America likes its celebrities married
I’m over Johnny Depp.
It’s not because of the seemingly endless layers of silk scarves. Or the excessive rings and necklaces. Or the burnt out holes in his hat. No, because when you love Johnny Depp you love him for the eccentricities. You love him for the way he speaks, a sort of quiet blend of Cary Grant and Madonna after she moved to England. And it’s not because he’s older. I like my movie stars to age with me. I was only 20 when I met Paul Newman face-to-face during a reading in Manhattan, and practically plopped myself onto his lap. His blue eyes gleamed like they did in "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."
For years Johnny reigned at the top of my “list” — you know, that list. The fantasy list. The list where I get permission from my husband to cheat if Johnny Depp just so happened to be on the train from New Jersey to Manhattan, and, like, asked me, “Is someone sitting here,” and we ended up jumping off at the next stop and catching a taxi to the nearest hotel and he covered me in rose petals and fed me 70 percent cacao dark chocolates. Anyway. The fact that my husband wears round tortoise-shell glasses and has grown his hair out to his shoulders is no accident. It’s been a long love affair between me and Johnny — okay, fine, obsession. I first fell in love with Johnny somewhere between "21 Jump Street" and "Cry Baby," like most of us did. I thought of myself as Winona, tattooed forever on his arm.