When i got home to Connecticut, after being away for 47 days, I felt the urge to watch the 1987 classic Moonstruck staring Cher and Nicolas Cage. Something about reentering the "little Italy" that is the greater New Haven area.
I love Moonstruck - mostly for scene in which Nicolas Cage's character Ronny Cammareri professes to Cher (Loretta):
I love you. Not like they told you love is, and I didn't know this either, but love don't make things nice - it ruins everything. It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess. We aren't here to make things perfect. The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. Not us! We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and die. The storybooks are bullshit. Now I want you to come upstairs with me and get in my bed!
Oh, how I secretly wish to hear those same words pour from the mouth of some ruggedly handsome butcher or baker or candlestick maker. But don't call me a romantic - not just yet.
Because my other favorite quotes include:
Ronny: I love you.
Loretta: Snap out of it!
and
Johnny: In time, you'll see that this is the best thing.
Loretta: In time, you'll drop dead and I'll come to your funeral in a red dress.
Ah ha - yes. There is something refreshing, like a Mint Julep on an August afternoon in Southern Louisiana, about honesty in love. Does it exist? Can men overcome their lying gene and just lay things out on the line? Or is that expecting too much? Like expecting men to figure out this whole monogamy thing...is it too lofty an ideal?
I'm holding out. Call me a fool (or some twisted romantic) I'm holding out for honesty. I don't want perfection - no snowflake of a lover for this girl. So go ahead, tell me how wrong we are for each other, how much it doesn't make sense for us to feel this attraction, but we can't deny it's presence. Tell me how you didn't see it coming. How it's the wrong place, wrong time, and there is no way I fit into your plans.
Tell me I am crazy. That my life is a mess and I need to seriously reconsider how I manage my finances. Tell me I suck at being domestic and can't make a frozen pizza without burning myself. Tell me I am bossy and flaky and drive around with my foot on the clutch. Tell me I'm never on time and the only reason I think I have a good sense of direction is because I never really care when or if I reach a specific destination. Tell me I drink too much and swear like a sailor and never keep my phone on or return calls. Tell me I make you crazy, but you are addicted to my coffee and strawberry lip-gloss flavored kisses. Tell me I hog the bathroom and spend way too much money on organic vegan lotions and soaps, but you can't stop touching me. Tell me you can't stand to live with me, but you don't even remember how to live without me anymore.
Just don't tell me I have pretty eyes.
1 comment:
What's wrong with your eyes?
I'd like a little honesty too. Two nights ago, on the beach at sunset, a friend (w chem) told me "you're, like, the sweetest girl I know."
Clearly, he only thinks he knows me. My ex fiancé always said that one thing he loved about me was that I wasn't sweet. Note the "ex," but still, he was more truthful in his assessment.
Do they think they have to lie to make us like them?
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