the "Mommie Dearest" effect

i've been thinking about the character, Mommie Dearest, lately - because that's just what I do - and contemplating the effect that like-minded mothers indubitably have on their offspring.



had it not been for the stunning work of the incomparable Faye Dunaway, we may never have understood why our mothers did some of the things that they did. and now that my dear mother is comfortable enjoying a Manhattan in the sky while I am still dealing with alternate side of the street parking in Manhattan, I thought I'd reminisce...

(here's where I cue my mother's award-winning but sad star turn in her later years as the crazy drunk lady slipping off the couch claiming "I am the madwoman of Chaillot...and you are too!!!") ok, so while I'm not skidding down any armrests with the bottle of gin I'd hidden in the birdseed, I am only too aware of how close lady apples can fall from their trees. (is it wrong to think that it's cute that my daughter says "show-veen-yown-blon" when the waiter asks what I'd like to order?) one eye open, Luvy, one eye open...

so back to Mommie Dearest - take, for instance, the wire hangers scene. I recall thinking, after one of the dozen times watching it, "if that had been me, Mommie Dearest, I would NEVER have let wire hangers anywhere near my closet. they would have been where they belong...under Christopher's bed where Carol Ann would find them." just like my brother, Peter's CLUB magazine which I discovered and promptly hid under his pillow the morning of his Eagle Scout coronation. TIMING, baby, I gots it!!

poor Mommies, though. being compulsively clean and orderly is draining when you don't have $2 million bucks to spend on cleaning ladies. and being a mother and actress can be utterly brain-splitting work at times. it's pretty weird to drop off your kid at school with all the other parents likely thinking that you're going to return home to do the laundry, (because you look just like them - see my Soccer Mom post - http://luvyhowl.blogspot.com/2009/10/why-staying-in-jail-can-be-fun.html) but you actually go the other direction and drive an hour into the city to audition for the role of a sexy single cosmopolitan lady trying to pick between two stuffed animals for her niece in a mall. and then there's of course, the vibrator audition...ahhh, I do live the glamorous life, don't I? I'm still trying to figure out whether I looked like I used a vibrator too much or too little...?!? please advise. actually don't bother, I broke mine a few years ago so that probably answers that.

speaking of vibrators and auditions, I was in the city just the other day for a callback for an interstitial I really hope I get because the writing was GENIOUS (if you're reading, Nick at Nite - I'll do it naked if you cast me. ok, I'll wear extra clothes.) and now I'm going to get a little raunchy so cover one eye and keep reading if you're feeling randy, otherwise hold the apple key and "w" and the window will instantly close until you're in the mood again. so I was early, which is something that almost never happens with me, but the trains all forgot their galoshes or something that morning and were threatening delays, so I took an earlier one. I had two hours to kill which got me thinking...I never have two hours to kill but when I do one of my favorite pastimes is to...well, you know "take care of business." not for two hours - that would just be indulgent and annoying but the idea of two hours free is quite the turn-on these days. and, of course, once I even thought of it, it's all I could think about. now, I might not be like most women, but I know you men out there are used to being friskier than a box of catfood. and society recognizes that - they built you dirty playhouses, sectioned off parts of video stores, published scores of naughty magazines, but what about the ladies? what do we get, Playgirl?!?? bwah ha ha ha! even the gays don't read that anymore! I get more titillated by the Pottery Barn catalog. where is OUR pretty playhouse? where is our "special section" at the video store - and don't insult me anymore Cinemax - your porn is about as stimulating as a Yani video.



oh, my God - I actually just watched that. if you can bear to listen until the end, can you please tell me why the Dukes of Hazard music kicks in around 3:04??? WTF, Yani???

anyway, wouldn't it be nice, if there was a pretty, pretty place with soft lighting, Yani-free music, candles that smell like desserts and an expertly tailored chaise lounge for all the poor lady folk out there who need to kill a few hours?

well, there isn't. so what did I end up doing? visiting my enviable friend, Julie, to see her perfect duplex, perfect baby, perfect husband and perfect body. nothing like an unhealthy dose of comparison to shake all those lewd thoughts out of my head. how could I possibly imagine pleasuring myself, when I don't have an integrated fucking dishwasher?!? or custom cabinets. that were labeled, y'all - as in, "winter clothes" "summer clothes" "clothes I look so amazing in I don't even bother to wear because I think I'll just get laid all day since my husband works from home?" I quickly told Julie that I had to go and skulked into Ivy Nails where I imagined that the Korean girl massaging my hands was actually me and that my fingers were really little penises. and then I was all better.

now that I think about it? I'm not at all like my mother. and I think she was ok with that. and if looking like I use a vibrator too much means I don't book commercials like this:



I'm reeeeally ok with that.