Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank

by Celia Rivenbark

  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

  20

  The Paradoxical Male

  Smart Enough to Find “Me Time,” but Dumb Enough

  to Get Stuck Buying the Tampons

  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.

  I wanted my mommy.

  Next, I started to work with the box cutter to remove the UPCs. Except there were lots of them. Those little barcodes were everywhere, and they all looked different. Which was the right one? Another call to the hotline resolved that, too—although was it my imagination or was the computerized voice growing impatient with me?

  Finally, I needed a legible copy of the store sales receipt with appropriate items circled in ink, a copy of the ESN (who knows?), my college transcript, voter registration card, and Penney’s bra-and-panty-club membership card.

  Well, almost.

  By nightfall, I’d driven to the copy shop twice and was only halfway through the paperwork. I needed help, but hubby had gone for a bike ride “to unwind.”

  Men just don’t take things as seriously as women do. It’s not just that we do all the rebates, Mother’s Day gift-buying, and so on, but they just don’t think anything’s all that serious.

  If you don’t believe me, consider these two words: Hooters Air.

  Men are the brains (sort of) behind the nation’s newest and orangest airline. Up in those ultrafriendly skies, I’m guessing every cloud has a silicone lining.

  Only a man could dream up an airplane full of attentive, buxom, chirpy Hooters girls wearing barely there tangerine hot pants serving drinks and snacks.

  The “airline’s” press people have been very careful to point out that, in the event of an emergency, you will not be expected to rely on a Hooters Girl to save your sorry self. That’s right; not even by grabbing one to use as a flotation device, tempting as that might be.

  The real flight attendants will be doing all the safety drills and such. Great. It’s high school all over again, with the bookish, flat-chested women trying to get you to listen and respect us—er, them—while the cheerleader with the stupendous tatas is happily doing cartwheels in the background and getting all the attention.

  What a Hooters Air passenger should hear: “Please place your tray tables in an upright and locked position.”

  What he does hear: “Hi, my name is Tawny, and I like spring mornings and newborn puppies.”

  So far, business is good—and it’s no wonder. Whoever filed this business plan was no boob. Cheap fares, golf packages,and big balambas? That’s like the holy trinity to most of the men I know. Throw in a bottomless bowl of Doritos, SportsCenter on the overhead TV monitors, and a case of Coronas, and you’ve pretty much got the recipe for Complete Male Bliss.

  It’s unlikely that Hooters Air, with its fleet of gently used 737s that are probably way older than the average Hooters Girl, will ever need to file for bankruptcy, unlike its snooty, humorless competition. I predict no need for a “federal bailout” or similar silliness.

  I think that US Airways and the rest of the bankrupt airlines should take a lesson from Hooters Air. Stop taking yourselves so seriously with your “business class” and your blah-blah-blah endless CNN Headline News. Put a little fun back into flying. Pilots, show us some chiseled calf muscles!

  There’s something delight
fully, guiltily un-PC about Hooters Air. Oh, sure, I know I’m supposed to be all offended and indignant (further objectifying women, whatever) but, try as I might, I can’t even work up a mild, powdered-cappuccino froth on this one.

  It’s the same reaction I have to the annual slew of letters from outraged school librarians canceling subscriptions to Sports Illustrated after the swimsuit issue comes out. “Well, I never!” they always huff. Probably not. But I’ll bet Tawny has.

  Men aren’t really pigs, of course. They just know what they want (see shiny red bike, above), and they aren’t ashamed of it.

  Men, as my husband continues to remind me, are extremely simple creatures. Still not convinced? Then maybe you need to read a study that found that male geniuses make their greatest scientific discoveries all because they want to get laid.

  The study of male scientists has discovered that geniuses do their best work in their early thirties (before their brains shrivel to the size of a grape tomato) and that work stems from a need to impress a member of the opposite sex.New Scientist magazine reported that “the male competitive urge to attract females is a driving force for scientific achievements.”

  This explains why Albert Einstein, who, bless his heart, had a face that would stop a clock and raise hell with small watches, didn’t sweat the personal grooming stuff. He knew that the way to get the babes was to, like, invent something. (“Won’t go to the Scientists’ Pot Luck Supper with me? Well, would you go with the inventor of the theory of relativity? I thought so.”)

  Louis Pasteur, famous for discovering a way to heat liquids to prevent the growth of bacteria, a process known as Louisization, I believe, was all in it for the babes, although his favorite pickup line could’ve used a little work. (“Come upstairs, and I’ll show you an explosion of activity in my petri dishes!”)

  Jonas Salk was just another unmotivated Generation A’er until he discovered the vaccine for influenza while trying to attract the attentions of any future Mrs. Salks.

  The study said that genius men (loosely defined as any man who can close a kitchen cabinet door) “do what they do to win the sexual attention of women.”

  Sure, it all seems less noble when you realize that all the genius scientists are out there fiddling with cancer cures just to score with the hot new girl scientist in the lab, but I say the end justifies the means.

  If you put singer and lingerie model Kylie Minogue actually in the lab, we’d probably see a battle that would make Freddy Vs. Jason look like a meeting of the Women’s Missionary Union.

  Unfortunately, such hormone-driven genius doesn’t last very long. The study found that, as the competitive drive decreases with age, men geniuses shift their priorities from “competing for women to taking care of their offspring.”

  This means that once a male genius nears forty and has children, his once-great mind loses its ability to do much of anything except argue with T-ball coaches and carp about the price of gasoline.

  The report also found that marriage significantly dampens the male genius’s desire for scientific achievement, perhaps because he must now accept the fact that he will occasionally be dispatched to the grocery store for diapers and tampons. It’s a place where, his wife assures him, “nobody cares about your big ol’ brain.”

  So he will wander the aisles, remembering past glories. And he’ll be inexplicably drawn to the grape tomatoes.

  21

  Animal Instincts

  Meet My New Rock Band—

  The Cancer-Smelling Dogs!

  When I sent my husband and daughter to “look at the cute kittens” at the pet store one Saturday morning, I have to admit it was just to get them out of the house so I could finally watch the finale of For Love or Money 2.

  Thirty minutes later, my six-year-old was calling on the cell phone.

  “Please, Mommy,” she started slowly; then the rest came spilling out: “He’s-so-cute-he-lets-me-hold-him-and-he-purrs-a-lot-and-I-wanna-name-him-Button.”

  Oh, for shit’s sake. Good thing I hadn’t sent them to the Lexus dealership or we’d be living off mayonnaise sandwiches. Again.

  “Honey,” I said, freeze-framing that little swamp slut Erin on the TV screen with my magic PAUSE button. “We already have two very old, mostly senile cats. It wouldn’t be fair to them.”

  “Waaaaah! I don’t see why we can’t get just one little kitten! You’re mean!”

  I told my husband to put our daughter back on the phone.

  “Oh, okay. Bring Button home, and we’ll make it work.” They gushed with gratitude and I hung up, wondering exactly what had just happened.

  Thirty minutes later, Sophie raced in and shoved a shaking Button into my lap. For the first few days, things went great. Button was no trouble. In fact, he never, actually, moved. He lay in a tight ball, sleeping, while Sophie and her friends squealed at him to “get up and play!” It was like he was stuffed.

  Finally, after he roused long enough to pee on my night-gown, I decided to take him to the vet.

  “He’s stressed,” the vet said.

  “He’s stressed? What about me?” The two big fat liars who’d sworn they’d take care of him had barely been seen since.

  As it turned out, Button was suffering from an intestinal ailment. For this, I had to push his little face back tight like Joan Rivers, pry his jaws open with my finger, and shove a pill down his throat.

  “Wow, can you make him stop yelping like that?” Hubby asked. “I don’t think he wants to take that pill.”

  Five spit-outs later, the pill was safely lodged in Button’s tummy to work its wonders. The next day, he was much better; a week later, he was climbing up the draperies and pooping earnestly about the house in every possible location except the two litter boxes I’d bought for him.

  Two more vet visits (I went to one with paw-print poop stains on my shirt, and I didn’t even care) and Button was all better. I, however, wasn’t sleeping well, because he’d taken to chewing on my toes all night long, forcing me to dream of tenement rats.

  I thought that Button might finally earn his keep the day the lizard arrived.

  I know that one of the worst things a parent can do is to pass silly phobias on to their children but, in the case of the lizard, I couldn’t help myself. Lizards terrify me.

  When Hubby got home from work, I was standing on the couch, calling to Button to come catch the lizard, but he was way too busy taking a dump on my dining room rug and could not be disturbed.

  “What’s up?” Hubby asked Soph, who was standing on the coffee table.

  “Mommie saw a lizard in the living room,” she explained calmly.

  “A lizard? Inside the house? Are you sure?”

  “Of course we’re sure,” I said. “Why else would I be standing on this couch?”

  “That’s no help,” he said smugly. “They’re excellent climbers.

  “That’s no help; they’re excellent climbers,” I mock mouthed him. “Get a broom and find him!”

  Lizards severely creep me out. Once, I went to a little boy’s birthday party, and his grandpa had two of them latched to his earlobes. The children loved Paw-Paw’s cool party trick; I fainted.

  So when our unwelcome visitor sashayed across the floor like he owned the place, I felt light-headed again. Thank goodness my neighbor heard my screams.

  “It’s just a little fella,” she cooed, holding a Tupperware container open to catch him. He dodged to the left and scampered under the chair that I will never be able to sit in again.

  “Get your cats in here,” she advised cheerily on the way out, brushing aside my pleas to come live with her. “He won’t last long when they find him!”

  Clearly, she didn’t understand that any instinct my cats ever had has been snuffed by three squares a day from our friends at 9Lives. Unless I could figure a way to lure the lizard into a can labeled “Now tender and meatier!” no help there.

  A man doing yard work next door was summoned. I offered him all the money in the h
ouse—five dollars—to find and remove the lizard.

  “He won’t hurt you,” the man said slowly, as though he were talking to some sort of half-wit standing on a couch. “They are actually wonderful at eating flies and mosquitoes.”

  He tried for about fifteen minutes, but the lizard skittered all over the room, eventually returning to the chair that I will now have to burn.

  “We have to sleep at a motel tonight,” I told Hubby later. “Make the arrangements.”

  “Don’t be silly. Did you know that the lizard’s waste products actually inhibit the growth of certain household bacteria?”

  Okay, it’s official. Everybody is on the lizard’s side. Somewhere, he was under a chair grinning from creepy non-ear to non-ear.

  We never found the lizard, but I’m afraid it’s only because he’s hiding in my closet, changing his colors to match my clothes.

  I suppose things could be worse than having your house taken over by a shit-slinging kitten and a maniacal lizard.

  Near the top of a long list of things I’m grateful for is that, as far as I know, not a single one of my neighbors owns a pet tiger. Hey, it’s not as far-fetched as you may think. I just read where there are between five thousand and seven thousand tigers living in private homes in this country. And I’m guessing that they pretty much hog the remote.

  Even people who don’t have yards are buying exotic wild animals as casually as a baggie full of goldfish from Wal-Mart.

  Recently, I read about a guy in Florida who used to play Tarzan in B movies and whose 750-pound tiger escaped from his home. Presumably watching him walk down the street were the actor’s other pets: two lions, a leopard, and a cougar.

  Steve Sipek had his own mini-jungle at his home near Palm Beach, perhaps in an attempt to relive his sort-of glory days as Tarzan. We can only hope that Tobey Maguire doesn’t start trying to sling webs from his fingertips if his career falters. It’s just so J. J. Walker sad when people confuse the characters they play with the people they are in real life. Think about it. No one really says “Dy-no-mite!” with any degree of enthusiasm anymore.