Tom Ford, will you be my Valentine?

There are girl crushes and there are man crushes, but I'm a straight girl with a gay man crush; and the object of my affection is Tom Ford.

I was too young/poor/down-to-earth to appreciate what he did for Gucci and YSL back in the 90's; even if I had worked in fashion back then, I couldn't have afforded anything beyond the palm-sized evening wallet I bought to flash at bartenders, in hopes that the red interlocking G's would inspire quicker service or an extra shot in my drink.

These days I still can't afford much more than the wallet, but he's stepped down to my level (in affordability, not talent) and I'm putty at his master fingertips. He has an uncanny ability to transform things I would otherwise not look twice at, not want to be in the same room with, and inspire every ounce of warmth and desire my jaded heart can muster from it's cold, dark chamber of bitterness.

Exhibit A: Vanity Fair, March 2006. Have you SEEN it? I have two copies. I almost burned one after feeling too dirty for reading it. But it's THAT GOOD. The point here (because I'm realizing I'm taking my own sweet time to get there) is that I typically hate Vanity Fair. Well, I don't hate it - it's probably just a bit too highbrow for me, but it's never been on my reading list. And read it I still may not. But soak in the pictures, envy the styling, admire the art and creative direction the Putty Master puts forth? That I will do. That I will probably do beyond reason, tearing out the glossy celebrity photos from the extra-thick binding, laying them out across my floor to look at side by side, only stopping short of tacking them on my wall like a crop of Teen Beat posters circa 1985.

Exhibit B: Youth Dew Amber Nude. I love perfume, most perfumes; I'm not that picky and really just like to smell good. But I should be at least a decade away from buying any perfumes with Estee Lauder in the name. Auntie Estee, you've built up a great business, own half of the beauty industry, and no one even remembers Helena Rubenstein anymore - I'll see you in ten years when I stop by the Saks counter for my wrinkle fillers. Right?

Wrong. Putty Master does it again. He took a classic perfume no one my age was old enough to have heard about, Tom-anized it, Gucci-d it, Vanity Faired-it - whatever - and now not only do I want to wear it, I want to bathe in it, sleep with it on my sheets, drink it for breakfast in the morning so if it wears off my clothes I might sweat it out of my pores at the gym at night. Is that so wrong?

If it is, Tom, then I don't want to be right.