Reality Check

Not so long ago, the media gifted upon me the knowledge that two more actresses had written or were writing books. This isn’t a phenomenon or anything remotely special, I know. I mean, bookshelves are rife with contributions by actors and actresses alike. They range from the expected autobiographies and musings to cookbooks to children’s stories and more. These are creative folks we’re talking about here. It’s to be expected that many of them might have thoughts and ideas worthy of putting pen to paper – or acrylic nails to keyboard, whatever. What has been frantically gnawing at the back of my brain (a spot usually reserved for “did I pay the phone bill yet?” or “can I serve spaghetti again without them complaining?”) is the hype that is generated by the subject matter about which many of these celebrities choose to expound in print. They write what some call “real life” books. Real life experiences. Real life emotions. Real life consequences. The thing is, I already HAVE a real life. Most of what they write about has happened or will someday happen to me too. What yanks my chain is that they will inevitably bill their books as the “true picture” of what “really happens”. I suppose the rest of society just stumbles through these events like the apparently blithering idiots that we are, hoping against hope that no one else will ever find out. I know that I’m being harsh. Some people, I’m sure, are helped or encouraged by these celebrity “tell alls”. My initial reaction, though, is never much more than “pppfffffffttttttttttt”. I know how to plan a wedding. I know how to survive depression - regular and post-partum, thank you very much (I thrive on variety). I know the truths about having a baby and, contrary to what I heard Jenny McCarthy telling Regis and Kelly, I don’t keep things a secret (well – except for the one about me actually standing there listening to Jenny McCarthy telling Regis and Kelly). Labor and delivery hurt like hell. That old “shoving a watermelon through a keyhole” adage is damned accurate, as far as I’m concerned. I know that there is no dignity to pregnancy. The last private moment I can remember was the actual conception of the child. I have endured the uncomfortable consultations where men I didn’t know (and will hopefully never see again) have poked, prodded and discussed parts of my anatomy that even my Mama’s never seen. I KNOW these things. I will share the blunt, honest truth with anyone that feels the need to ask. My sister was enthralled with my ever-expanding belly when I was pregnant the first time. At three years my junior, she had not yet had a child herself. She asked me a lot of questions – and I answered. I wonder if that had much to do with the fact that her own child didn’t arrive until nearly ten years later? Oh well. She ASKED. Claudette Colbert has been quoted as saying, "Books written by actresses are for the birds. Besides what would I write?...that somebody was looking for an Italian-type to play the ingenue in a film and I might do?". What a smart lady. I’m not implying that maybe a million books don’t already exist on that subject either. I’m just loving the fact that she insinuates that celebrities – while fascinating to most – appear to forget that there are so many things that they are always and forever bound to share with us peasant-y types. The only difference is scale. I paid for an organist at my wedding too. There was just no one suffocating inside the organ, hoping to catch photos of the event. All things considered, maybe I should take a cue from these celebs. Maybe I should write books about my real life. You know – to captivate and entrance my potential audience and to let them know THEY ARE NOT ALONE. That would be important, I think. So, to coin Claudette, “what would I write?” Here’s a few that are milling around on my back burner…. “Desperate to Whack” – The frank and frustrating account of wanting to achieve the perfect and pristine suburban lawn while living with the shame of having no time to haul out that weed whacker before having to rush off to pick up the kids at school; “Generic Jealousy” - The author’s secret humiliation at buying brand name items JUST ONCE, keeping all the packaging, then locking herself in the bathroom in the middle of the night to painstakingly refill each and every one with generic equivalents. How long can she hide the fallacy of the Fruitie Hoops, the misery of the mac and cheese, the anguish of the acetaminophen? “Fired Up Over Flannel” – Share this writer’s outrage at a lingerie industry that refuses to understand what women really want! NOT SEXY, they say. Listen up, we say. Is it impossible to understand a love affair with a fabric that doesn’t pinch, bind or chafe? A fabric that will never be used for car seats or construction boots? Empathize with other women who, just like you, understand implicitly that flannel IS sexy – and are prepared to rub up against every lumberjack, firefighter and cowboy to defend their cause. Ehhhhhh… who am I kidding? I couldn’t possibly write a real book about real life for real people. I think I’ll go and discuss this idea with my nanny, personal trainer, chauffeur, chef, gardener, bodyguard, manicurist, pedicurist, massage therapist, stylist and perhaps even my personal shopper. I’m sure they will help me gain the necessary perspective to write a book for the REAL world. I’ll get back to you on it.