Paris, Barbie, and the Wisdom of sisters

Yesterday’s snippet about Britney Spears put me in mind of another hypocritical twit, Paris Hilton, whose family and friends continually claim that deep down inside, she’s really a shy, insecure thing who grew up embarrassed by her big feet and flat chest.



Errrr…okay.

Paris, sweetie, if you want people to see the “real you”, the first step will be to stop making that pouty porn-star face EVERY TIME SOMEONE TAKES A PICTURE OF YOU.

Maybe it’s all Barbie’s fault. The doll, I mean. Mother Rubble always tsk-tsk’d the thing and proclaimed that “she looks like a streetwalker”, and indeed she did, and still does. Not to say Barbie wasn’t allowed in the house, for she was, but only when accompanied by a paperboard closet full of clothes made by Mother Rubble herself – thick, woolen, sensible numbers that one might have seen worn by hip-but-chaste gals like Marlo Thomas or Mary Tyler Moore.

Mother Rubble’s sensible compromise has been lost on the current generation of parents, I’m afraid. When I was a lad, I didn’t wear anything that wasn’t bought or made for me, as I didn’t have any money of my own, and what little I did have went for comic books and Reece’s cups. I can’t imagine things have changed so much that children are now independently wealthy, with teams of servants ready to rush out to the mall and buy them hip huggers and baby-doll tees. Parents of America, I urge you: STOP DRESSING YOUR CHILDREN LIKE PROSTITUTES. You see where it gets us, spoiled starlets complaining because someone has actually judged them by their cover.

Little sister Nelly Olsen (see comment below) has promised to chime in occasionally with wry observations. No prude herself, she nonetheless remembers that in HER day (not so long ago), girls wore their pants up to their navels and they liked it just fine! I’m glad that young women are finally confident, secure, and not ashamed of their bodies, but honestly, how did confidence translate into walking the town wearing jeans down around one’s ass-crack, with rolls of fat spilling over?

Speaking of fat, I’ve another sister, older than me no matter what she tells you, that has just begun nursing school, and has been charged with the task of finding our why, at every doctor’s office in the country, there is at least one nurse who always weighs, like, FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS.

I must away, but I imagine I’ll be back soon, to relate my sighting of Alan Greenspan and Andrea Mitchell, and thoughts on the psychopathic Sean Hannity and my recent revelation about fundamentalist Christians. Whoopee!