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.

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

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!

Posted under Adrienne & Entertainment | 2 Comments »

Since my daddy watches ESPN and my mommy tells me the latest news, I’ve heard a lot lately about this guy named Michael Vick. He sounds like a sinister fellow. However, if I were younger and stronger, I could take him. After all, I am a purebred English Mastiff who weighs 195–200 pounds, depending on the season. Anyway, this Vick character ran a dogfighting ring and even killed many of my distant cousins. PETA has accused him of being a psychopath and has recommended a psychiatric evaluation. Although I appreciate their support, people seem to have lost their perspective. My mommy and daddy may treat me like their child and I may act like one, but I know my place—I am their dog. Understanding English (and some Spanish) doesn’t make me human; it just means that I’m smart.

Even though Mr. Vick has served his jail sentence and has expressed remorse for his crimes, many people believe that his acts were so evil that he should not be allowed to play professional football again. Perhaps they are forgetting some of sports more notorious villains … the ones who hurt humans.

• Once famous for her triple axels, Tonya Harding is now remembered as the person who attacked Nancy Kerrigan before the 1994 U.S. Figure Skating Championships. Only Harding didn’t do it, her ex-husband and her bodyguard assaulted her biggest rival. Though she maintained her innocence, Harding pled guilty to “hindering the investigation” of the attack; she received a fine, community service, and probation. After conducting its own investigation, the USFSA banned Harding for life from ever participating in their events as a skater or as a coach. Her career has been reduced to a sex tape, Celebrity Boxing, and The Smoking Gun Presents: World’s Dumbest.
• After a Pistons fan threw a cup of beer in his face, Ron Artest, (formerly) of the Indiana Pacers, confronted the wrong man and then punched another fan who had verbally mocked him. His actions in 2004 led to the worst brawl and the longest non-drug or betting related suspension in NBA history. Although Artest was suspended for the rest of the season and lost approximately $7 million in salary, he was not charged with assault. In fact, he didn’t go to jail until he was arrested for domestic abuse in 2007.
• In 1992, boxing weight champion Mike Tyson was convicted of raping Miss Black Rhode Island aka Desiree Washington. He was sentenced to ten years in prison, but was released after only serving three years. He immediately resumed his professional career. Two years later, Tyson assaulted Evander Holyfield by biting off a piece of his right ear during a boxing match. The Nevada State Athletic Commission revoked Tyson’s boxing license, but they reinstated it fifteen months later. Even though he was on probation, Tyson did not return to jail.
• O. J. Simpson may not have been playing professionally when he was arrested for murder in 1994, but as a spokesman and an actor, he had been profiting off his successful sports career for years. A Heisman trophy winner and NFL Player of the Year, the “Juice” parlayed his championship status into endorsement deals as well as film and television roles. Despite a former domestic violence charge, suspicious behavior, and circumstantial evidence, twelve Los Angelenos found Simpson not guilty for the murders of his former wife Nicole Brown and her friend Ron Goldman. He was a free man until he was convicted of armed robbery and kidnapping in 2008. Simpson is currently serving a 33-year sentence, which he plans to appeal.

Hmm … perhaps public perception is shaped by what sport you play, how good you are, and who your victim is. (Mommy says gender, race, and location may be other contributing factors.) In other words, if Mr. Vick was a mediocre golfer who beat up homeless people, maybe no one would care. From where I sit, Mr. Vick can do two things: run dogfighting rings and throw a football. Speaking for my fellow canines—especially the Philly dogs, we don’t want his kind around us. Let him play ball, pay his taxes, and pretend to be sorry. As long as Mr. Vick stays away from us dogs, the NFL can have him.

With three tale thumps and one wet kiss,
Winston

P.S. I would like to thank my mommy for helping me research and type this blog. (My paws are so big that I do not have the manual dexterity to operate a keyboard.) To see more pictures of me, become my friend on Dogbook and Dogster.

Posted under News & Sports | No Comments »

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

Posted under Entertainment & News | 3 Comments »