Everything About Me Is Fake . . . And I'm Perfect (4 page)

                Well, Phil was not convinced. “My objective
here is to share,” I said. E V E R Y T H I N G A B O U T M E I S F A K E . . .
A N D I ’ M P E R F E C T

                195

                Knowing that trying to appeal to him would
be a losing battle, I looked into the audience and said, “Ladies, anyone here
ever have bunion problems? Would you like to get that thing on your foot
whacked off? Well, don’t do it because soon you’ll have new tits.” The cheers
were so deafening I thought I was at a Stones concert.

                “Janice, perhaps your multiple surgeries are
just a cry for help. You’re trying to fill yourself and fix yourself
artificially,” Dr. Phil went on. When I looked totally bored with that
approach, he switched tactics.

                “What do you think we should do here, young
lady?” Dr. Phil asked me. Dr. Phil asking me for guidance? Now that’s more like
it. Phil, baby, turn back to page one and start reading from the beginning.
When it comes to giving other people advice—even the reigning king of
selfhelp—I’m full of ideas.

                19.

               
In the Butt, Bob

                It doesn’t matter if he’s a horn dog, a big
brain, a Wall Street bore, or a road warrior. The first thing a guy looks for
in a woman is a nice ass. Call me a freak (I am), but the ass is our national
treasure, girls. Let me tell you a little story. One night I was at On the
Roxx, a hot L.A. club, gyrating all by myself. Of course, Mr. Mick Jagger (is
he stalking me?) pranced up to me, looked down at my basic fuck-me pumps and
fishnets (with seams, of course), and then slowly gazed up at my micromini. His
eyes went boiiiiing when he got to the ass. Hello, Betty!

                That’s how you get your man—gay, straight,
or anywhere in between. Thanks to Marc Jacobs and his stiletto pumps, my ass
looked just right. Mick just said, “Hello, remember me?” The rest was history.
Moral of the story: it’s not about boobs. It’s not about the face, the smile,
or the eyes. It’s about the ass. It’s la derrière in French. In Italian it’s
the coo’. You get the idea. The ass is the international symbol of sex appeal.
Asses translate. They transcend all time zones and geographical borders.

                198

J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N

                Here are some great (and not-so-great) asses
from the movies: Mel Gibson: Put his butt near the barbie and turn around,
mate!

                Brad Pitt: Yes, yes, yes. Meet Joe Butt.

                Richard Gere: Classic back end, and all that
jazz. Tyrese: What’s up, baby boy?

                George Clooney: Funny guy, flat ass, move
on. (Sorry, George, I had to reevaluate after seeing your last movie.)

                And this didn’t all happen overnight. Now
let’s rewind to a momentous time in television history. Time: 1977. Place:
Burbank, California. Show: The Newlywed Game. Bob Eubanks asked a suburban
wife, “What’s the weirdest place you’ve ever gotten the urge to make whoopee?”

                Blushing Betty to Bob: “Is it in the butt,
Bob?”

                Ain’t it the truth?

                Today, of course, everyone’s on the same
page as Betty. J.Lo’s Rump Revolution put it into the mainstream. At the risk
of getting my own ass kicked, though, I would say she’s got a pretty wide load.
Baby got back—

                but it’s just not my kind of butt.

                Now, Gisele Bundchen, she’s got it back
there. So, for that matter, does any prima ballerina, from the American Ballet
Company on down. They’re my ideal girls with great asses. I have a picture of
one of those dancers on my fridge, with a little note I wrote myself to stop
myself in my tracks when I’ve got the munchies: Look at those butts. Now, don’t
open that door!

                I’ll tell it to you straight: Half my
commitment to working out stems from my own fears of losing my posterior power.
That’s why I walked ten miles a day at the right pace when I was back in New
York working on America’s Next Top Model. That’s why I get up at five-thirty
every morning and walk up a canyon in Los Angeles. Yeah, it’s good for your
heart, but it’s even better for your assets.

                20.

               
Dressed to Maim

                This chapter is dedicated to one of my role
models: Miss Winona Ryder. Honey, I understand your need to shop, shop, shop
until you drop—even if it results in a pesky court case. Never you mind those
prying eyes at Saks Fifth Avenue. I feel your pain.

                You see, I’m the victim of shopping “blackouts”
myself. And it’s not my fault. I’m a shopping fiend. On any given day, I’ll
find bags in my closet, and it’s like a reverse robbery has happened at my
Beverly Hills home. It’s so obvious someone has snuck into my house—not to
steal anything, but to leave shopping bags from expensive shops in places where
I’d least expect them.

                My bedroom closet is like a perpetual
Christmas tree, its floor piled high with all these wonderful little packages.
Just the other morning I whipped open those big wooden doors and found that the
Great Prada Fairy had dropped by, leaving a beautiful black summertime mini
just for me! I looked into the sky and whispered a silent and reverent “thank
200

J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N

                you.” Then I snapped out of my blackout—new
skirt in hand—and immediately called Visa to assess the damage. My shopping
sprees weren’t pretty at all when I was boozing and high, though. Because then
I really wouldn’t remember what kind of financial damage I was doing—day or
night. Every afternoon I’d float out to my mailbox and find them full of
mysterious packages. Once, apparently, I ordered an entire set of beautiful
copper pots and pans from the Home Shopping Network. I’ve opened Federal
Express boxes filled with Cuisinarts, miracle cures, potions designed to give
you brand-new, baby-fresh skin in eight days. And I’d cruise through Beverly
Hills on High Alert, snapping up everything that moved. Once I bought myself
four new pairs of Manolo Blahniks—and got home to find that two of them were
duplicates of pairs I already owned. At $400-plus a pop, you may be thinking, I
couldn’t afford to make that kind of mistake. Honey, I couldn’t either. I was
completely out of control. Once, when I was doing a shoot for Playboy, yours
truly racked up a cool $32,000 on the American Express bill—entirely on La
Perla underwear for me, and champagne for everyone on the entire shoot. Yes, I
bought everything I loved. I was very generous with my friends, both women and
men. To this day, friends still thank me for that special something I bought
them way back when. Most of the time, I just smile—and have no idea what they’re
talking about. That’s the beauty of Alcoholics Anonymous: the more sober you
get, the more you regain control of your specific memories. Why did I buy a $2,000
Armani leather jacket for some guy I didn’t even like? Go figure. Did I really
need that blender/sunlamp? Did I really need a year’s supply of sparkly orange
rug cleaner? I was buying cream to combat stretch marks, when I didn’t even
have stretch marks. Why?

                Perfliction, baby. If I buy that, maybe
tomorrow morning I’ll wake up perfect.

                Here’s the trouble, though: Even now that I’ve
regained control of my senses, I still see around me certain things that
absolutely will make the buyer happier.

                E V E R Y T H I N G A B O U T M E I S F A K
E . . . A N D I ’ M P E R F E C T

                201

                There are some purchases I must insist we
all make in the name of perfection.

                When you enlist in Janice’s Beauty Army, you
must remember that the most important thing is camouflage, darling. But in
Janice’s unit, you can forget about those putrid green getups. I’m talking
about hiding what’s just not working.

                Let’s say you’re feeling bloated while
trying on those low-rider blue jeans. You have to draw the line and hide what’s
acting up. Some among us—ladies, you know who you are—apparently think that the
tighter the clothes, the better they fit. Don’t buy a ticket to this Dreamland.
You don’t want to look like one of those Pillsbury bread tubes, with the goop
just bursting out at every opening. There’s nothing quite as disgusting as the
type of rolls served up in spandex casing. To quote Randolph Duke, “Spandex can
only expand so far.” So don’t force yourself into the fashion equivalent of a
straitjacket. I also hate those little belly shirts. The other day, I was doing
my hike in the canyons near my home when this fortysomething babe came around a
bend with abs to die for. How do I know? Because she’d exposed them for all the
world to see, presenting them between belly shirt and waistband as if they were
a carefully framed work of art. The only thing this woman was missing was a
felt-tip marker so she could write across her stomach: Look at me! Love me! I
have perfect abs! I especially loved her oh-so-innocent Oh, are you looking at
my perfectly toned stomach?

                expression. Here’s what I’d love to tell
that woman: “You worked for those goods, I know. So congrats and good for you.
Now buy a whole shirt, and save the spectacle for yourself and your loved ones.”

                This whole ab encounter reminds me of an
evening back a few months ago. One night, after a bout of perfect sex, I was
starving from all that exercise. So I went out to a local restaurant and broke
my typical protein-only evening diet. I pulled up to the counter and chowed
down on some pasta with oil-free sauce. Now, I don’t ever, ever advise anyone
to have pasta in the evening, but I was still glowing from my evening
activities, and I couldn’t help indulging just a wee bit more. 202

J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N

                The following day, fully bloated, I awoke
with abs o’ shit thanks to my late-night pasta treat. Did I go suicidal just
because I couldn’t wear a little cutoff top to impress my fellow hikers? Nah.
This was one of those rare times when I cut myself a break. Every now and then
we all deserve a little pasta—and an extra-long T-shirt to cover up the damage.
Back to fashion. Having recovered from my carbo-extravaganza, I soon hit the
town in a pair of hot Dior jeans and a tank top. I wear what I want, where I
want. I can show up in a coffee shop dressed for a Vogue party, and that’s okay
with me. Ask fashion mavens Sandy Linter or Harry King about the time we were
in Florida for a Vogue shoot. We were staying at a four-star hotel; there was a
tiny coffee shop a block away, though, and there they found me, all dressed up
with no place to go. I was staring through the dirty front window when I
noticed the two of them outside, laughing at me. What’s so funny? I wondered. I
look good. Let me live my own fantasy. I was starring in my own little version
of Cabaret. Screw them. They were just jealous that Janice was the star.

                21.

               
How I’ve Helped the

               
Famous and Infamous

               
Be More Perfect

                So many questions about perfection, so
little time. The other night, I was at an exclusive Bel Air birthday party,
feeling totally out of place—as I often do at these soirees. There was so much
fabulousness in the air, it was fucking depressing. So there was only one thing
to do: drown out the endless, mindless chatter with the most numbing substance
in the ultrachic mansion. I’m not talking about drugs or alcohol. My hooch of
choice that night was a huge plate of corn chips. I know, I know—the fat
grams—but what was a girl to do? I needed something, and I’d done enough
crunches at the gym to crunch a little at the buffet line.

                All that loud chewing was pure perfection,
though. It drowned out the excruciating silence in my head—that loud and
painful nothingness between your ears when you’re swimming around a party with
no companion to talk to, and nothing but cold stares from all the strangers 204

J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N

                around you. It’s a sound that never fails to
make me want to jump out of my skin.

                Sure, peace and quiet can be the best gift
of all, but, indoors, at an A-list event, silence basically sucks. It’s an
unmistakable signal: they all think they’re more perfect than you.

                So I decided to rectify the situation by
bringing on da noise. Apparently my junk-food orgy was so fascinating that it
caught the attention of none other than Ms. Barbra “Funny Girl” Streisand.
Suddenly, the singing diva, director, actress, mother, and multimillionaire was
in my face. I guess Babs must have been marveling at the sight of a supermodel
with the guts to dabble in a product that doesn’t get much action in the state
of California. It’s a miracle I wasn’t hauled off to the L.A. County jail right
then and there.

                Staring wistfully at my greasy corn-chip
nirvana, a bewildered Barbra locked her icy blues with my baby browns. She had
a painful, pleading look on her face, like that of a woman looking for the
answers to life’s most important questions.

                “What’s up, Babs?” I asked midcrunch, and
she smiled. I guess she’s sick of all those asskissing sycophants who treat her
like her shit doesn’t stink. I always check my bullshit at the door.

                “I know who you are,” said Ms. Yentl.

                “I know who you are, too,” I said (crunch,
crunch, crunch).

                “Janice,” whispered Babs, and I stopped
chewing. This sounds serious, I thought. Maybe she wants some workout advice.

                “I have to ask you something,” Babs
continued to whisper. “How in the world can you stay so skinny and eat chips?”