Prisoner of Love

“My Men in Stripes” Revisited

When I first started blogging, my audience consisted of three friends, two relatives, my dog, Henry, and the lady who delivers my mail (on account that I would print my posts and discreetly leave them inside my mailbox, anonymously addressed to the Postmaster General). Of course, after a few weeks, I managed to alienate them all.

Yet somehow, despite myself, my readership grew over time. Which just goes to show you: Blackmailing people to get them to read your blog really works!

And, now that I have a couple dozen readers, I figure, it’s as good a time as any, to revisit some of my early posts, the ones I suspect many of you have yet to read, no matter how many arms I’ve twisted. Besides, with my daughter home for Spring Break, I’ve been crazy busy, with little time for blogging. So, I hope you enjoy reading my new and improved post on my Men in Stripes:

My friend, Sherri thinks I need to expand my options.  Which is why she says I should consider dating men who’ve made a killing—though not necessarily in the stock market. She’s talking men in stripes. Convicts. Felons. Jailbirds.

Or, as I prefer to call them, Prisoners of Love. Think Elvis Presley in Jailhouse Rock. According to Sherri, the possibilities are endless.

Lawbreakers, like Scott Petersen. Remember him? The guy with the bad hair dye and goatee, headed for the border when the police found him, and who was found guilty of killing his wife and unborn child? He’s now on death row. Then there’s Drew Peterson, whose fourth wife went missing back in 2007 and is in prison awaiting trial for allegedly killing his third wife.

Or actor, Robert Blake. Handsome once, but who now has a grim-reaper sort of look about him and shaved-off eyebrows. What a hunk! Ironically, he portrayed a murderer in the film, In Cold Blood. As it turns out, Blake was acquitted of murdering his second wife, though later found liable in a civil trial for her wrongful death.

Then there’s Grammy Award-winning producer, Phil Spector, serving 19 years in prison for second-degree murder of an actress in his home.  Apparently he’ll be eligible for parole when he’s 88.

And, of course, there’s the granddaddy of them all, O.J. Simpson. The man who started the trend of charmers who think they’re so cool they can’t be tethered down to a wife or girlfriend. Furthermore, these men–and their egos–think that breaking up with a woman will hurt her feelings, so better to snuff them out once and for all. Besides, divorce can take six months or more, and they can’t take the time to wait it out like normal people do.

So, I have to agree with Sherri. They’re worth considering.  Which is why I’ve decided, before I settle on just one of these rebels without a cause, I’m going to invite them all over for Sunday dinner.

I’ll prepare a fabulous meal, so they see how well I know my way around a kitchen. Maybe a pot roast will help me worm my way into their bleeding hearts, assuming none are vegans, that is. I’ll prepare the entire meal myself, which means this is not going to be a potluck. For, after seeing Shawshank Redemption and other prison flicks, I know what they serve in jail, and I prefer not having that sop at my table.

I’ll have to put away all the items around the house that can be used as weapons.  Phil may insist on wearing one of his striking wigs, which is okay with me as long as it isn’t that porcupine wig he wore during the trial and as long as he’s not hiding a knife or tweezers beneath it.  I’ll ask Robert to regale us with tales of his film and TV days and find out if he has any kiss-and-tell stories about Elizabeth Taylor, Debbie Reynolds or Truman Capote.

Since I don’t think Drew has had his trial yet, I’ll ask the other fellas to help brainstorm arguments for his defense.  I’m sure Scott will have a few tricks up his sleeve.  I’ll ask him, too, how his appeals are going, because I know that when you get the death penalty, there’s always a gazillion appeals. After all, I’ve seen Dead Man Walking.  Phil Spector will no doubt want to dance so I’ll put on some records and play songs produced by the man himself.

After dinner, Drew will help me with the dishes, while the other boys watch a prison movie, like White Heat and we’ll all yell “Top of the world, Ma!” when James Cagney is shot and goes up in flames.  I’ll then bring out a board game, like Clue, and, because of his temper, I’ll let O.J. win, when he deduces that Colonel Mustard killed Mr. Boddy with a gun in the conservatory. We’ll all have a good laugh over that one.

Finally, after we’ve had dessert (I’m thinking chocolate cake with toy guns and knives buried inside, for more laughs), we’ll play a round of spin the bottle.  And, as I look into the eyes of each of these hapless scoundrels, I’ll know which one is guilty. Guilty of stealing my heart, that is.  With any luck, I’ll be waiting a life sentence for a second date.