We live in sectarian times. We are a divided nation. America is split by a massive fault line, and you’re either on one side or the other. There is no in between. There is no in between. And which side you fall on defines you as a person, as a set of ideals, as a citizen. You are either light or you are darkness.
I am speaking of course, about Team Blanche vs. Team Mona.
The debate has raged for decades, and it will rage long after we’ve all joined Rue McClanahan at that great Unitarian church in the sky.
It’s a sad day for Team Blanche, to be sure. But it’s also the perfect day to take a step back and re-examine the history and the central tenets of this eternal debate.
The network sitcoms of the 1980s and ’90s blessed us with not one but two sexy ladies of a certain age. And these ladies arrived at the party ready to party, if you know what I’m saying. They weren’t playing canasta with Rose and Dorothy, or getting early bird suppers with Tony and Angela. No, these women were alive. The Golden Girls gave us Blanche, that sly minx, that winking she-devil who made retirement look oh so titillating. And Who’s the Boss gave us Mona, the fiery AARP-eligible seductress. As glorious, as intoxicating as both could be, you could still only really pick one of them. It’s the Beatles or the Rolling Stones. It’s DeNiro or Pacino. It’s Jesus or Mohammed. It’s Right or Wrong.
It’s Team Blanche or Team Mona.
And me? Well, with all due respect to the newly departed, I’m Team Mona all the way. Now, some people are born into their team. Some people learn from their parents, and do what they do. But I’ve thought this through. I’ve felt this through. That’s why I know that every self-respecting American should be thanking their lucky stars that it wasn’t Mona leaving this mortal coil today.
Blanche was hot stuff, no doubt. I mean, just look at her:
Sorry, Team Blanche, that was a cheap shot. It surely was. Here she is, in all her glory:
I may be a pledge-reciting member of Team Mona, but I live in the real world. I’m a man of reason. And I’m willing to concede that that? That is hot. Blanche is the ultimate Southern Belle, an irresistible combination of charm, looks and treachery. In a vacuum, of course I would allow myself to fall into her honey-spun spiderweb. But we’re not operating in a vacuum, we’re operating in a dichotomy. And in that dichotomy we are defined as much by what we are not as what we are. So I cannot be a member of Team Blanche.
Because here’s the thing about Blanche: I think she’s all talk. Oh, she’d never admit it, and even Dorothy and Rose don’t know it. Certainly, her legions of breathless admirers won’t believe it, but it’s Blanche’s dirtiest secret. I think that once she ensnares all those well-to-do gentlemen callers, and leads them behind closed doors, there’s a lot more talk than action.
I’m not saying Blanche isn’t a slut. She is. She throws it around. But not quite as much as she’d like you to believe. I think Blanche wants to enjoy the fruits of a certain lifestyle, and men are her tool to achieve the level of luxury she requires. She’ll sleep with them, but not every time. Sometimes, she’ll just want to cuddle. And when you do get down to business with Blanche, I think it’s pretty straight-forward. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure she’s talented. But I don’t think she’s a freak. I don’t think her sexual know-how extends significantly beyond that of the average septuagenarian. I think Blanche is, more often than not, content with missionary. Everything else is just so much sweet talk in the Florida night.
The other side of the coin, the Mason to Blanche’s Dixon, is this little number:
Mona Robinson, ladies and gentlemen. It’s OK. You can pick your jaws up off the floor now.
Here’s the thing about Mona, and what stands in stark contrast to Blanche: Mona does not make love. She doesn’t even know how.
And she brings a skill set with her that can make grown men weep and men in her peer group drop dead instantly of heart attacks. There’s nothing Mona hasn’t tried, nothing Mona can’t handle, nothing Mona won’t invent. Do you believe, for even a fraction of a second, that Tony and Mona haven’t done things together that would make even pornography cameramen blush? Please.
Mona lived above that garage for a reason. And that reason: sex swing. It’s the only place it would fit. Mona doesn’t need to talk as much as Blanche, she doesn’t need to be as charming as Blanche, because Mona knows she can perform between the sheets. While Blanche might take all night to seduce a rich young suitor, Mona could do it with a few whispered words, or a caress of the thigh.
Just say the name to yourself, quietly, when you’re alone: Mo-na. Feel the word come over your lips. Taste it on your tongue. Those syllables evoke the greatness of the woman, her leonine qualities and her inner spirit. Mona is feisty, independent, raw. Mona is power. Mona is transcendence.
There are all kinds of people in this great big world of ours, and I suppose some of them are just better suited to a Blanche than a Mona. Or perhaps I should say, some of them are better equipped to handle a Blanche instead of a Mona. To my cohorts on Team Blanche, I close with this: I respect your opinions, even if I couldn’t agree with them if I lived a thousand lifetimes. And I mourn your loss this dark day.