The RedMolly Picayune-Democrat

Whold Your Whorses

Most little girls have a moderate to serious obsession with horses. I, not being a Real Girl, never did. Well, I read Black Beauty and Misty of Chincoteague and a couple of the Black Stallion books, from whence I developed an unholy love of the name "Alec." But the whole horses-are-beautiful thing? Just kind of passed me by.

My sister was a much more wholehearted horsie fan. She loved and adored her Breyer horses, which I have to admit were pretty cute.

But you know what was wrong with those Breyer horses?

They just weren't slutty enough.

No boobs. No sparkly eyelashes. No high freakin' heels.

Thankfully, though, Playmates Toys--makers of such quality products as (Slutty) Disney Fairies and (Slutted Up for a New Millennium) Strawberry Shortcake--has found the perfect way to combine prepubescent girls' age-old fascination with horses with contemporary American culture's focus on glitter, cell phones and underage sexuality.

Presenting: Struts!

   

The inaugural "Runway Magic" collection includes four different horse figurines, each of which comes with "a head shot and a personal bio... just like a real model!" That's awesome, because if there's one thing young girls are missing out on today, it's the opportunity to learn all about the vast career potential offered by the modeling industry.

Sadly, the little one with the pink shoes is doomed to failure when she turns up at her first audition and is told they're not interested in anyone less than 15 hands high at the withers. And the purple-togged one next to her is far too ethnic for the cover of Equestrienne. The other two? They can look forward to two or three wild seasons of coked-out jet-setting before they pack on a couple extra pounds around the fetlocks and end up getting pregnant by some washed-up racehorse. Look for them hanging all over the Budweiser Clydesdales in the paddock at Super Bowl LXV.

Here's what a real Strut looks like:

Look, you can brush her tail and play with her pearl bridle. I wonder if her platform shoes come off, or if they've been nailed on by the farrier equivalent of Sergio Rossi?

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Hell's bells, is it Sunday again? The weekend is shriveling up like a raisin in the sun. Monday looms, and with it Responsibility. Ewwwww.

How to tell when you're a terrible mother:

SELF: Go outside and play.

5YO: It's too ho-ot!

SELF: No it's not. It's beautiful. Go outside.

3YO: But I'm ti-red!

SELF: Then you can be tired outside.

3YO: I have a tummyache!

SELF: Then you can have a tummyache outside. (pause) I don't think I'm getting through to you guys here. What I am saying is GO. OUTSIDE. NOW.

(Children reluctantly repair to backyard... which, from the quality of their reactions, you would think was some sort of mercury-tainted wasteland. In fact, it boasts such child-friendly upgrades as a dirt pit [just what it sounds like], a fleet of Tonka trucks, two RC vehicles without batteries [less noisy that way, also they're less able to chase the cats with them] and a $1100 play structure assembled with much blood, sweat, tears and beer by Papa and Papa's best friend.)

Five minutes elapse.

3YO: (appears, Haley Joel Osment-like, at my side. Says nothing.)

SELF: Aren't you supposed to be outside?

3YO: (leans in for a kiss)

SELF: (offers hug, kiss on dirt-scented little head) Honey, why don't you go back outside with Fisher?

3YO: I wanna sit on your waaaaaap.

SELF: No, honey, Mama's only going to be here for a minute. Go on outside.

3YO: (sinks to floor with immensely world-weary sigh... sticks hand down front of shorts)

SELF: Rhys, if you're tired, maybe you should take a nap.

3YO: I have a tummyache.

SELF: Do you want to have a tummyache and take a nap, or have a tummyache and go outside?

3YO: (stubborn silence)

SELF: OK, it looks like you're choosing nap.

3YO: NO! Mama, I'm finking! I'm finking about it!

5YO: (materializes) Mama, can I read you a story about a bug that's THIS big? (holding up thumb)

OK, obviously blogging is not to be today...

I Traded My Baby for Crack Cocaine!

Is there any thrill more complete, any joy more unadulterated, than that of stumbling upon a new-to-you literary genre/subculture? Can any of life's more typical pleasures--chocolate suckers from See's, a sparkly-clean bathroom, a rollicking orgasm--possibly hope to compete?

Nope. They can't.

And that's why it brought me such unmitigated happiness, whilst idly clicking about online (I was looking for a discount subscription to Real Simple, if you must know), to discover the tawdry yet engrossing True Confessions magazine.

"Chained to His Bed!" "Seduced by a Priest!" "I Earned a College Education the Hard Way... On My Knees!" The stories' titillating (hee hee) cover slugs only hint at the delights to be read therein. From underage seduction ("I Was a High School Hoochie!") to Hatfield-McCoy crime sprees ("My Brother Died in My Arms--Killed by My Boyfriend from a Rival Gang"), no stone in the murky marshes of lower-middle-class Americana goes unturned-over to see what wriggles beneath.

Though these magazines' editors reportedly require authors to sign affidavits of their stories' factual basis, I have my doubts... see this excerpt from "Makeover Disaster."

“Blaze, this is my sister, Kelsey,” I said, a flat tone in my voice. I couldn’t look at Blaze’s reaction.

“Hi Blaze, it’s so nice to finally meet you,” she purred as she sashayed over to him. Her high heels emphasized the sway of her walk and she reached out to take Blaze’s hand.

She glanced slowly down the length of his body, and then slowly back up at him. When her eyes reached his, she slowly batted her long, darkened eyelashes, licking her shiny lips. “You know, I think you look just like the lead singer from that rock band, Sane Lunatics.”

I stared at the floor, dejected. He did favor the guy Kelsey referred to, with his wavy shoulder-length blond hair and brown beard and long narrow face. He had rock star good looks. We all know what kind of women men like him fell for.

OK, besides the fact that my exhaustive research on Rhapsody reveals no such band as the Sane Lunatics (maybe the author was thinking of Nelly's hometown crew St. Lunatics [warning... egregious Flash misuse]?)... sociological research has revealed that men are only named Blaze in ABC soap operas and the half-baked fantasies of the sort of women who slap their children in Wal-Mart.

Confession stories hew to a strict formula: low- to lower-middle-socioeconomic class woman is driven by financial, familial or romantic crisis to engage in transgressive activity (in the '20s, it was "smoking dope"... now it's pimping your teenage daughter or boffing the Schwan's man). She eventually summons up the courage to confront her dilemma head-on, usually by confessing all to a Trusted Friend or Loved One (though apparently one confession isn't enough, since she then feels compelled to share her story with thousands of Dear Readers). She is rewarded by a neat wrap-up of her problem that reinforces Middle American values of home, family, patriotism and coupon-clipping. All is well in the state of Denmark.

Apparently, I'm not the only person fascinated by the phenomenon of confession magazines... I found this cool article by John Marr of the SF Bay Guardian which goes a little more into their history and culture (and isn't nearly as snide as I am. Kudos, John.).

You can also learn how to write confession stories of your very own from Michael Bracken at SFWA.

Go forth, read, enjoy! And remember... even if your mother forced you into 48 hours of sex with a fat banker, then sold nude photos of you to a horny sheik and reinvested the proceeds in a meth/gun-running racket... you can always churn out 2000 to 6000 words about it and sell it for a modest profit.