Everything About Me Is Fake . . . And I'm Perfect (3 page)

                186

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

                never tried any of them. I just do the
simple program that I’ve outlined above. I walk and do yoga. It’s worked for me
for almost four decades. At the end of the day, though, it’s you who must take
the initiative. It doesn’t matter whether you’re the solitary type, or do it
with your best girlfriend, or join a running group: you’re the only one who can
wake up in the morning and scream, Yeeeeeaaahhh! I’m going out again today. You
owe it to yourself.

                At certain times in my life, I’ve been
forced to supplement all this with more drastic measures. When I had Nathan I
was only thirty-two, and I was still hot on the modeling circuit; I had to do
something to get
Perfect jeans. Perfect ass. Loving myself a bit too much
here.
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

                187

                back into top shape right away. So I started
incorporating serious uphill walking into my training. From time to time I got
other ideas: when I was carrying all that postnatal baby weight, I’ll admit it
occurred to me that I could start losing by just buying a pound of blow and
going on the Drug Addict Diet. But I knew I couldn’t do that and take care of
this young child. So I started walking up those hills, and the weight began to
fall off my ass. The more I walked, the more I lost. I was always a walker when
I lived in New York. I’ve got an active imagination, and every day I’d go
outside and imagine I was walking in the south of France. I’ve always had a lot
of Walter Mitty characters floating around my brain. It helps to pass the time.

                So is my body perfect today? Come on. I’ve
had two children, and I eat a bit of sugar, so my rock-hard stomach muscles are
sheathed in a slender little layer of baby fat. It’s been a while since I’ve
had zero body fat, but I still dream of it, which gets me closer to my goal. Of
course, my favorite form of exercise is very basic—riding on top. (Sorry,
kids—no photos.)

                Now let’s talk about cellulite for a second.
Last year, those bastards at the tabloids ran a photo of Jennifer Lopez with
her skirt hiked up to her privates. It wasn’t so much that they wanted to sneak
a peek at the goods. What their inquiring minds really wanted to expose was a
patch of cottage cheese–like cellulite that was supposedly dimpling her
otherwise very toned thighs. I’ll admit it: I took a gander at J.Lo’s supposed imperfections,
and even indulged in a moment of glee at the expense of another international
sex symbol. My, my. I guess Jerry Hall isn’t the only one with thighs like
sheets of sandpaper.

                As soon as I thought it, though, I felt a
little guilty—or maybe just taken for a little ride. Why? Because as a public
person I know the drill when it comes to those trashy mags. The next time you’re
feeling smug while checking out their newest “exclusive photos” of some
superstar’s less-than-super body, ask yourself how easy it would have been for
them to add a little digital fat to her famous person’s arms, legs, or rump. It’s
a 188

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

                dirty thing for the tabloids to do because I’m
guessing that most celebs work their asses off to look good. I know I see J.Lo
on the path I hike on the Franklin Canyon outside of Los Angeles. I don’t think
the woman could possibly have much cellulite on her because her trainer, Gunner
Peterson, works her like a dog. She’s intense, fast, and serious when it comes
to training. So take that, you greasy tabloid. (This is the same socalled
magazine that once sent a reporter to stand outside my home digging through the
trash to find “good garbage.” I hope they found some good used tampons.)

                Tabloids: therein lies the downside of being
famous. They printed that I used Sly Stallone, falsely pretending that he was
my daughter’s father. Not true. They printed that I sued him for child support.
Also not true. But if I ever catch sight of cellulite and me in the same photograph—

                well, you know someone’s going down.

                18.

               
Extreme Model Makeover

               
(aka Janice Goes

               
Under the Knife!)

                The other day I saw a bulldog walking down
Rodeo Drive, and one single thought went through my mind: Boy, that character
needs about twenty shots of Botox. When you start thinking about how you can
fix canines, it’s a definite sign that you’ve gone too far in your quest for
perfection. (Of course, the same thing happened when I looked up at the dog’s
master. You know how they always say that dogs and their owners look alike?

                Here was a case where they could both have
used a nice pull from a good surgeon.)

                I will go to any extent to suffer for
beauty. That’s just who I am. If I could get to the moon, grab a few rocks, and
rub them on my skin to exfoliate, well, I’d do it. I’m willing to do anything
to help maintain my youthfulness. And the only difference between me and all
the other women running around the greater Los Angeles area is that I’m not
afraid to admit it. I’m not alone in my quest for youthful perfection. Name a
star, and I’ll point out the work that she or he has had done. Little-known
fact:

                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

                191

                Marilyn Monroe was born with six toes. She
had a surgeon whack one off so she’d look good in heels. Elvis Presley and Dean
Martin both had nose jobs. And there are plenty of other examples from the
present day. I can’t provide you with diagrams—I’ve got lawyers reading this
book, after all—but think about it: how many thirty-year-olds do you know whose
face looks as good as most of the fifty-year-olds on the big screen?

                Of course, the point is that we don’t think
about it. We the gullible public—and this means us especially, ladies—have been
duped into thinking most of the actresses and models working today just waltzed
out of bed looking absolutely stunning. Just think about it: we’re talking
decades of gravitational pull, a handful of bad marriages, and about a thousand
pounds of makeup per babe. There isn’t a woman out there who could be
dewy-fresh after all of the above, and those who say that they

                “don’t believe in surgery”—well, they’re
full of shit. I hate it when the average woman says to me, “Janice, I try and
try to look like [favorite celebrity here]. I do the workout regime she
outlined first in Sassy and later in More. But my hips still have dimples, and
my ass is still pointing south. My chin is sagging, and those little wrinkles
around my eyes don’t seem to go away, no matter how hard I try ‘living the
simple life.’ ”

                Sure, the celebs of the hour might be
working out in the gym six times a week, but they’re also going under the
knife. In Hollywood, people schedule plastic surgeries like they’re making
dinner reservations. Hello, yes, I need a quiet spot to rest and a set of new
tits. Thursday? Seven a.m.?

                I’ll be there. You bring the saline, I’ll
bring the plastic. I’m no different. It’s funny, but the first time I set foot
in a plastic surgeon’s office, back in 1989, had exactly nothing to do with
wanting to look twenty. My only trouble was that my foot was killing me. As
anyone who’s ever had a painful bunion will tell you, that kind of pain is
enough to make you want to grab a gun and shoot yourself. Of course, beauty was
the reason I was in this pain. It all reverts back to the B-word. In the
interest of
Opposite: Should I jump? Nah, I look too good.
192

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

                glamour, I’d spent years with my feet
pinched, squeezed, and crammed into the highest shoes I could direct up and
down a runway. Honestly, the only thing I didn’t subject my feet to was binding
them like a Kabuki princess.

                My bun-ectomy was as painful as it sounds.
But as I recovered from a painful infection, I began mulling over other ideas:
If I can withstand just a little more pain, who knows how many other things I
could fix? Armed with a big bottle of extra-strength Tylenol, I sorted through
a mental catalog of Janice’s “could use a little assistance.” Suddenly there
seemed to be nothing that a good doctor with a sharp scalpel and a clever
payment plan couldn’t help me fix.

                My tits were the obvious next stop. After I
had Nathan, I noticed (much to my shock) that my boobs had deflated into two
soggy pancakes. Knowing I had to pump up the volume, I enlisted the help of a
great plastic surgeon. So the first time I had ’em done, it was a gift to
myself. It was a gift the second time, too—courtesy of Sly Stallone, the Great
Tit Fairy. Sly passed out new boobs like they were welcome gifts, just for
hanging out with him. I accepted his hospitality.

                Around that time, I also decided to expand
my horizons: I had my eyelids done and my face pinched back. In many ways,
having this kind of work done feels like redecorating your house: you buy a new
couch, and then the carpeting looks like shit. So you rip that up, and then you
have to put in new fixtures. It never ends. (Hell, I’d have a penile implant if
they’d let me. At times I’ve been both mother and father to both of my
children, so why not rock the dual equipment?)

                When I went on Dr. Phil’s show last year
(primarily to hawk books, let’s be honest), he looked at me with great disdain
the minute the cameras went live. When I told him I was addicted to plastic
surgery, he reacted as if it were his biggest eureka moment of the week. He
stared
Opposite: Taking advantage of my time alone in an unnamed New York
City hotel suite.

                194

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

                deeply at me, as if he were expecting me to
burst into tears and hug him for “getting to the bottom of me.”

                I just sighed. I was there to share beauty
tips and books (“Please buy one!”) with the masses; now this guy was trying to
be my own personal daytime savior.

                What was so strange about all this was that
the day before the show, the pre-interview I’d done with one of Dr. Phil’s
staff went very differently. One gal—who seemed to be about twenty years
old—asked me all about my breast surgeries and lipo. She wanted some of both
and ASAP, thank you very much. I tried to tell her that it was up to the individual
to decide what was best for her. I also told her that I invented the fuck-me
pose, both before and after surgery. In other words, it’s all about attitude,
not bra size.

                But there was Dr. Phil, standing in front of
his fawning studio audience, ripping me a new one. He made it seem like all I
ever did with my life was sign up for another session under the knife. Between
his comments, I tried to explain to him and his audience how much more there
was to the story: how most models are digitally enhanced in magazines; how many
wear those little chicken-cutlet-looking breast-enhancing inserts. This is the
kind of information women need to know, so they won’t want to kill themselves
just because they don’t look like they just jumped off the glossy pages of
Cosmo.

                But Dr. Phil wasn’t interested in helping me
inspire women, helping me show them how to come to peace with their own bodies.
All he wanted to hear was how everything about me was fake: fake teeth, fake
tits, fake hair, eye and foot work, and so forth. “I’m considering an ass lift,”
I joked.

                “What’s wrong with a little insurance
against the earth’s gravitational pull?”

                Phil looked like he might drop over. “I’m
addicted to looking good,” I told him. “I used to be addicted to alcohol, coke,
prescription pills, and sex.” Pause. “I’m still a passion addict, but I also
like to clean the house every single day. I just do everything to the extreme.”