must strictly adhere to the following tenets and axioms:
- They must take a vow of chastity
- They must take a vow of poverty
- They are in effect, married to the Church
- They’re forced to wear (or they used to wear) what amounts to a Catholic burka
- They’re forced to live in close proximity with a bunch of other surly chicks who are wearing the same thing; took the same vows AND who are all married to the same spouse.
I just realized that convents are kinda like harems for the Pope, but with all that pesky celibacy.
But I digress….
So, here you go: a compendium of men who will never, ever love me.
And by the way, the blatant disregard for me is in no particular order.
We’ll start things off with a man who’s mere presence can clog my heart’s Vena Cava with plaque and emotion. I’m talkin’ about Jamie Deen, ya’ll!!!! He’s the straight one and the cuter of the two groin fruit that sprang forth from The Food Network’s own Butter Belle, Paula Deen.
Jamie lives in Savannah, GA. My mother is taking the Sisters Kendrick there in November. Jamie doesn’t know it yet, but I’m coming for him.
Oh yes, Jamie. You can have me. All of me. Dump that Brooke woman-person you call a wife. Sure, she’s pretty and a former model, but so was I.
In fact, I was a runway model…….at La Guardia.
Isn’t he cute?
I could move into one of those dimples and drink backwash out of the other.
The next man who will never, ever love me is a musician.
There is an unwritten law in Broadcasting, especially among women in major market radio: YOU HAVE TO DATE AT LEAST ONE MUSICIAN IN YOUR CAREER. And yes true to my calling, I fulfilled that contractual obligation.
I’d never do it again, still the lure of long hair and leather pants and the visceral hatred for wanton groupie WHORES who throw themselves on your man never really leaves you.
I am reminded of all that when I look at the Goo Goo Dolls front man, Johnny Rzeznik.
I heard he’s kind of a dick.
Maybe, but he sure makes passive/aggressive cute!
Gary Dourdan is hot.
The former model-turned-actor is just plain old cute personified. I don’t watch network TV, so I’m not sure of the show in which he either stars or starred, but it’s one of those CBS efforts about police investigation called, “Special Crime for Victims of Grey’s Anatomy and or Unit”.
Not sure nor do It care. Gary Dourdan is a very handsome man and I’d watch a damn test pattern if he was on it.
Feast your eyes on yet another man who will never love me.
Continuing on with the veritable ethnic Benetton ad of men who’ll never know the joys of Laurie Love, we have a one Mr. Russell Wong.
I first laid eyes on this hunk o’ chunk-king back in the early 90’s when he had an all too brief appearance in that agonizing, 18-hour celluloid snooze fest, “Joy Luck Club”.
He graced the screen for just a few minutes, but it was long enough for me to know that I was hooked. I thought to myself, “Oooooh! I want Dim Sum of Dat.
He is devilishly handsome. I had dirty thoughts about him for weeks.
Sure, I fantasized; about life as his wife, mostly:
Mrs. Russell Wong
Laurie Kendrick Wong
Yeah right, as if that could ever happen. And if it did, the consequences would be horrendous. My very prejudiced septuagenarian mother would probably insist on sending him her laundry.
George Clooney is on my list. I don’t like his politics one bit, but everything else is Grade A-Prime USDA, which in LaurieLand stands for Über Sinfully Delicious Ass.
And the newest man added to the bevy of men who will never love me, know me, want me, revel in the adipose of my love and wanton desire is Mike Rowe.
The host of “Dirty Jobs” and the voice of countless commercials is a macho manly hunk who pound for pound, contains more testosterone than my aunt Shirley Kendrick.
I love Mike. He’s not only hunky hot, but he seems to have just the best, most affable personality. I think that adds to his overall appeal at least for The Laurie. I’d love to sit down with him and pound back a few pops…long necks….domestic….ice cold.
But I think he’d be just as comfy ressed in a nice Armani suit, dining at Morton’s sipping Johnny Walker Blue Label (neat) in a Baccarat double old fashion.
Or sweaty and in shorts with a…..
This is Mike Rowe. Almost three years younger than me and a total WASP from Baltimore. Great voice, too.
His name was Matt and he was a gorgeous waiter at an Austin restaurant that I’d frequent on occasion. He had black hair and azure eyes. I’d never seen anyone that drop dead handsome before.
He had to have been, I swear, a reincarnated Helen of Troy with a penis. I had the biggest crush on this man.
I introduced myself to him, so we knew each other on a first name basis. I mean, hey…he waited on me almost every weekend. So yes, I have to admit that I did the crazy things that desperate women do. I’d go to the restaurant and spend money I didn’t have just to sit at one of his tables. Once after many Crown and sevens, I begged my friend Richard (and Richard if you’re reading this, you have to remember this man and this restaurant which was on Anderson Lane, adjacent to Northcross Mall) to approach Matt to find out if I even had a shot.
Richard came back to the table with a weird look on his face. He didn’t want to tell me what Matt had said, but I demanded that he tell me. Matt told him that he only went out with “good looking women”.
I was crushed. I went to the bathroom and had what my gender calls a good cry. I thought to myself, “Damn, outside this stall there’s yet another man who’ll never love me”, but my reaction to this reality was different. I composed myself after a few spent tears and made a vow then and there, next to the American Standard, that I would be ridiculously successful in my life, and that Matt would some day see me on TV or read about me and remember that he once had the chance to go out with me.
Fast forward to Houston, TX; December 16th, 1997.
I was working on a very popular morning show on a very popular rock station. Eddie Money was headlining our Christmas concert and as fate would have it, his back up singer got sick. I’d met Eddie several times over the years and he knew that I fancied myself as something of a singer.
He asked me on the air to join him on stage to sing the Ronnie Spector part in “Take Me Home Tonight”.
Of course, being attention whore that I was, I accepted.
Here we are singing together at a live Stevens and Pruett show, the morning of the concert. This was Houston’s “Billy Blue’s” on Richmond.
Geez, what a horrible photo! Excuse the neck flab. Damn camera angle (READ: pizza)!!!! I know it looks like that I either have mumps or I’m football legend, Bronko Nagurski’s long lost daughter.
Anyway, ten hours after this pic was snapped, I waltzed on the stage to the roar of five thousand strong in attendance at Houston’s Verizon Theatre and yes sir, my fat neck and I took Eddie home that night.
It was, is and will continue to be one of the coolest things I’ve ever done. I know how lucky I’ve been. I’ve had a good life.
Anyway, a very triumphant Laurie Kendrick then took her bows and ran off stage, experiencing a high that no Colombian could supply.
As I left the theater that night, I was barraged with congratulations by listeners and fans. But it was one comment in particular that made me feel completely vindicated for previous unrequited emotional offenses committed. Eddie Money hugged me, thanked me for singing back-up and then added a dollop of the sweetest whipped topping on my egotistical pie, when he said, “Hey Kiddo, you’ve got a hell of a voice!. Next time I’m in Houston, you’ll sing back up for the entire show! ”
I smiled and was gracious and knew it would never happen, but I was flattered just the same.
And I thought about Matt, but only for the time it took to actually say out loud, “Screw him”.