Thursday, April 14, 2011
This I Do For Me
Upon viewing the cover and a few pictures from OK Magazine of Mariah Carey and her husband Nick Cannon on my dear friend Trent's Pink Is The New Blog, I longed for the days when men stood outside delivery rooms, ruminating their fates as fathers and passing out cigars while the birth process took place. We've swung the other way as a culture -- Mariah is posed naked with her husband fondling her very pregnant body in a variety of positions. Nick appears also to be unclothed, bringing to mind John Lennon's disturbing album cover of Two Virgins, where he and Yoko are entwined in their full naked glory. Why, God, why? I get why Mariah did it -- I'm sure she got paid good money. But why do we want to see it? I blame Demi Moore for starting the trend on the cover of Vanity Fair so many years ago when she was married to Bruce Willis, not Ashton, when I only used a computer to type my name over and over in a trance-like fog (telling detail -- it was only my name. I never typed a boy's name with mine). Those days stay in my mind like a faded Polaroid, capturing an innocence to which I will not be returning.
I get it. Pregnancy is beautiful, natural. But I only expect to see these types of photos when I peruse through Our Bodies, Ourselves. I'm not particularly squeamish, but I still can't hop on the pregnant photo bandwagon. I have no problem with doing these pictures for your private collection. I've never been pregnant; I'm sure it's a wonderful feeling and you want to capture it. Like the old Clairol slogan, This I Do For Me. But the obsession with pregnant naked celebrities? I don't know. I don't want to know. I clicked the link, though -- it's my fault I saw these pictures. Like Oedipus, I couldn't look away. Next time I'm tempted, I'll go in the next room and hand out cigars.
Michelle's Spell of the Day
"Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of a joy you must have somebody to divide it with." Mark Twain
Okay, my dears. I have hopped onto the Dexter bandwagon. If you think you aren't the type to like this show, you might be wrong. I always thought I would hate it, but turns out it's as addictive as crack cocaine. So far, I have three more episodes of Season Four. If John Lithgow isn't full out scary, nobody is.
Benedictions and Maledictions