I did a photo shoot at the home of a millionaire in Beverly Hills recently. He rents it out for extra cash. Clearly the $300mil he made in new media didn’t buy enough marble statues and fake flower displays for his liking.
So he turns up at the shoot accompanied by a very young, skinny Asian girl. He’s a 47-year-old from the other side of the country, wearing ugly ripped Ed Hardy jeans and a garish sports t-shirt. Italian-looking, short, unshaven. Straight from Californication’s central casting department.
Turns out his Asian friend is the girl he’s doing right now but ‘they’re not exclusive’.
He honed in on one of the young, attractive British girls at the shoot. He ignores me. I listen to their conversation, which starts after his Asian accessory disappears into the west wing to get changed for dinner.
He makes a disparaging comment to the British girl at the shoot, insinuating that she got her job solely because of her looks to which she takes great offence. She lists her education credits and professional achievements. He grins inanely.
He then sits down next to her, clearly aroused by her back-chat and proceeds to tell her that ‘He can’t find a real relationship in LA’.
She replies, ‘Why are you dating a 22-year-old then?’ You can’t possibly have anything in common? It’s never going to go anywhere.’
He squirms, and tells her that the Asian ‘girlfriend’ knows they’re not exclusive, and adds that she’s actually very intelligent.
By this time I’m rolling my eyes as he talks about his divorce, his kids and how he’s a ‘real person’, with good morals and can sniff out gold-diggers.
He can’t understand why he’s alone. He pleads his case to my friend, who good for her, is having none of his bullshit.
This is the kind of double-speak bullshit that men in LA talk – especially the rich ones.
If he truthfully wants a ‘real relationship’, he should be dating someone my age. But he looked right through me when we were introduced.
When we left later in the day, he kissed my younger, more attractive friend goodbye, and shook my hand. I’m five years younger than him and a successful, intelligent, professional. But he wouldn’t give me the time of day.
He says he wants a ‘real relationship’ yet talked about traveling around the world half the year. You can’t have a relationship if you’re not present to it.
He said he wants a family home, yet keeps his mansion immaculate and empty because actually, he doesn’t want that kind of intimacy.
Basically, everything he DOES, cancels out everything he SAYS.
He was about as pathetic a man as I have ever met. And this town is crawling with them.
There will always be a steady stream of pretty young things willing to take the crap because of the size of his wallet.
Good for them but his BS is as infinite as his swimming pool.
He’s the other 3D. A deluded, desperate, douchebag.
They found wonderful men who love them. Loved them enough to marry them and commit to them for life, in front of their friends and family. Solid, stand up, generous guys – and they chose my friends.
I’ve never found that. I’m not sure I ever will.
They have someone to come home to at night. Share the burden. Cook for.
I never met that man, and now I’m in my forties, I have come to realise that I will never have children. Unlike them, I don’t even have a hope.
From what I can see, they already have a lot to be thankful for.
I’m not being mean. I just see their lives in abundance, and it annoys me that their fairytale romances aren’t enough.
It’s a human condition. I get it. Naturally, they want a family. But their lives are my dreams.
So I look at them with envy, while they look on with envy at the yummy mummy’s wandering around the farmer’s market or mall, wishing it was them pushing the buggy, and crying from lack of sleep.
I really hope they both get pregnant. And I hope I meet my man.
Only life isn’t doesn’t always play ball.
But if this was a game, in my eyes, they’re already be first past the post.
You should be bloody ashamed of yourself. Using a model who looks like this is disgusting.
I feel disgusted at you, and I feel sorry for this emaciated waif.
Someone – I don’t know who – women? – need to step up, and do something about this kind of abuse.
IT IS A CRIME AGAINST FEMININITY AND WOMANHOOD.
It’s not pretty.
It’s not fun.
It’s abusive and wrong.
To me this is nothing more than watching an adult hit a child, or a pervert sit on a park bench and watch small children playing on the swings.
It’s fashion-crime, people. The one that isn’t camel-toe.
Funny, I remember years ago my mum telling me that she was the same age as Joan Collins but that Joan was now ten years younger than her. Age is the Bermuda Triangle of actresses. Mum always got upset at Joan’s deception, and I couldn’t really understand why. Until now.
Heather is a wrinkle-free, luminescent, wide-eyed ingenue. She was with some hot modelly dude who wore denim like he’d grappled the Marlboro Man to the ground, and won the jacket in a fight.
Her limbs were the size of the cardboard tube you find in the middle of a roll of paper towels. Her lips were plump, moist and painted bright red. If I wore lipstick that way, the general public would assume that I’d been punched in the mouth.
I told the guy who was sitting next to that me that Heather and I were the same age. He’d been talking to me for a while – seemed interested but who knows? – and then he asked me how old I was. So I told him.
He looked at me. He looked at Heather. And then he did that twice more.
And I swear I heard him IN HIS HEAD, say, ‘Then how the hell does she look like that – and you look like THIS?’
His pity eyes crushed my spinny soul.
SILENCE. I glugged back my Pinot Noir, and stared right back at him.
*sigh* I used to like Heather Graham.
Today, she is my Joan Collins.
You spend the night drinking at a private members club with three millionaires, and they still insist on making you pay your share. Meanies.
There are “Four Stages of Jeans” in the older, more cliched, woman’s life.
Right now I can only fit into my Stage 4 jeans but I’d like to get back into my Stage 1’s. Tell a lie. I’d be happy with Stage 2’s.
Stage 4 is mum jeans. High-waisted, zip-up, boot-leg, post-recent-caesarian, wrong shade of blue, cheap-label, sad, supermarket jeans. Sorry mums but actually, more sorry me. I haven’t had kids, I just look like I have. That’s wrong on many levels.
Stage 3 jeans are slightly darker in hue, still a little high-waisted, but are the ones you can wear with the ubiquitous black top from H&M/Urban Outfitters/that other shop with the Voluspa candles, without feel looking like you’re trying to hard. (Top tip: Hide muffin top with boxy jacket or slouchy over-sized bag, and stand at an angle to the wall all night.)
Unfortunately, Stage 3’s still show your lush thunder thighs, revealing your utter lack of motivation to get out bed in the morning due to either depression, booze, or the inability to make a coherent decision (as you subscribe your lonely spinster state to the fact that you have a complete lack of judgement, and therefore can’t even be trusted to lift your head off the pillow seven times a week.)
Stage 2 is where the action is. Stage 2 is “I did Weight-Watchers for 98 months, snacked on those shitty diet bars, dined off a side plate to control my portion sizes, chewed gum til my molars fell out, and look at me now mother-fuckers!”
Stage 2 scream “trim”. Only, not as trim as you were in your early twenties – but trim enough to want to show a little cleavage, and rock these Gap boyfriend jeans like you really think that one day you will have one again.
Stage 1 is the holy grail of jeans. These are the skinny, JBrand, Cameron Diaz, fuck-me jeans that say “My eggs are ripe and my left breast will knock your eye out when I orgasm. I live on Diet Coke, cigarettes and unfettered optimism that my life will always be FABULOUS.”
I look back fondly on those heady Stage 1 salad days. I can still see my pert backside, coupled with the slink of a knee-high boot over indigo denim, strutting down the street like a less hairy (and female) John Travolta.
But now, aged 104, I heave my bountiful forty-plus pear-shape out of bed every morning to go running, in the hope that my Stage 3 jeans will one day fit over my undulating thighs. The thighs that feature the kind of dimples that only look good if you’re a six-year-old girl, and they’re on your face.
I still have my skinny Stage 1’s. They sit in my closet and mock me. Doing silent Rihanna moves, winking at me with their shiny button fly, and pretending to be rich. It’s a front. They know they’re redundant, just like Woody in Toy Story 3 who knows that Andy doesn’t have any use for him any more.
And next to them on a hanger, waiting silently in the wings, my Stage 2’s are limbering up for action.
As am I.
Oh yes, I might be a spinster but I’m not dead yet.
Barely a day goes by without hearing some old blah about Jenny Aniston – the Hollywood spinster I’d choose to be if I had money, an amazing head of hair and a string of mediocre comedies under my belt.
I’m not being derogatory with that last remark. I aspire to Jenny’s level of failure. It’s failure at the top and in actual fact, regardless of how much the media bleat on about her generic film roles, she’s actually bloody successful. Did you see her California pad in the Architectural Digest? If that’s failure. I WANT that failure.
And yeah, she’s without a man. But who the hell isn’t these days? Most of the women I know WITH a man feel lonely. They hate their lives, and tell me that they’ve compromised their pants off. Jenny hasn’t. Any woman who can say goodbye to Brad Pitt (not aging well), is a woman who is confident in her skin. She didn’t rush out and replace him with some Chord Overstreet (I just like that name) pretty boy. Nope, she took the high road. Kept quiet and every six months or so took her clothes off for the cover of a magazine. In an arty way of course.
So I don’t subscribe to the ‘Poor Jen’ school of thought. Screw that. Jenny Aniston is the Queen of Spinsters. She fucking rocks and her life is amazing. Here’s why:
1. She’s really rich. Around $110m rich actually – and counting.
2. She told fat people to stop eating so much. Harsh, but Jenny speaks the truth.
3. After years of silence, she finally admitted that she hated the ‘Rachel’, proving she’s a bit of a snark. Love.
4. She made an artsy movie, ‘The Good Girl’, realised that low-budget indies weren’t going to buy a new yacht/shoes/Caribbean island/whatever, and made a conscious decision to crank out the rom-coms. Hello mimosas!
5. She still trots around town in her jeans, flip-flops and tank top.
No posturing like Posh, no kids puking on her shoes and no needy men.
Happy Birthday Jen. You are Hollywood spinster gold.