Every now and then I get a mild obsession about a woman I do not know. Remember the original Levitra woman? A saucy MILF who swayed on a porch in a long skirt, like a living breathing Springsteen lyric. She had this combination of feral intensity and coyness that just made me live for another commercial, to watch her spin her tales of her husband’s difficulty with “performance”. Then the bastards at Levitra switched ad campaigns and she was gone from my life.
My latest obsession is Emily, who writes the Dear Prudence column for Slate.com. I was reading this column for a few years and enjoying it thoroughly but then Slate finally showed a photo of her. And I was smitten. Fine features, russet hair, and a twinkle in her eye. Then Slate started running videos of Dear Prudence, culminating in one regarding pets sleeping on the bed. They had Prudie sitting on a bed with her beagle and it was just the seismic shift needed to send me into the next level. She’s hot AND she likes pets. Oh mercy.
Now I promise I won’t be going all crazy stalker and moving to the East Coast to try to track her down. I won’t write letters inventing bizarre scenarios to get into her column. I will keep this as chaste and proper as a Victorian, imagining us sitting down to a nice conversation. And I’ll play that Beatles song each and every day.