Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

I am embarrassed to admit that I watch the television show Little Miss Perfect, a reality series that follows child beauty queens and their stage mothers in their quest to achieve the title of—you guessed it—Little Miss Perfect (LMP). I stumbled upon this show last year, and my husband walked in the room when I was watching it. He shook his head when he saw a JonBenét Ramsey doppelganger grace the screen. I shouldn’t have told him, but I said, “Wanna hear something scary? I’ve been watching this show for four hours.” (It was a marathon of the first season). Before I could say, “I’m hooked” he left the room.

Later, I tried to understand my fascination with LMP by discussing the show with him. I don’t support “glitz” pageants because they send a message to young girls that hair extensions, false eyelashes, heavy makeup, spray-on tans, and flippers (i.e., a fake tooth mold that hides “unsightly” missing teeth) are necessary in order to be beautiful. However, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the TV that night. I explained to my husband that despite their shortcomings as parents, the mothers genuinely want what is best for their daughters, and they think beauty pageants are the way to a better life. He nodded and replied, “Sure. They’re [the mothers] just getting ready for the Big One.”
“That’s it,” I replied. “The Big One—Miss America, Miss USA, or even Miss Universe. They are thinking about the future.” The conversation with my husband may have ended there, but the one in my head had just started.

Even though I never participated in them, I have always loved beauty pageants. I watched the Miss America and Miss USA pageants every year when I was a child. At that time, the show would display each woman’s score on the television screen up to the thousandth decimal place (e.g., 8.345). My mother and I would sit with a notebook, add up the numbers, and calculate the winner before she was announced to the world. I still remember Bert Parks singing “There She Is, Miss America” until he was dismissed from the show after hosting it for 24 years. Bob Barker, best known for hosting The Price is Right, also emceed the Miss USA pageant from 1967 – 1987. The highlight of these two pageants occurred in 1982—the year my parents separated. I was still living in Fort Smith, Arkansas, with my mother. I’m sure that the entire neighborhood heard our squeals of delight when Miss Arkansas, Terri Utley, won the Miss USA pageant. A few months later, we screamed when Miss Arkansas, Elizabeth Ward, won the Miss America pageant. For years, Arkansas had plaques under its state-line signs at major border crossings; they read, “Welcome to Arkansas. Home of Miss America and Miss USA 1982.” Just like a parent, every state is proud of its beauty queens.

When it comes to their children’s dreams, I believe parents fall into three categories: the Mini Mes, the Better-than Mes, and the Wish-it-were Mes. All three types are on display at the LMP pageants. The Mini Mes are your former beauty queens; they want their daughters to be just like them. The Better-than Mes never experienced the beauty pageant circuit so they want their daughters to have the opportunities they never had. The Wish-it-were Mes fall somewhere in the middle. They either tried beauty pageants and failed or never had the chance to compete. Either way, they live their dreams vicariously through their daughters.

On a recent LMP episode, combination Wish-it-were/Mini Me mom Kelly had a full-blown meltdown when her seven-year-old daughter Trinity failed to place in the top five after forgetting the steps in her dance routine. During the same competition, Better-than Me mother Marie (who had to rent a dress for the Beauty portion of the competition because she couldn’t afford to buy one) beamed as her nine-year-old daughter Taylor became the second runner-up in her first glitz pageant. A tomboy who displayed her incredible karate skills during Wow Wear (i.e., talent) by breaking boards with her bare hands, Taylor is not your typical LMP contestant. She has her own short hair, her own teeth, her natural skin tone, and she wore little makeup until the end. However, Taylor exuded charm, charisma, and confidence. Unlike Trinity, who seemed to be desperately trying to please her mother, Taylor was on that stage because she wanted to be there, and that made all the difference.

I would classify myself as a combination Better-than/Mini Me parent. While I was raising my sister Adrienne, my goal was not only to give her more than I had, but also to lay the foundation for a higher self-esteem at an earlier age. I wanted her to achieve better grades in school than I did, to excel at her art in a way that I never did, and to feel okay in her own skin at a younger age than I did. On some level, I experienced some Mini-me moments because I encouraged her intellect, talent, and creativity—things we had in common, but I never desired a carbon-copy image of myself. I wanted Adrienne to be the best person she could be, and she exceeded even my high expectations.

• She earned a 4.0 GPA after one year of high school.
• She had her art displayed in three Los Angeles galleries by the age of 15.
• She didn’t love every aspect of her body, but she realized that she was attractive even if she was not a size zero.

By comparison, I never achieved a GPA above 3.75 in high school, I never danced a solo, and I still struggle with body issues.

However, I sometimes wonder if I gave the impression—like many LMP moms—that being perfect was the only acceptable outcome. As Adrienne’s drill team coach in elementary school, I pushed her and her peers to perfect every step in their routine. With only seven weeks of practice, I knew we didn’t have a chance of winning since most teams had nine months to work on their dance. However, part of me hoped that the girls could pull it off. As I watched them perform, I kept smiling despite the missed steps, the wrong timing, and the occasional frown. When they finished, I praised them for doing their best even though they had performed much better the day before when they debuted their routine for the school. Adrienne shook her head; she knew the truth—they had failed to be perfect. After a long day, we rode the bus back to school. Even though they had lost, all of the girls talked and laughed—except for Adrienne. She looked at me as tears slid down her face. I still don’t know if she was more upset about losing the competition or disappointing me. I never asked.

Even though it would never occur to me to enter my child in a beauty pageant, I can relate to the LMP mothers. Sure, some of them go too far, push too hard, especially the Wish-it-were Me moms, but  I understand wanting your child to be a winner. Pageants teach children how to be disciplined and how to compete; two valuable skills that are necessary in the real world. In many ways, participating in pageants is not that different from being on an athletic team; except the last time I checked, soccer was much cheaper.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. My husband was right. In last night’s episode of LMP, a grandmother said, “This [Little Miss Perfect and other pageants] is something we’re doing until Asia gets Miss America.” Better-than Me grandma may be correct because five-year-old Asia was crowned Little Miss Perfect Nashville after an outstanding, military-inspired Wow Wear routine.

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Although I read numerous fairy tales when I was a little girl, I never wanted to grow up to become a princess. Maybe I knew the stories were unrealistic or maybe I never wanted to be rescued by a prince. I loved the beautiful dresses and happily-ever-after endings, but not if they came with seven little men singing irritating songs or an ugly giant beast who used coercion to obtain love. Even from a young age, I wanted to feel powerful and strong—like a super hero. I wanted to be Wonder Woman.*

I don’t know if I saw every episode, but Wonder Woman was my favorite TV show until it went off the air in 1979. I looked through my mother’s fashion magazines and cut out every picture of Lynda Carter (aka Wonder Woman) that I could find. In first grade, I dressed up like Wonder Woman for my school’s annual Halloween contest, which I won. Taking home the first-place prize not only made my mother proud, but it also fueled my obsession. I collected over 100 photographs of Lynda Carter, and I studied them religiously. Whether she was wearing her costume or her “regular” clothes, I thought if I could just grow up to be a tall, gorgeous, intelligent Wonder Woman that I could conquer the world. (They should teach genetics in elementary school.)

As the one of the shortest girls in a junior high of over 1000 students, I soon realized that “tall” was not a word that people would ever use to describe me. (I’m under 5′3″.) Despite having attractive parents, there are no supermodels in our family, and I was an awkward tomboy for many years. However, I knew I was smart, and that my brains would be the key to my success. No one had to make me do my homework or pay me to earn A’s in school. I wanted good grades because learning made me feel powerful, which made me feel strong. In fact, school became my sanctuary when our house resembled a domestic war zone during my parents’ divorce. While my mother and father screamed at each other, I hid in my room. If I wasn’t reading or doing homework, I looked at my Wonder Woman pictures because I needed her strength. When my dad moved out of the house, I was proud of myself for not crying. I may have been ashamed because I knew everyone in our cul-de-sac was watching, but I didn’t cry. At ten years old, I had learned how to fake it.

I remember someone telling me that the one thing that people have in common is that “We’re all faking it.” I feel better knowing I am not the only person who presents an image to the world that is a mere facade. However, I don’t fake everything. I possess some of Wonder Woman’s four distinct qualities: beauty, wisdom, swiftness, and strength. I may not be drop-dead gorgeous, but I can appear and feel beautiful when necessary. I’m not Einstein, but I’m no dummy either. I wouldn’t say that I’m quick, but when I’m in shape, I am quite physically strong for someone my size thanks to years of dancing, gymnastics, and marathons. The most interesting characteristic about Wonder Woman though is how her physical and mental qualities created someone with vitality, courage and a mental backbone stronger than steel. Without knowing it, I modeled myself after Wonder Woman, and when I didn’t feel that inner strength, I faked it.

“Faking it” has its advantages. My healthy state of denial made it possible for me to be an advocate for my sister Adrienne during her 147-day battle with cancer. As long as I kept pretending everything was going to be okay, I could get through each day. Except for a brief meltdown during the burial service, I continued to fake it after Adrienne passed away. I attended a Halloween party only three weeks after her death not because I was fine, but because I thought that I needed to show my friends that I would be fine. A month later, I agreed to plan my best friend’s thirtieth birthday because her husband asked me to do it as a surprise to her. I could have said no. I’m sure that he would have understood, but I wanted the distraction. I needed to keep up the facade because I was afraid of what would happen if I stopped faking it. I have always been “strong” and “tough”; without those adjectives, I don’t know who I am.

Recently, my husband of three years (we’ve been together for six) said, “I’ve never seen you like this before.”
“Like what?” I asked even though I knew exactly what he was talking about.
“So close to giving up.”
I had no idea that he was that observant. Apparently, I cannot fake it with him. He sees right through me. I think he got more than he bargained for when he married me. I know that he doesn’t handle things well when I am physically hurt. He has said, “I’m so used to you being strong that I don’t know what to do when you’re not.” Maybe he thought he was marrying Wonder Woman, but I have to stop perpetuating this myth that I can handle everything. In fact, when people comment on how strong I am, I correct them. I appreciate compliments, but I cannot accept them when they are based on a lie. I must be honest.

After eight years of faking it, I am tired. Exhausted. One of my friends said that I sounded broken after he read the first draft of my memoir. He thinks I need to fix the ending. But that is how I feel: broken. Even though I love my husband, my family, my friends, and my pets, and even though I know people have suffered far more than I have, losing Adrienne was too much. Sad does not begin to cover the array of emotions that I go through during the day. I cannot sleep unless I take a pill. I’ve tried it all: anti-depressants, talk therapy, grief counseling, writing, reading, exercising, etc. Nothing changes a situation that I refuse to accept. However, I can stop pretending that I do.

I don’t need to support the facade anymore. Watch out—the false walls are tumbling down. I will allow myself to feel however I want. Besides, depression makes you appreciate the little things more. The funniest thing that happened last week was when my husband broke a glass saltshaker. No one was hurt, and we quickly cleaned it up. I didn’t show him how much I was laughing on the inside. All I kept thinking was … I wonder how many more times that will happen in our marriage. I’m the clumsy one, not him. I will remember that broken glass the next time I think I cannot make it through another day without my sister.

I still love Wonder Woman, but I am not a super hero, and I will not fake it anymore.

AWW — XoXo

* In the original TV pilot written by Stanley Ralph Ross, Wonder Woman is Princess Diana, a young woman from Paradise Island, home to beautiful, ageless, Amazon women with special powers. She gives up this life for the man she loves. Guess I did want to be a princess!

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One of my favorite episodes of Seinfeld deals with the issues of friendship, sex, and love—otherwise known as: This, That, and The Other. The back story of the characters Jerry Seinfeld and Elaine Benes includes a romantic relationship that evolved into a friendship. However, during season two, Jerry and Elaine find themselves in an unusual situation. Neither one of them is dating anyone, nor do they have any prospects on the horizon. After watching some soft-core porn on television, Jerry and Elaine discuss whether they should have sex with no strings attached (i.e. friends with benefits). In an episode titled, “The Deal” they establish a list of rules that will keep their friendship (This) intact while they reignite their sexual relationship (That).

1. No kissing
2. No phone call the next day
3. Spending the night is optional

Of course, things don’t go according to plan—especially after Jerry offends Elaine by giving her $182 in cash for her birthday. I love this episode because it illustrates how complex relationships are and how despite the best intentions (e.g., “The Deal“) people hurt each other. I also realized I’ve experienced every combination of This, That, and The Other.

This + The Other = Friend—This combination may seem unusual at first. How many people fall in love with their friends? Well, it’s happened to me. Twice. Okay, I’ll admit the words “in love” may be too strong, but I definitely had feelings for the men, and I was attracted to them. However, my kiss compatibility theory failed me in these two cases. *
No matter how hard I tried (no pun intended), I was not sexually compatible with my friends, and I don’t know how you can fix that problem. Either you have “That” or you don’t. In one case, the friendship resumed after some time had passed, but the other man never spoke to me again.

That + The Other = Lover—This combination is far more common because many people are not friends with their spouses, partners, significant others, etc. Recently, a male friend told me how his girlfriend made a point of stating that they were not friends, “I don’t fuck my friends,” she said, “You are my lover.” She went on to say did not want to be his friend because she already had plenty of friends.
Although I don’t feel that way about my husband, I understand her point of view. My ex-boyfriend and I were never friends. I didn’t want to be his friend. I realized a few years into our relationship that I didn’t even like him. I loved him; we were together seven years and he wanted to marry me (dodged that bullet), but we were never friends.

This + That = Friend with Benefits—As Jerry and Elaine discovered, this combination is tricky. I find it’s much easier when you just have “That” otherwise known as the Fuck Buddy. Without the friendship, there really are no strings. You don’t have to know what’s going on in the person’s life. You don’t need to care. If both people know the relationship serves one purpose—sex—then it can be quite mutually satisfying. The only rule here is Don’t Be Greedy. Appreciate the “That” and don’t try to turn it into something it’s not supposed to be. If it were going to be “This” or “The Other” it would have happened already.

This and That sound great in theory, but usually the friend-with-benefits relationship becomes unbalanced. I’ve experienced it once in my life, and the sex lasted for a while until I developed feelings for my friend. Like Elaine, I wanted it all: This, That, and The Other, but he didn’t see me as “girlfriend material.” Therefore, we dropped the sex and returned to being just friends. A few years later though, we found ourselves very much in the same predicament that Elaine and Jerry did—we were both single, and we missed having a regular sex life. Though it wasn’t planned per se, we shared a spectacular evening full of That. We knew the terrain and there were no big surprises. Afterward, I realized I could never let it happen again if I wanted our friendship to survive. I cared too much; I yearned for The Other. So I gave up the That to save the This.

This + That + The Other =Ideal Mate—The ultimate threesome, This, That, and The Other is what I had always hoped to find in a spouse, and I did. I like that my husband is my best friend. Forty years from now, we may not being doing That as often as we would like, and if we didn’t have the This—what the hell would we talk about? I also know no matter how much gravity attacks my body, my husband enjoys me as a friend. With benefits. Plus The Other. He stimulates me in every way possible: intellectually, physically, and emotionally. As Jerry said, “Who wouldn’t want This, That, and The Other?”

AWW — XoXo

* My college roommate and I hypothesized that sexual compatibility between a man and a woman could be determined by examining their kissing compatibility. (Not a novel theory, but we used a scientific method.) Factors included kissing techniques, touch sensitivity, heart palpitations, goose bumps, time lapses, irrational decisions, etc. Though the sample was small, we determined that 83% of the time, the kiss revealed all.

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Today, I started thinking about the concept of an afterlife. I need to believe it exists, but I don’t buy the whole heaven and hell (H&H) scenario. However, the good vs. evil simplicity of H&H is entertaining. I wondered what would happen to a married couple, with different belief systems, if they died at the same time. Would their souls immediately break away from each other?

I see one floating peacefully toward the sky like a hot air balloon on a clear summer day and the other melting into a nasty pool of black sludge that boils with heat until his entire body evaporates. I imagine the wife waving from heaven down to her husband in hell.

Then I realized how stereotypical that was so I pictured the woman going to hell instead. Then I thought … what would happen if I went to hell?

If I lived in hell:

• I would donate all of my jackets, coats, sweaters, scarves, gloves, and boots to Goodwill. Yes, I live in Los Angeles and own twelve jackets and four full-length coats.
• I would need to wear Coppertone’s Faces SPF 70+ (this stuff works!) sunscreen all the time, which means I would smell like the beach instead of my usual vanilla oil or Poison perfume.
• I would have to change my hair color because otherwise I would blend in with the scenery. I’m not going to let hell turn me into a wallflower.
• I would make Smores every day for lunch instead of my usual boring turkey sandwich on one piece of gluten-free bread. Perhaps, we could import the marshmallows from heaven.
• I could meet some of my favorite actors including Katherine Hepburn (adulteress), Judy Garland (addict), Clark Gable (asshole), and Cary Grant (insert sin here). They would anoint me as the Hedda Hopper of Hell as long as I promised not to put them on any reality shows especially I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! because it’s filmed in heaven.
• Finally, I could raise hell, for the hell of it, as the head coach of Hell on Wheels, the local roller derby team, and no one could tell me I’m going to hell because I would already be there spending time with other people.

What the hell! H-E-double-hockey sticks sounds like a fun place for souls to go. I should make my reservation now because the waiting list is 20 years or longer. Senator John Edwards and South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford can’t even get a space, and they were guaranteed their spots. (O.J. Simpson is still going straight to hell.) I heard Michael Jackson’s death surprised hell’s administrative staff, former WWII SS officers, because they were not expecting him for another 13 years.

On second thought, hell seems too much like Los Angeles, a hot, dry climate full of bullshit artists, tainted politicians, and spoiled celebrities with criminal records. Hmm … I wonder who lives in heaven.

AWW — XoXo

Posted under Entertainment & Writing | 1 Comment »

I remember the exact moment I fell in love with Michael Jackson. In elementary school, the sixth graders always enjoyed a party at the end of the school year to celebrate the transition from primary to junior high school. (In the good old days, you only deserved a graduation ceremony when you finished high school.) Anyway, the school rented out the local skating rink and as a bonus, we got to see Jackson’s Thriller, a 14-minute music video that had been released a few months before. As the video played on the wall, I found myself torn between wanting to watch it and trying to dance to the beat on roller skates. I had seen the video on MTV, but it was not the same. At the roller rink, the zombies became almost life-size, and I thought they had the best job in the world: they were Michael Jackson’s dancers.

Soon after that party, I bought Thriller (on cassette), and later I joined Jackson in being Bad and Dangerous. I tried to imitate his dance moves, but I could barely muster the moonwalk. His music videos continued to astonish the world as well as set a standard that few other artists could touch. Even when his actions seemed strange: his constant need to be around children, the creation of Neverland Ranch, the endless shopping sprees, I (like many others) considered him to be an eccentric Peter Pan. His talent far outweighed any bizarre behavior so I accepted it.

However, my love affair with Jackson ended when the first allegations of child abuse surfaced in 1993. I remember seeing him on television being accosted by reporters and instead of feeling pity, a knot formed in my stomach. Although I’ve never been physically or sexually abused, I consider child abuse worse than murder. Not only are abused children more likely to suffer from psychiatric disorders, commit crimes, and develop drug and alcohol problems, but one out of three will victimize their own children. I never bought another Michael Jackson album because every time I looked at him, my body cringed. I even gave away my copy of Thriller because for years I couldn’t listen to the album that had shaped my childhood.

We’ll never know the truth about the first case because it did not go to trial; the plaintiff’s family settled for an undisclosed amount. When the second case of child molestation emerged in 2003, it seemed more suspect because the victim had already appeared on camera in the documentary Living with Michael Jackson. Holding hands, Jackson and the young teenage boy explained to Martin Bashir why sharing a bed was a beautiful thing. When I watched that segment of the show, goose bumps appeared along my arms as a chill went through my body. Two years later, Jackson was acquitted of all charges, but his image was forever tarnished due to his unorthodox lifestyle.

Though I consider Michael Jackson one of the most brilliant entertainers to have ever lived, he is still a fallible, troubled man who spent his entire adult life chasing the childhood he never had. I don’t think Jackson sodomized any children because I don’t believe he is a true pedophile: an adult who is sexually attracted to young children. In fact, Jackson has always struck me as being asexual. However, compared to our American standards of normal behavior, I am convinced that he was inappropriately affectionate toward young boys. We cannot forget that at a very young age, Jackson was physically abused, exposed to sexual acts (i.e., his older brothers having sex in the same hotel room), and exploited by older, authoritative figures. Therefore, he was predisposed to becoming an abuser.

When I heard the news of Jackson’s death, my first thought was not sadness or surprise, but relief for him. He was never going to escape the media scrutiny or the public’s adoration. Jackson often mentioned in interviews how painfully shy he was, which was ironic considering he was and will always be the King of Pop. No matter how many times he changed his face, Jackson never seemed entirely happy with the Man in the Mirror. Children, however, brought him joy, which may explain why he seemed bewildered by the accusations of molestation. Jackson even told Bashir that if children ceased to exist that he would kill himself. Perhaps his character in the Thriller video said it best, “I’m not like other guys; I’m different.”

With his sudden death, an extraordinary man with an ordinary name, Michael Jackson may have given his three children what he always desired—a normal childhood.

AWW — XoXo

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During the wee hours of the morning, I lie awake unable to fall asleep because of insomnia and/or our dog Winston, whose arthritis has been causing him much pain lately. Instead of reading the dozens of books on our shelves, magazines on our kitchen table, or hundreds of emails in my inbox, I secretly watch infomercials. [Stands up] My name is Andrea, and I am an Infomercial Addict. I love them. I’ll watch my favorite ones more than once just to see if the producers ever change the content (they do). Yes, you read that correctly. I watch reruns of infomercials. It’s a serious problem. I even have rules regarding my infomercial viewing procedure:

1. I prefer that regular people pitch me the products instead of celebrities. For example, Victoria Principal’s skin looks so fabulous, but I have a hard time believing it’s strictly due to her Principal Secret skincare products. (Can anyone say “facelift”?) However, regular people often become famous if the infomercial is popular (e.g., Billy Mays, Billy Blanks, Susan Powter).
2. I only watch infomercials about products that I would consider buying so I focus mainly on health, beauty, exercise, and pet items. Anything related to cooking causes me to change the channel.
3. I must be excited by the title, and Paid Programming doesn’t cut it. With a dozen infomercials to choose from, the producers must grab my attention. My favorite title of all time (even though the infomercial sucks) has to be, “Is Colon Detox Hype?”

The infomercial “a blend of the words information and commercial” was created in 1984 after U.S. President Ronald Reagan signed the Cable Communications Policy Act, which deregulated television. Sources disagree about the first American infomercial although many believe it was Herbalife’s one-hour advertisement for a weight-loss supplement. In the U.S., the term infomercial is usually reserved for programs that are 28 minutes and 30 seconds in length. Short 120-second commercials that hawk products are called direct response television advertisements aka DRTV spots or short form; they are not technically infomercials.

A true confession isn’t complete without full disclosure of one’s sins … so here are my favorite (currently airing) infomercials a.k.a. guilty pleasures:

1. P90X: The Proof promises to whip your body into shape in 90 days by using Tony Horton’s secret technique of “muscle confusion.” I call his method kicking your ass until you want to drop dead. Actually, I bought this program on eBay (much cheaper!), and I love it. The only thing the infomercial does not disclose is that P90X is not for beginners. I’m proof of muscle memory because I don’t exercise on a regular basis (I’ve stretched the 90 days into seven months), but I still manage to survive most of the workouts.
2. Look Thinner Instantly swears the only way to get your figure back is with Kymaro’s New Body Shaper. This infomercial has all of the right ingredients: live testimonials, quantitative proof, and an “easy fix” to a common problem. I wanted to buy a body shaper, but I knew how ridiculous it would seem to people given that I wear a petite size 2. (There’s no way I’m posting my weight.) I did not succumb to temptation.
3. Straight Sexy Hair assures all women with flat, straight, fine hair that we, too, can have that extra lift by using the innovative Instyler, a “new hair styling tool that straightens, polishes and styles hair by means of a rotating heated cylinder and brush bristles.” I was almost sold because “Haley” has “lifeless, limp hair” just like I do and the results seem incredible. But I read too many mixed reviews about the product, and I knew eventually that it would be available in stores at a cheaper price.
4. Peticure “removes the fear of harming your pet” with its revolutionary mechanical grooming tool that resembles a rotating emery board. You no longer have to clip your pets’ nails; you simply give them a “peticure.” As a pet owner who has trimmed her dog’s toenails too close to the quick too many times, the peticure is an easy sale. The only reason I didn’t buy it is because I wasn’t sure if Winston’s (our 200-pound English mastiff) nails would fit into the slot provided. Now a similar product, Pedi Paws, is available at drugstores and pet stores in our area.

WARNING: Before buying any Infomercial product, do your research. Make sure you really want the product, search for the best price, and read all of the fine print. The latest scam is Flat Abs Fast, which markets the AB Circle PRO. “For just $14.95, you can try it for 30 days.” Uh-huh. But the shipping is $34.50 and then it’s only five easy payments of $39.95. Total pre-tax cost: $249.20. And good luck canceling those automatic payments on your credit card if you don’t like the product.

Suddenly, I don’t want flat abs fast; I have to learn to accept my flab or go confuse my muscles again.

AWW — XoXo

Posted under Beauty/Fashion & Entertainment & Health | 3 Comments »

Before I could understand why I bond more easily with men, I first had to examine male and female friendships. Nothing explains it better than this Friends the difference between men and women television clip. After seeing it, I realized despite being the first among my close high school girlfriends to lose her virginity, I hardly said anything about it. The conversation went something like this:

Girlfriends: Did it hurt?
Me: Yes.
Girlfriends: How much?
Me: A lot!

Despite our tight lips about certain subjects, I was very close to those girlfriends, but after high school, I moved to Los Angeles to attend USC, where I suddenly found myself surrounded by men. I remember thinking what Harry said to Sally about how men and women could never be friends because the sex always gets in the way. Most of the guys I met wanted to date me, and I went out with many of them. Some of those doomed romances developed into friendships, but they were not the same as my few female friendships.

Harry is right; the sexual tension never completely goes away. Even if you are not that attracted to the person, having a friend of the opposite sex brings another element to the relationship. I like having male friends (MFs, not to be confused with MILFs) because:

1. They are good for my ego. For example, one MF always greets me with “Helllooo gorgeous!”  When I admitted this truth to a different MF, he said, “That is very masculine of you.” I like the harmless flirtation because it’s safe and comfortable.
2. Men are completely honest. If I’m being irrational, illogical, or a general pain in the ass, they tell me. The candor goes both ways. I can be normal blunt self with my MFs, but I cannot be so honest with most women.
3. MFs are rarely jealous, judgmental, vindictive, gossipy, or mean, and they don’t compete with you. I didn’t even realize that some of my (now former) female friends competed with me until the men in my life pointed it out. When I think about competition, I imagine winning a board game, not beating my girlfriends at life.

When I asked my MFs about this issue, here is what they said:

• You don’t have girlfriends because girls in general don;t value loyalty. Men have friends for life; women have friends for months.
• You are entirely too blunt, too honest, and you speak your mind.
• You are like a having a guy friend, “low-maintenance.”
• We were always friends; we just didn’t talk. (A MF’s comment after a nine-year hiatus in our friendship due to a fight—guess that loyalty thing is true.)

Oscar Wilde once said, “Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship.” I beg to differ. Maybe I have more MFs now because I grew up climbing trees, jumping off roofs, and begging the boys to let me play ball. Then again, I played with Barbies and took ballet lessons. However, I still remember the constant teasing and bullying in junior high; being verbally abused by my female peers hurt my self-esteem for years.

Positive female friendships are rewarding, yet complicated; they require more time, energy, and effort. Maybe I just don’t want to work that hard anymore. My MFs love me for who I am, and for that—I love you, man.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I honestly love women, but as for finding my BFF, I don’t discriminate; gender doesn’t matter.

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When I asked this question on Facebook, most people responded with the same answers although not necessarily in the same order: spouse, parent, children, and/or another family member. If their children were not old enough to own a cell phone, then they had their children’s school in their Fave Five. One person replied, “No one” because he uses his Bluetooth to voice dial his contacts.

A concept created by T-Mobile (see the Wade/Barkley Fave Five commercials), Fave Five allows unlimited calling to your five favorite people even if they are on another network or only use a landline. However, the term “Fave Five” also implies the top five people in your speed dial—your favorite people. What I found most interesting is that not one adult listed any friends in their Fave Five, which makes me wonder if I’m just odd.

Here’s my Fave Five:

1. Voicemail — I’m sure there is a way to undo this default function, but I haven’t bothered to figure it out yet.
2. Corey — My husband is second only to the voicemail. I’m like most people—my spouse takes top priority.
3. Dad — My dad earned this spot after I realized how often I call him and after a friendship with a girlfriend ended. I realize now that he should have been #3 all along.
4. Tony — The only person I know who can talk longer on the phone than I can, and certainly the only man who likes to talk on the phone as much as a woman does!
5. J. T. — My best gay guy pal who doesn’t necessarily like to talk on the phone, but I feel good knowing he’s in my Fave Five.

If my sister Adrienne was still alive, she would have the #2 spot (she was in my life long before my husband), and if I had children they would need a place, too. There is nothing wrong with putting family before friends, but sometimes, I don’t think adults (especially after we become parents) remember that friendships are important to our mental health.

Obviously, your Fave Five doesn’t reflect the full scope of the relationships in your life, but it does say a lot about who is most important to you. If you can’t add a friend to your “Fave Five” at least include one in your speed dial; the numbers 6, 7, 8, and 9 are awfully lonely.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Check out this Saturday Night Live Fave Five spoof!

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When a movie surprises me, I walk out of the theater with a smile on my face and a swing in my step. I Love You Man far exceeded my very low expectations. My husband wanted to see the movie because one of his favorite bands Rush plays a concert in the film. I agreed to go along because I’ve liked Paul Rudd ever since Clueless. However, I didn’t think a movie titled I Love You Man would be any good. Well, I was wrong.

In a story about straight-male friendships, Paul Rudd’s character Peter realizes after becoming engaged that he doesn’t have any male friends to be his groomsmen. He’s not even that close to his father or his gay brother (played by Andy Samberg). So Peter begins a quest to find friends using his family, his fiance, and the Internet, but his attempts to form new relationships meet with disastrous albeit funny results. Of course, when Peter stops looking, he meets Jason Segel’s character Sydney — a real man’s man whose bluntness turns off many people.

I couldn’t stop laughing as I watched Sydney and Peter sing Rush songs in the “man cave” (i.e., no women allowed). Sydney is a firm believer in having fun, and he is also brutally honest, which forces Peter to open up about himself, his relationship, and his dreams. Their newfound friendship feels real, and even when it is tested, it survives. This onscreen, make-believe, male friendship made me wonder about my friends …

• Why do I have more male than female friends?
• Is it because I’ve always been competitive and aggressive — traits normally associated with men?
• Is it because I am (according to my father) too blunt?
• Regarding friendships, how do men differ from women?
• Why do I like having male (gay or straight) friends?
• Can a straight woman and a straight man be friends?

I’m going to ponder these questions … look for my next blog titled I love you man — part deux

AWW — XoXo

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July 10, 2006

I was at my psychiatrist’s office today. I like his office for its sheer variety of magazines: current and past editions of W, American Photo, and Entertainment Weekly (EW) lie on the table. I cannot picture Dr. Kadoyan reading W and who knows about American Photo, but EW is for patientss’ trivial reading, something to pass the time. Every enlightened doctor’s office has piles of EW, People, and/or Us magazines in the waiting room because patients like them. The articles in those magazines are short, easy-to-read, and usually a good distraction from whatever problem brought you there in the first place.

However, I stopped reading entertainment magazines years ago. I let the subscriptions run out or canceled them. I was a Cosmo girl in college, but while I was pursuing acting I read TV Guide, Premiere, Movieline, and of course, Entertainment Weekly without fail. I could tell you which movie was number one on any given week and how much it grossed when it opened. I could tell you details about almost any actor’s life, who was sleeping with whom, and {insert trivial detail here}. One day I realized how much space this useless information was taking up in my brain. I looked at all of the unread books on my shelves and thought it is time to read a story, not a log line, a review or a list of who is wearing what name this week.

But upon seeing all those silly magazines, I couldn’t resist picking up a copy of EW dated 5/26/06. I skimmed and then went straight to the back of the magazine, something I would never do with a book. That’s when I saw it—a new feature or a one-time piece titled Stupid Questions: This week with Reba McEntire. Now what I’m trying to figure out is why Reba (who appears to be a down-to-earth woman) would agree to answer questions that she knows in advance are labeled stupid. Maybe the editor didn’t tell her. My favorite stupid question was: Who is a bigger redneck woman: you, Gretchen Wilson, or the always popular write-in vote Britney Spears? Not only is the question stupid, but it is also mean.

I thought to myself none of the above. Reba doesn’t strike me as a redneck. I don’t know who Gretchen Wilson is (sorry Gretchen), and Britney is what we Southern gals call white trash. Or trailer park trash. Except Britney is rich. “Rich, white trash” seems to fit. Reba answered, “I’m gonna vote for Britney Spears. Bless her heart.” Now I have difficulty feeling sorry for a young woman who has more money than she’ll ever need, has horrible taste in men, and has endangered her child on at least one occasion. I want to scream at her, “Pull yourself together, divorce your husband, take some parenting classes, and figure out what makes you happy!”

I can forgive Reba for answering EW’s stupid questions, but I cannot forgive Britney Spears aka “Miss Rich White Trash” for being stupid.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Since I initially wrote this piece, Britney has had another child, obtained a divorce, gone crazy and become sane again. I, however, still only read “entertainment” magazines at doctors’ offices or while I’m standing in line at the grocery store. I do subscribe to The Week, Writer’s Digest, and Inc.

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