Everything About Me Is Fake . . . And I'm Perfect

                Shit. I hate when guys try the Freudian
turn-it-around trick. Suddenly it’s all your fault, and they’re just moronic
pups sitting there waiting to be told what to do.

                “Look, I haven’t just been around the block,”
I told him. “I’ve been around the town. That excuse of yours was invented in
1947. It might have worked for Cary Grant, but honey, you’re no Cary Grant.” I
would have smashed my cell phone right then and there if I didn’t need it to
survive. Was that enough? Don’t know the meaning of the word. Can a woman ever
own enough black or expensive shoes? “Josh Hartnett’s publicist just called my
publicist to see if we could attend this thing together, but I had to say, ‘No,
I’m waiting for this Polish proctologist.’ ” After using the word

                “fuck” three times in one sentence, I hung
up on him. The latest victim of My School of Discipline, he called me all night
long. And in his last call he was still pleading for me to call him back. In
Poland, he claimed, the girl would have called him to confirm plans. “Janice, I
was waiting for you to tell me where and when,” he pleaded again.

                “I’m a doctor. I have things to do. I have
people with proctologic emergencies.” (For once, I didn’t want any details.)

                “For a doctor, you sure have a lousy bedside
manner,” I retorted. “Plus, if you’re so busy that you don’t have time for me,
you can forget it!”

                The next morning it started all over again. “Janice,
what do I have to do to get back into your good graces?” he said, a new level
of desperation creeping into his voice.

                Hmm. Think on your feet, Janice. “I’ll see
you in Bali this weekend,” I told him. “It’s on you. I’ll be waiting for you to
send me a first-class ticket,”

                I said. Later that weekend, the Pole told
me, “You going off on me like that made me like you so much more. It was just
so passionate. You American girls have such fire.”

                Oh, if he wanted a little fire, I could
certainly light the match.

                “I need a new Rolex for the trip,” I told
him over dinner before the trip, and he immediately took out a credit card and
drove to Harry Winston’s. Meanwhile, two tan businessmen passed me in the
diamond earring aisle 170

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

                and gave me the head-to-toe once-over, which
made the Pole turn red with rage. (No big challenge for Mr. Euro-pasty.) But I
wasn’t ready to welcome Poland back into the world community—not just yet. So I
checked out the asses of the businessmen in front of him. “Would you like a necklace
to go with your watch?” my date inquired.

                “No, I don’t need a necklace. But that ruby
bracelet might be nice.”

                Ka-ching.

                15.

               
Advanced Faking It

               
for Men

                Most women wonder about their FQ on a daily
basis. Fuckability quotient, that is. Even the world’s first supermodel knows
it ain’t always happening, for one very simple reason: maintenance,
maintenance, maintenance. I listen to women complain about their bodies—and I
usually think they’re right. After all, would you drive a Ferrari with threadbare
wheels and scratched rims? Yet on a daily basis I go to Maha Yoga in swanky
Brentwood and stare, not into the souls but at the soles of some of the richest
and most fantastic bitches on this planet. It makes me want to puke: 99.9
percent of these women have feet that look like they’re covered in old
alligator skin. I know it’s not very Zen of me to say so, but haven’t these
women heard about pumicing, salt and sugar scrubs, and the mysteries of bag bum
wraps?

                When I’m not out on the town, I spend my
nights slathering my feet with moisturizer, then covering the whole concoction
with white socks to help it all soak in. To complete the package, I put
collagen patches under

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                my eyes and rubber gloves filled with
moisturizer on my hands, so it all just melts into my fingers like butter into
a roll. By this point, of course, actual in-person sex is out of the question.
My dogs don’t even want to be near me. I’m so greasy at this point, lingerie
isn’t even an option. Instead, I hop into my flannel pajamas. FQ: Off-thecharts
low. At moments like this, there’s only one option to keep your man
entertained: phone sex. A word of caution, though: Be very careful. You may think
no one can see you as you conjure up a verbal Playboy spread in your lover’s
mind’s eye. As with anything else, though, there are hidden dangers around
every corner.

                Take the story of my friend and fellow model
Kelly LeBrock, of The Woman in Red film fame. Back in the A-list days, when she
was married to Steven Segal, the two of them relied on nightly phone sex to
carry them through the lonely times.

                One night, these two poor babies were “missing
each other terribly.”

                He was stuck on some movie set in Canada,
and Kelly was pining away in their Beverly Hills home.

                Steven: “Baby, what are you wearing?”

                Kelly: “Oh, it’s this incredible La Perla
lingerie from Paris. I’m touching it right now and it’s silky . . . and now I’m
moving up to satin and lace. I have a salmon-pink thong next to my silky skin,
Stevie.”

                Poor Kel was so into it she didn’t hear the
door of the bedroom click open. Luckily it wasn’t a burglar—but it was Segal,
holding one of those huge cell phones from back in the day that stretched from
your elbow to your hand. Ponytail flipping, he strode in expecting that pink
salmon thong. WRONG-O! There was my friend Kelly in total maintenance mode,
rocking three layers of sweatpants and enough thick moisturizer to spackle a
wall with her cheekbones.

               
Opposite: German Playboy self-portrait.
Love that phone!

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

                Point of the story: If you’re having phone
sex while dressed like a slob, make sure the guy isn’t within driving
distance—or his little fantasy could get deflated right quick.

                As for me, I don’t give that many specifics
during phone sex. Hot guy to Janice: “Baby, what are you wearing?”

                Me: “Chanel Number Five.”

                (Thank you, Marilyn Monroe.)

                Even in my bag bums, I’m still telling the
truth. In the end, what should we do with men? It’s an impossible question. And
now it’s getting even more complicated. Because now I’m having to teach my
daughter, Savvy, all about the male species. She was with me the other day when
Evan Marriott (the first Joe Millionaire—remember?) cruised by and gave me the
slow once-over while we were walking down Rodeo Drive. So naturally I turned
around and grabbed a look at Joe’s ass, which wasn’t really all that hot
compared to some other contenders I’d seen walking down that street. With his
$500,000 check, of course, Joe was only half a millionaire—

                and that was before taxes. I wasn’t so sure
I liked his attitude, not to mention all that lying he did in the name of
prime-time ratings. “Savvy, you see Joe Millionaire over there?” I asked. My
ten-year-old seemed rather uninterested. Still, I knew it was my job as her
mother to impart a bit of wisdom she could carry with her the rest of her life.
“You don’t give men like that the time of day. You do exactly what I’m about to
do now—keep walking.

                “And never look back. It’s the looking back
that gets you in trouble,” I added.

                My sweet daughter just looked up at me and
rolled her eyes. She’s ten going on forty, and it worries the hell out of me.
Know what I mean?

                I’m not letting her go out with a man until
I’m in the grave.

               
PART III

               
LOOKS AND BEAUTY

                The other day, I was climbing out of the
bathtub when my eyes caught my reflection in the mirror. My big lovely tits, I
suddenly noticed, weren’t quite what they used to be. I thought, If I can’t
have another kid, then maybe I should at least buy myself a new pair of tits. I
mean, Christ, I deserve a little something, right?

                Society has a strange reaction to women who
strive to better themselves in every way possible. We’re labeled “high-maintenance,”
which is a term I’ve never quite understood. What’s the idea—you’re supposed to
take care of yourself in every way as a woman, pretending all along that it’s
all just second nature? When is it that you’re supposed to get all your
precious beauty chores done—in the middle of the night, when no one’s looking?
Ridiculous!

                As you can imagine, I’m especially amused by
men who say they want a “low-maintenance girlfriend.” There’s a shortsighted
collection of individuals. The minute Mr. I Love LM invites a girl to the
beach—and finds her standing there in a bikini with pubic hair as thick as the
shrubs on her front lawn—what do you think he’s going to say, “I love this
bitch—she’s so LM!”? Please.

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                Here’s what he’s going to say: “What the
hell is that? Come back when you’ve invested in a Weed Whacker.”

                If your guy tells you you’re too HM, there’s
only one way to save your relationship: Forget about that relationship. Start
looking for another guy. If he bitches about the hour you spend in the
bathroom, don’t even waste your breath responding. You’re doing it for you,
after all, not for him. That’s the true bottom line when it comes to your own
personal beauty plan—supermodel or superwoman.

                The bottom line is, it costs time, bucks,
and pain to be perfect. It costs dough to hire those Brazilian waxers to hack
away the shrubbery. It costs to have your feet scraped, descaled, chiseled, and
polished so they’ll look good in a pair of Jimmy Choos. It costs to have those
fake Mystic Tans sprayed on our hides, so we can be healthy now without
spending our Golden Years swigging chemo drugs. It costs to exfoliate, sand,
grind, tuck, and squeeze. It’s endless.

                Hell, it even costs to buy all the magazines
every month: Vogue, Allure, Cosmo, Glamour, and Mademoiselle. I just tell
myself the magazines weigh as much as dictionaries—just picking them up must
give me a little workout.

                Am I high-maintenance just because I have my
hair triple-processed?

                I pay through my perfectly capped teeth for
down ’dos, straight ’dos, under ’dos, and up ’dos. I just tell myself I’m
mixing things up. But I’m lucky: no one has ever dared to call Janice
high-maintenance—

                not to my face, anyway. My motto is: Move
over and let the Big Dog eat. When my fangs are out and I’m prepping, no one
dares question the process. So let’s get you prepped—starting right now. Just
follow these simple and cheap beauty tips and—well, beware! You’ll be on fire!

                It’s perfectly doable. Just read on.

                16.

               
The Perfect Body Image:

               
Fat or Phat?

                In 2003, Vogue did a body shape issue
celebrating every size, from 0

                through 20. Friends called me and said, “Janice,
do you think bigger can be better? Can fatter be sexier?” I have to admit I
thought some of the girls looked pretty damn chunky—but to each her own. I was
never able to celebrate an extra pound—heaven forbid ten! Then again, that’s
also why I starved myself to death for the better part of two decades. How nuts
can you get with a diet? Well, the other day I was actually thinking celery was
a pretty tasty afternoon snack. What a wonderful imagination I have.

               
The Big and the Not-So-Beautiful

                At the age of forty-seven, I’m lucky: I can
still drop my clothes without needing therapy, and I still do fashion shoots in
bathing suits the size of dental floss. I’m not saying this to show off; I
mention it because I work hard almost every single day of my life to look this
way. I could look at it Photograph not available for

                electronic edition

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                as part of my job, but I actually think of
this work as a way to keep me sane. I’m one of the strange ones. I love to get
out there and sweat. It feels good, even when I’m literally sweating out my
stress while working on my body. I feel fit, strong, and healthy. What’s wrong
with all of the above?