Oh, the brow is low and needs a-pluckin’. I’ve wanted to kick Gwyneth Paltrow in the teeth since I was twenty and I read an article in which she was quoted as saying, “It’s so sad that most people’s cultural reference for Emma will be Clueless. I mean, that is an obscenity.” (Gee, I wonder how she feels about “What’s Opera, Doc?” Stupid pretentious twat rag.) At the time, I just thought I was a jealous bitch and a dumbass for failing to appreciate The Literary Greatness That Is Jane Austen. Those things are probably still true, but what a relief to find out wanting to push Gwynnie off a bridge and run her over with a speeding semi is a normal, healthy reaction! I did that whole Facebook “Pick Your Five People You’d Like To Punch In The Face” thing and three of my friends, all of whom are far more stable than I and one of whom loves Jane Austen, proudly admitted they felt the same way! Even more awesome – the friend who loves Jane Austen (and who writes some pretty kick-ass adaptations of her work, and puts them up in our acting class), admitted that she can’t even call Blythe Danner’s Daughter by her given name and that she wants to get a Bozo Bop Bag and paste a picture of her on it. I think she should incorporate that into a kick-ass adaptation of Emma.
I'm so pretty. I'm so pretty! Don't you think I'm so pretty? Oh, you're just jealous.
It’s times like this I really miss my mom. Vikki could talk smack. I keep thinking of the time she and I were watching the news and that Kelly LeBrock Pantene commercial came on – you know, “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful” – and my mom kind of cocked her head and pretended to consider the matter, and then said with a straight face “Well, you’re not beautiful. But I still hate you, because you’re an obnoxious bitch.” She probably had to put something of a sock in it because I was eleven and she didn’t want me telling everyone at school that she said KLB was a total fucking cunt. I’d love to know what she’d say about Gwynnie Pizda, now that I’m thirty-two and Arpanet has long since become Teh Intarwebzisez. We’d probably be sitting at our shit day jobs, reading the Fishstick posts on D-Listed and emailing each other back and forth about how she needs to get off her upper-class asshole and see how real people kick it. And when that got boring (and it would, because there are only so many bullet holes you can put in the same fish in the same goddamn barrel), we’d nourish our inner aspects together by taking the piss out of Blythe’s Daughter’s magnum opus, GOOP. (Warning: Unless you’re in need of a lifesaving emetic or you’re a well-armed, well-practiced sadomasochist, don’t click that link.) Or maybe she’d yell at me for being a jealous, hateful bitch. Hard to say. I think that’s part of most mothers over a certain age’s repertoire – that whole “we try to like everyone/jealousy doesn’t become you” schtick. I hope this generation of mothers explains to its daughters that while it’s not okay to be a shit to those you dislike, it’s perfectly okay to dislike people, and while you may well be a jealous bitch, you don’t have to be ashamed of that, because it’s normal and there are certain shitweasels out there who provoke it, and you’re well within your rights to call them on their bullshit. It would save us all a lot of torment, not to mention money and time spent on therapy.
Special thanks to the lovely ladies who threw off their childhood conditioning for the time it took to smack-talk Gwyneth Paltrow, and extra-special (ed.) thanks to Skippy for hooking me up with D-Listed. Another warning: D-Listed is a world of awesome, but Michael K. is really, really foul. If you’re easily offended, best to give it a miss. Even if you’re not, read it in moderation. I feel like I’ve spent the past five days gorging on nothing but Russell Stover’s chocolate and Texas sheet cake. Guess I should make like The Piz’ and give myself a flaxseed enema. So to speak. I think I’ll just put myself on a strict diet of NPR for the next five days. Much less messy.