An open letter to Demi Moore

Dear Demi,

What the St Elmo’s Fire is going on?

Firstly – and bear with, as we need to get this out of our systems…IT WAS ALWAYS GOING TO HAPPEN. Even the most myopic halfwit could have seen that one coming. Your split from floppy-haired play-nerd Ashton Kutcher was always a question of when, not if.

The age gap was too big. He has some serious growing up to do and when he does, he’ll probably want his own kids. By then, like the rest of us, your ovaries will be auditioning for Sun Maid, and your knees will have become the Turin Shroud of body parts – if you look hard enough you’ll be able to see Jesus in the folds.

So join us on the shelf of life – budge up ladies – we’ve always got room for another lost soul.

Get comfortable. For a shelf, it does have a few soft spots, and yes, if you ask nicely, we’ll even give you a hug.

Here, you’ll be able to swap stories with other women who maybe discovered their husband slept with a twenty-something blonde on their sixth wedding anniversary, or perhaps found solace in laughing gas?

Or perhaps not, but as they say, each to their own.

We won’t judge you but we will give you a look that says, ‘Stop being a victim, it’s not helping anyone and also, it doesn’t go with the Versace.’

Oh and while we’re at it, stop doing interviews where you say shit like ‘What scares me is that I’m going to ultimately find out at the end of my life that I’m really not lovable, that I’m not worthy of being loved. That there’s something fundamentally wrong with me.’

Of course, there’s something wrong with you – you’re a woman. But we understand because we’re women too. Women who have also been cast asunder by the roving penis we dedicated our lives to, man-kids who take the afternoon off to play with their X Box, and balding dudes who think a mid-life crisis is a positive life change (when in fact every sane human knows that buying a yellow Porsche is a massive, cliched cry for help).

But Demi, people hate a spinster who whiffs of desperation. It’s unattractive, and never more so than in a woman who is financially set for life with three daughters who adore her, and a lifestyle of unimaginable luxury.

We don’t do the ‘poor me’ around here.

Watching you cling on to your daughter Rumer, on the red carpet a couple of weeks ago, like a malnourished kitten, was painful. We can’t bear it. But let me make this clear, we’re being very generous letting you have temporary shelf space – technically, you are not a spinster but we do love to fix things. Which is probably why we’re all single.

Out of all of us battle-scarred suffragettes, you probably have the best chance of finding someone you can share your life with again. We’re aging naturally in the old fashioned way, and have massive debt. Whereas you Demi, you still get offered roles that require you to take your clothes off. If half of us up here did that, we’d start a skin tsunami. Not pretty.

So you’ve had your wallow. And you did it in style, we’ll give you that. You’ve done the headline-grabbing cry for help as a bid to get him back (again – laughing gas?), and it didn’t work (we hear Ashton is ‘concerned but moving on’), so now it’s time to get back on track. Eat a little dinner and enjoy the sunsets.

You may not realise it but everyone up here knows that in the grand scheme of things, this heart-breaking moment is fleeting.

Like seeing Jesus in your kneecaps, we believe in you.

So it’s time you started believing in yourself.

Come over here and have a hug.

And a cupcake, if Charlize hasn’t scoffed them all…

Spinny out.

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Ladies, if you’re going to have the surgery, at least bond over it.

There was a heated debate about women in the workplace at the Cambridge Union last week.

This is basically ‘posh arguing’ for those of  you who don’t know, but it made the headlines in the UK because the winner was Katie Price, aka Jordan (pictured right), a once topless model, turned reality TV brand, celebrity divorcee, fashion designer, ‘author’ and proud owner of breast implants, Botox, fillers, hair extensions and tombstone teeth.

One of her opponents was whiny British columnist, Liz Jones (above left), an ex editor of UK Marie Claire, divorced, often bitter and self-loathing, who has recently documented her face-lift in painstaking detail, and continues to talk about it as often as the (anonymous) married man she now lusts after.

There’s a cracking example of how whiny Liz can be in the article: “Young, beautiful women and handsome men with pink cheeks kept introducing themselves. If only my parents had had an ambition for me other than to make it to adulthood without being run over, I could have come here and glided through life. I’d have made lifelong contacts, been given a leg-up rather than having to scrabble at the bottom of the pile.”

She was the editor of Marie Claire at a time when it was relevant, and now gets paid hundreds of thousands of pounds a year to write her weekly poor-me bleat in a national newspaper. “Scrabble at the bottom of the pile?” Her glass is always half-empty and it’s utterly tiresome. It’s that scrabble that got her where she is today…but I digress.

According to her column this week, before the debate she approached Miss Price and as an ice-breaker “told her I was glad there was someone in the room who’d had more plastic surgery than me, but she didn’t laugh.”

“I hope you’re not going to write anything negative,” Miss Price is said to have replied.

What made me sigh over this exchange is that Ms Jones used the currency of her cosmetic surgery to try to bond with Katie but who was clearly having none of it, despite being a vocal champion of having a bit of ‘work’ done.

You could argue that Liz was taking a swipe but if you see her face, you know this can’t be right. I think she was trying to find common ground (and was probably a little star-struck), but Katie felt she was being attacked.

It amazes me (having suffered through agonising spinal surgery) that anyone would put themselves under the knife for kicks or a smoother brow. To then not even be able to bond over it seems a spectacular waste of time and painkilling drugs.

But then female solidarity lost its way a long long time ago. Forget Erica Jong’s ‘Post-Feminism’, we are now in Post Post Feminism (Post Squared Feminism, if you will). Ever since botox replaced Tupperware, then Ann Summers as the ultimate girl’s party, it’s every woman for herself.

Post Squared is a feminists nightmare. In a nutshell, it’s two surgically enhanced woman bitching to each other at the Cambridge Union.

Katie Price was hailed as a role model at the debate because she’s a former topless model who became a millionaire. Liz Jones is an ex editor of Marie Claire, who by her own admission (like Katie), also pulled herself up by her boot-straps, but oddly was reviled by the mostly female students for being part of the media.

What? Getting your tits out in public is fine. Editing a respected magazine isn’t?

We seem to be living through possibly the worst chapter of feminism since the movement began. There was a time when women were able to co-exist, and yes, actually support each other.

Now it’s the women who have become the mysogynists. So ha! Feminism was right on one score: who needs men? Women don’t…they’re more than able to bully the hell out of each other by themselves, thank you very much. Oh, and also self-harm in the pursuit of ‘beauty’.

So ladies, if you must resort to the knife to fix what is inside, can you at least find a way to treat each other with respect.

Unless you do, we really are a lost cause.

Spinny out.

*For another interesting blog on the current state of feminism go to lefteyerighteye


You know you’re a true Hollywood Spinster when…

…a bloke knocks at the door selling fish and instead of being annoyed, you view it as a rare opportunity to meet a straight man.


The Rise of the Gashtag: How Twitter ruined my relationship

Today I read that pop paint explosion Katy Perry has ‘unfollowed’ her soon-to-be ex husband, Russell Brand on Twitter.

This was her ‘ultimate statement’ (according to a particular newspaper), but around 14 months ago I split up with my ex – an avid user of social media – and can hand on heart say that Twitter played its part in our break-up. And then had to be ‘managed’ afterwards.

We’d been together two years but were still living apart. I loved him, he said he loved me, and so it was only natural that we took the next proverbial step. Wasn’t it?

I drove to his apartment one day, and said as firmly as I could, “It’s been two years, I want us to move in together.”

He said, “I don’t want to.”

I said, “It’s over then.”

He said, “Just like that?”

And I, with all my 25 years of dating experience standing firmly behind me like Ms Perry’s dependable backing singers, declared boldly, “There’s no compromise here.”

Truth be told, I was expecting his answer.  I’d noticed that my ex had been flirting with three particular ‘gashtags’ as I shall call them, on Twitter (meanly, but come on, it’s rather good isn’t it), and that his flirting had been getting more intense.

I went home, and immediately unfollowed him in almost every way I could.

It’s not easy pulling the trigger on the social media gun #lovebullet but it’s very necessary. If you don’t, you then spend the next year (as a friend of mine did) fuming over every one of their tweets to members of the opposite sex, and agonising over the apparent ‘fun’ they’re having.

Most of that, as we all know deep down is for show, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

He was starting to ignore my phone calls or texts.  Later, he would tell me that he’d been busy or on a deadline, yet somehow had found the time to be @ing some blonde with big tits, or hot nerdette in thick glasses.

I thought it was disrespectful.

It also made me incredibly angry, and then I’d hate myself for having such a teenage reaction.

Those tweets eroded our relationships. We were done.

(In retrospect, I hope he fucked at least one of them. I mean, what would have been the point otherwise? He lost a good women in 140 characters, let’s hope he got something out of it. I haven’t asked – not that brave/don’t care.)

Initially, I would check every other day or so to see what he was up to, until I weaned myself off him completely. I did it quickly. I wasn’t about to give up my social media for him. He’d already taken enough. *stares at camera, crosses arms, purses lips*

But it wasn’t until the end of last year, and a full 12 months after our break up, that I started following him again. I’m now way past caring about anything he tweets or who he tweets it at.

He is, as they say rather unimaginatively, no longer trending in my life.

I’d be wary of any new partner who spent so much time on Twitter.  When questioned, my ex would bleat, ‘But I only tweet them, I spend my time with you,’ as if I should be somehow honoured to be in his presence. It was nonsense – you don’t need to be physically in the same room with someone to form a relationship.

So I told him to get lost, and you know what, that was my #ultimatestatement

Spinny out


You know you’re a true Hollywood Spinster when…

…walking to your front door late at night, you encounter a tall, crazed man wielding an axe and your first thought is not, “I’m going to die” but, “I wonder what the movie is they’re shooting?”


Cagney & Lacy…just because

I have such a special place in my heart for Cagney & Lacey, aka Sharon Gless (on the right) and Tyne Daly.

Every time I’d have a conversation in the toilets (that’s restroom to my US friends) at work, I’d imagine I was in an episode, putting the world to rights.

And look at how beautiful they are. These are aging so well and so naturally…for two actresses, it’s quite remarkable.

They’re still working, still friends and still utterly inspiring.

Everything about that photograph makes me happy.

And if I’m happy, you’re happy.

Wait. What?

Please enjoy the opening credits and try to work out what Lacey is saying to the flasher.

Spinny out.

 


What men want. A drool story.

You only need to look at this photo of Woody Harrelson at a recent Lakers game to understand what makes men tick. Heather Locklear is yawning, the bloke next to her is probably thinking, ‘Wow, what’s this old lady doing court-side?”and Woody’s thinking…well, he’s probably not thinking. He’s drooling. The chick in her knickers – guaranteed – is thinking something negative about her body, and has no idea of the power her youth wields. But she will…in about 20 years when it’s too late to take advantage of it. And there endeth the lesson.

Spinny out.