Thursday, October 20, 2011
When my friend Jonathan changed his profile picture to a shot of a three-year-old dressed up like Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman, thigh high boots and all, I laughed. Hysterically. Laughter also tends to be my initial reaction when someone bites it on a slippery floor so it’s asking a bit much to expect me not to do the same when I was faced with this spectacle. For those of you who have better things to do than keep up with Toddlers and Tiaras (the world would be a better place if we all did) the TLC show is being bashed for showcasing a child dressed like Julia’s character during a modeling portion of the competition. Without going into the obvious indecency of the situation, I wonder if it is possible that the mother was simply unaware that Pretty Woman is a story about a prostitute.
Hookers are everywhere!
I’ve seen numerous talent shows where little girls sing “I Dreamed A Dream” from Les Miserables. The character, Fantine ,that sings that song? Hooker. I once competed in a pageant and warbled a song by the hooker, Kim, in Miss Saigon. Maybe that’s why I didn’t win. I also paraded around a stage in my bathing suit in an effort to win “scholarship money”. I wouldn’t doubt that there are some who would consider that hooking. And I know I wasn’t the only girl to hang up a black and white Breakfast at Tiffany’s poster of Audrey Hepburn in my dorm room. That’s right. Holly Golightly was, indeed, a hooker.
Ever belt out Roxanne by The Police in the shower? You were singing about a hooker. You may think you’re innocently tuning in to Bravo TV when you’re watching the Real Housewives of Orange County, but aside from the one blonde lady who runs her own insurance business, aren’t they all kind of hookers? Kim Kardashian isn’t famous for doing nothing. She famous for doing someone. Jodie Foster, Kim Basinger, Charlize Theron – that’s just a small sampling of the women who have won or been nominated for an Academy Award and not for playing nuns. Susan Sarandon in Dead Man Walking? Total hooker.
As we speak, women all over the nation are planning their Halloween costumes. A holiday that was once centered around ghouls and ghost stories has become an excuse for girls to dress up as slutty versions of anything from Little Bo Peep to her actual sheep. Alright, I’ve never actually witnessed a slutty sheep costume but I wouldn’t be shocked.
So do I think the Toddlers and Tiaras mom really meant harm? No. Do I think she might be an idiot and by being so inflicts harm to her daughter on a daily basis? Hm. Do I think there’s a little bit of hooker in all of us? Well, I live with my boyfriend and I don’t contribute to the mortgage. I buy “groceries”. You do the math. I just want world peace.
I’m terrified of having kids. Not so much in an “I’m terrified I’ll lose them like I lose my keys” kind of way, though that is a valid fear. I’m terrified that they won’t grow up in a world where it’s OK to just be a good human being with some character. You know, an average Joe Schmollacky.
The competition begins at birth as mothers compare what percentile their kids fit into in terms of height and weight. Bet that game wouldn’t be so fun if the mommies tried it out on each other.
My girlfriend Becky tried to convince me the other day that her 6-month-old went to the bathroom on the potty by himself. Did he also excuse himself from the table and announce he was “going to the loo”?
No, he didn't, Becky.
Recently, I found out about a preschool called Crème de le Crème. What's next? All That And A Bag of Chips Prep? Don’t You Know Who I Am High School? What happens when DYKWIA North loses to DYKWIA South in the homecoming game? Is it only then that they realize that nobody cares who they are? And seeing as only one can attend I’m The Best University, will the rest have to settle for But Mumsy Always Told Me I Was Special Community College?
Cream of the Crop. That’s right smarties, I speak French too. Maybe these sweet little cherubs will know more about the stock market than I ever will by the time they’re 4, but I’d bet ya dollars to donuts that a kid from Bottom of the Barrel Institute would rob them blind in a game of three-card monte.
My parents afforded me opportunities others didn’t have. I remember doing it for the experience and not the pressure to be the best. Is it no longer OK to just be … average? Because, statistically speaking, we’re all average.
I’m thinking of opening my own school and calling it C’est La Vie. We’ll teach lessons on how to hurry the hell up when someone else is waiting for your parking space and appropriate hygiene on an airplane. Books read before naptime will be “The Little Waitress That Couldn’t” and “Bernie Madoff’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.” And we’ll end every day with a song called, “For The Love of Allah, Zeus, Ra, Justin Bieber or Whatever God or Lack Thereof You Pray To, Fight About It When You’re Dead.”
I’m sure I’ve offended plenty of family and friends who don’t agree with my educational stylings. Fortunately, I graduated from the University of Call It Like I See It with a B.A. in Self-Righteousness so I’m prepared to respond. C’est la vie.
Last month, I moved across the country for a boy. People generally reacted one of two ways. There were those who would shriek in excitement for me, and jump up and down as if Madonna’s “Like a Prayer“ just came on in the bar. Then there were those would grab my hand, give me a condescending eyebrow raise and scoff, ”Where’s the ring?”
There were many things that prompted my transfer to Chicago, but saying I was moving for my relationship was met with such a strong reaction, I just started playing into the idea that my life was turning into a romantic comedy. I’d say things like, “Dreams really do come true!” and then skip away, humming like a Disney princess. Strangely enough, nobody batted an eye 10 years ago when I announced that I was moving to Hollywood to become an actress, even though that choice could have easily led to a life of porn and a heroin addiction. The closest I came to either of these was dressing up as Wonder Woman for Halloween in 2005.
If I had told people that I was moving for a dream job, they would have congratulated me. So, why not move for a dream guy? I mean, I didn’t know at the time if he was the human equivalent of my dream job which, incidentally, consists of making $4,000 a day frosting cupcakes and popping bubble wrap while Skyping with Faith Hill as we write her book, “I’m Married to Tim McGraw and You’re Not.” But my boyfriend seemed like a stable career with great pay and I’d be doing something I loved. I wasn’t tied to a contract and the benefits sounded tremendous. And if he fired me, I knew I could probably find another gig.
So why did some people react as though I had just told them I took my life savings and invested it in rotary phones when I said I was relocating without being engaged? I didn’t move to marry my boyfriend. I moved to date him. I swear I’m not saying that so I look like one of those really cool non-needy chicks. Truth is, I’m really needy. The other night my teddy bear told me I was smothering him.
A couple of years ago, I was standing in front of The Comedy Store in L.A. and got into a cab with Gallagher as we headed to an undisclosed location because I thought it would be adventurous. I’m lucky he didn’t smash my head like a watermelon. Point being, I’ve made worse decisions. And if my heart ends up smashed like a watermelon, at least I’ll know it was open to the possibility that I could have my “Pretty Woman” ending, without all the hooker stuff. Though I might have to keep that career path open as an option should I find myself moving back to Hollywood. Just kidding, Dad.