Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank (14 page)

The only bad part would be that
Swan
contestants are allowed only three ten-minute phone calls home a week for four months. That’s not nearly enough time to explain, in painstaking detail once again, where I “hide” the laundry detergent (on the shelf above the washer—call me devil-may-care!) or the princess’s SpongeBob macaroni and cheese (the pantry!) or, naturally, the car keys.

One of the biggest complaints critics of
The Swan
have is that the show deliberately selects sad sacks with zero self-esteem just to boost ratings. Hons, that’s just good storytelling, if you ask me. When one aspiring
Swan
was being wheeled into a seven-hour surgery, she tried three times to call her husband for a few last-minute words of encouragement only to be told he was on a smoke break.

Ewww.

On the final night, when an ultimate Swan was crowned, I had a chance to look at the husbands, who were all in the range from extremely ordinary to butt ugly. Of course, it was a little hard to see through the veneer of drool during the cheesy lingerie competition, when the contestants trotted out their new “full D” figures.

It was some consolation that pageant winner Rachel Love-Fraser chose not to enhance her smallish bust, a curiously satisfying victory for those of us who just dream of being a “full A.”

Lest you think Fox was insensitive to every need of these women, consider that they hired a “life coach” to help counsel the women during their four months of mirrorless isolation.

Still, I was underwhelmed by Coach Nely Galan’s approach to at least one weepy and bandage-wrapped contestant: “Do you realize how many people would love to have this chance? I’m honestly disappointed that you’re not trying harder.”

Like they say, with a life coach like that, who needs flesh-eating bacteria?

We women do crazy things to make sure that we look our best.

My friend Patsy Jo is getting ready to attend her thirtieth high school reunion, and she has prepared for it in a sane and sensible way: She has ordered Face Lift in a Bottle.

Apparently you paint the stuff on your face, and the goo has a tightening, lifting effect that makes you look years younger. The only thing is, it lasts only about six hours, so you could be taut and fabulous at cocktail hour and seem to have aged horribly by the end of dessert.

I’d like to try it for my next reunion, but I’m afraid I’d screw up the application and come out looking like a cross between Joan Rivers and the Elephant Man. Or I’d use too much and end up looking like one of those raku crackle pots.

Although I’d never heard of Face Lift in a Bottle, I have tried a few beautifying remedies of my own that smacked
of quackery. The weirdest one was something called the Amazing Disappearing Double Chin-Strap, a sweaty band of very tight latex that you strapped on in hopes of eliminating the dreaded midlife double chin. The ads made it sound so easy: “Wear Amazing Disappearing Double Chin-Strap while you do your household chores!”

Friends who dropped by were treated to quite a sight. “What
happened?”
they’d shriek. “Were you in a car wreck?”

“No, silly!” I would say. “It’s going to get rid of my double chin.”

Actually, I had to sign most answers because my lips had been pushed up to my nose, making normal conversation difficult.

After weeks of faithfully wearing the gizmo, I had to admit there was no difference, and I tossed it. The only good news was that I could finally stop doing household chores.

There was also a failed experiment in do-it-yourself breast augmentation. I have a number of friends who have gotten boob jobs from a licensed plastic surgeon, but that stuff costs money. Nope, I decided I would try Beauti-Breast instead. The way it works is that you place your tatas inside two funnel-shaped cups that attach to “any household faucet or spigot.” (I don’t know the difference either, except I think spigots are usually outside, and this was definitely not going to be something I did in my driveway.)

Once hooked up, you turned on the water and, according to “scientific research,” the tremendous volume of water
shooting through the funnels would somehow lead to what scientists refer to as “really big tits.”

It was a rip-off, of course. It would’ve been much cheaper to strap myself, topless, to the hood of my car next time it went through the Auto Spa.

All this just proves there is no magic fountain—or even spigot—of youth and beauty, sister-hons. Only through rest, exercise, and healthy diet can we help ourselves look our best.

I know; I crack myself up.

The latest national beauty obsession is to have teeth so bright that we can use them to read at night. (“Aim your choppers over here, Martha, I can’t see the
TV Guide
crossword.”)

Don’t get me wrong. I like white teeth as much as the next person. Someday, I even hope to own some, although there’s a better than even chance that they’ll be the kind that must sit, grinning maniacally, from the confines of a watery glass beside my bed.

The real thing just seems like too much work. For example, those ubiquitous whitening strips that brag that you can discreetly brighten your smile while you go about your life, even while working out! But I don’t want to work out. Do they have any that work if you just want to sit on your ass and watch
Judging Amy?

“I’m getting a whiter smile,” says the smarty-pants spokesmodel on the commercial, as she, like, jumps from a
plane or something else more exciting than my typical day: folding laundry while simultaneously eating the last of the mini-Snickers from Halloween.

People have become so obsessed with whiter teeth that those of us who don’t use strips, gels, brush-ons, and trays are starting to look like Austin Powers in comparison.

I actually met a young woman the other day whose teeth were so white, they were blue.

“Your teeth are amazing,” I said, though it was hard for her to hear me because I was speaking from behind my hand, suddenly ashamed of my own teeth, less knockout than Niblets.

“I know,” she said, smiling even wider.

“I think you just put my eyes out.”

A check of some of the teeth-whitening products out there reveals that you can actually get your teeth eleven shades whiter if you have them professionally bleached. Eleven shades! What are they using? Clorox? I think I’ll take my wine-stained best tablecloth to the dentist next time I go.

Recently, I read a testimonial for a professional bleaching product from a young couple who spent the month before their wedding getting their teeth custom-bleached so their smiles would match on their big day. Haven’t these idiots ever heard of Photoshop? Hons, if I got married today, I’d have those wedding photos shave off my hips, whiten my smile, and give me the bust that I have so richly deserved all my life.

And to think, the only thing we used to worry about was making sure the bridesmaids’ dresses matched the punch.

Everything’s so complicated now, what with all these products to make us gorgeous. Even the simple act of buying pantyhose is maddening. Gone are the days when you could just buy that little L’Eggs egg, size B, nude, sheer toe.

When I went pantyhose shopping recently, I discovered that a lot has happened, not much of it good.

Did I want pantyhose infused with microencapsulated caffeine or grapefruit scents?

No thanks. The way my thighs rub together, I’d smell like Starbucks all day, and that would just lead to me and everyone around me craving triple-fat mochaccinos, and then where would we all be? Size C, that’s where.

The theory behind injecting grapefruit and caffeine into hosiery is that it makes it last longer, even after repeated washings. This is, to use the technical term, utter crap.

Some pantyhose boast of chemical additives to make you feel better as you walk. I’m guessing the nude, size B, Vicodin pantyhose are particularly popular with movie stars.

The rest of us must settle for pantyhose injected with things like “jojoba.” I’m not sure what jojoba is, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want it anywhere near my noonie.

I also discovered something called “bum boost” pantyhose by Pretty Polly for sagging buttocks. (And, yet again, I’m struck by what a terrific name that would be for a rock
band: Sagging Buttocks.) This is great! Next time hubby asks why I’m acting like I have my ass on my shoulders, I can just smile and say, “I do, and it’s all thanks to Pretty Polly!”

The most popular of the new breed of pantyhose promises to reduce cellulite. As you walk, tiny encapsulated anticellulite lotions are working to massage your dimpled thighs into smoothness. (See “utter crap,” above.)

Look. Cellulite is a hereditary curse. Some friends and I once spent six months dutifully rolling our thighs with rolling pins every morning and evening to “break up the cellulite.” It was a dismal failure, so we eventually came to our senses and went out for pie.

There’s also “age-defying” pantyhose. Now this is exciting, indeed. I love the idea of defiant pantyhose getting themselves all worked up over every little thing. What’s that, Officer? You think I was speeding? Well, let’s just see what my pantyhose have to say about that, mister.

“Let your pantyhose work hard for you!” says the advertisement. I couldn’t love this more. I’m taking a break and letting my new pantyhose write for a while.

As long as the caffeine’s in ‘em, they should do just fine.

The truth is, no matter how much we primp and preen and how much we spend on cosmetics (I once accidentally spent forty-eight dollars for a La Prairie lip gloss and, trust me, this is nothing Laura Ingalls Wilder ever used), you’re still going to have spinach-teeth or, in my case, a third breast.

When you have a book published, a funny thing happens: People who know perfectly well that you write for a living suddenly expect you to also be able to do radio and TV shows, spin plates on a stick, whatever! Writers are used to working alone. We sit around in our pajamas, watching the world go by from a small upstairs home office whose windows really need cleaning and whose psychedelic curtains that seemed so cool five years ago now look stupid, like Marilyn Manson’s idea of a nursery window topper.

To push your book, you must do dozens of radio and TV shows. Recently, while being interviewed on a half-hour TV show, I thought things were going swimmingly until, during the break, one of the cameramen walked over and said, “Uh, could you adjust your shirt? It kinda looks like you got a third breast in there.”

Okay, so
now
I’m completely relaxed. While my jaw drops at this horrible revelation, I hear the host say cheerily, “And we’re back!” The camera cuts to me, but I can’t be bothered. Suddenly, I’m pulling and jerking on my puckered sweater like it’s a straitjacket. When the host asks a question, I don’t even look up, just mumble, “Huh? Yeah, okay, just let me fix this.”

And then there was the time that my cat fell asleep on my face (don’t ask) and gave me poison ivy just two days before I was supposed to go on the road for a book tour.

This is incredibly ironic when you’re telling everybody
that your book is called
We’re Just Like You, Only Prettier.
Scratching my cheeks raw and covered in oozing red sores and patches of white calamine lotion, I made small children run from me. “Wait!” I cried. “Come back! I don’t usually look like this. Come back! Wanna see my third breast?”

Huzzzbands

My husband took advantage of our state’s “tax-free” weekend as only a man can. While I sat home clipping coupons to save seventy-five cents on Cinnamon Life cereal, he was out buying a computer, something called a wireless broad-band router (I have no idea), a PC bundle pack that includes lots of stuff we already have, and . . . a shiny new bicycle!

You have to love that after a tough morning of computer buying, doggone it, he deserved some “me time” on his very own new bike. Men.

“I didn’t know bikes qualified for tax-free,” I huffed.

“Oh, it didn’t,” he said. “But it was so big and red and shiny.”

Apparently lobotomies were on sale, too. Hubby then
explained that, thanks to his smart, tax-free shopping, we had actually saved $136 in sales tax.

Whoa, now. This is
my
argument, the old spend-money-to-save-money one that he always refutes when it comes to truly useful stuff like a butter-soft leather trench in teal that matches my eyes.

“There’s more!” he said, practically dancing about the room. “There’s a rebate on everything—well, except the bike, of course.”

Oh, goody. Now I get to experience that particular circle of hell known as rebate redemption.

That afternoon, I gathered together the rebate forms, including lengthy rules for redemption, and a box cutter that would be used to either carve the original UPC from the boxes or to end my life, whichever seemed more appealing.

After an hour or so spent looking for the serial number for one product, I called the toll-free “rebate question hot-line for doofuses.” A computer-generated voice told me where to find it, and let’s just say I felt pretty stupid, like the kind of person who couldn’t find her serial number in the dark with both hands and a flashlight. It was right there in tiny print beneath the bottom quarter flap of the third perpendicular.