Get to know your Self
It should come as no surprise that Self Magazine has got Christmas all wrong.
The cover feature for December 2005, entitled "Kelly Ripa. How I Survive the Stress Season" is a blot on the dignity of the modern american publication, as if that squid diaper could get any inkier. If this is their holiday issue, you'd never know it. The color scheme is magenta and yellow. I'm embarrassed to carry it around.
For those of us that have been keeping track, Self Magazine is just digging and digging. Lest we forget "Sharon Stone. Ignore your kids: better abs" (1997), "Minnie Driver. Boo Hoo You're homeless" (1999), and "Kristin Davis. Looting Baghdad" (2003). Okay I made those up, but I swear the real titles are worse.
So what's stressing you out? Getting safely out of the mall parking lot? Remembering the words to all those songs? Having fun?
Kelly Ripa reporting. "In the town of Berlin, New Jersey, we won the best light display three years in a row from the Lion's Club. It's stressful."
Well she's setting herself up for it. We all know how much flailing with a stool and whip it takes to get Lions to have a rational conversation. Plus, their taste in lighting is notoriously subjective. She'd do better with a T-bone or wounded calf display. I don't even know how she got Berlin to be in New Jersey three years in a row.
"Mark," she writes (Kelly and Mark are married), "is getting the gift of not giving gifts." It should already be apparent to you why this is a problem. If it isn't, read on. If it is, print this for your friends, if you have stupid friends.
Granted, Self is a niche Women's magazine and Mark is probably not a subscriber. But what if he picks up the December Self at the train station for a little light reading on his way to work? The specter of disappointment trods across his face. He marches into his office and closes the door without saying good morning to his secretaries. Instantly they know.
"I'm done for." "Never, Ms. Poquet. I'd be the first to go," Gertrude cries. Ms. Poquet is crying too. "Look at me. You're doubly as efficient as I am," Gertrude moans, waving her arthritis wrists in the air. She closes her eyes and reaches into her blazer. "I want you to have him," she says, and puts a chipmunk into Ms. Poquet's hat. They stop crying. Then with one big, resolute burst of energy Poquet leaps up, pounding the office door with her fists, "Not today—Not today, Mark Consuelos," but Gertrude is already in the back, punishing her hands with boiling water from the electric tea kettle.
Inside, Mark misses it all. He is a man alone. Later, on a long walk along the West Side Highway, the Hudson will seem a little darker, a little deeper than usual.
Doesn't seem all that unlikely, does it? Is Kelly counting on Mark to be too absorbed in stocks and fronds to recognize her on a magazine cover for twenty-five days? (Even longer, depending on his newsagent. You know how magazines always come out at the end of the previous month.) Well personally I think he'll see it. He's got to be more thoughtful than she is.
"The kids each get one nice gift," she goes on. "Otherwise I'm setting myself up for a kid who calls me one night from prison." Now I'm doing all I can not to take this personally—therapy, over-eating, soaking this part of the article in a bleach solution—but the fact is, I've enjoyed a number of gifts in my life, and I am not in prison, I am very much at large. Hi Kelly.
It's possible that the people at Self Magazine are very intimidating and Ms. Ripa was pressured into saying what she said. When you are a famous actress, one well-placed cut on your face and people will ask questions. So I'm not saying that Kelly Ripa is a liar. I believe that she's stressed. But you don't see me blaming Boris Yeltsin because I have three cavities and my grandmother is dying.
It is particularly irresponsible, because Kelly has an audience to consider. She is the star of two extraordinarily popular television shows, and has the ear of Regis Philbin. Clearly the woman is doing something right, even if she has been nominated for eight Emmys. What kind of example does this set? If just one kid comes downstairs this Christmas and there's one lonely present under the tree, by the influence of Self Magazine, well Kelly, I may get myself in prison after all.
The cover feature for December 2005, entitled "Kelly Ripa. How I Survive the Stress Season" is a blot on the dignity of the modern american publication, as if that squid diaper could get any inkier. If this is their holiday issue, you'd never know it. The color scheme is magenta and yellow. I'm embarrassed to carry it around.
For those of us that have been keeping track, Self Magazine is just digging and digging. Lest we forget "Sharon Stone. Ignore your kids: better abs" (1997), "Minnie Driver. Boo Hoo You're homeless" (1999), and "Kristin Davis. Looting Baghdad" (2003). Okay I made those up, but I swear the real titles are worse.
So what's stressing you out? Getting safely out of the mall parking lot? Remembering the words to all those songs? Having fun?
Kelly Ripa reporting. "In the town of Berlin, New Jersey, we won the best light display three years in a row from the Lion's Club. It's stressful."
Well she's setting herself up for it. We all know how much flailing with a stool and whip it takes to get Lions to have a rational conversation. Plus, their taste in lighting is notoriously subjective. She'd do better with a T-bone or wounded calf display. I don't even know how she got Berlin to be in New Jersey three years in a row.
"Mark," she writes (Kelly and Mark are married), "is getting the gift of not giving gifts." It should already be apparent to you why this is a problem. If it isn't, read on. If it is, print this for your friends, if you have stupid friends.
Granted, Self is a niche Women's magazine and Mark is probably not a subscriber. But what if he picks up the December Self at the train station for a little light reading on his way to work? The specter of disappointment trods across his face. He marches into his office and closes the door without saying good morning to his secretaries. Instantly they know.
"I'm done for." "Never, Ms. Poquet. I'd be the first to go," Gertrude cries. Ms. Poquet is crying too. "Look at me. You're doubly as efficient as I am," Gertrude moans, waving her arthritis wrists in the air. She closes her eyes and reaches into her blazer. "I want you to have him," she says, and puts a chipmunk into Ms. Poquet's hat. They stop crying. Then with one big, resolute burst of energy Poquet leaps up, pounding the office door with her fists, "Not today—Not today, Mark Consuelos," but Gertrude is already in the back, punishing her hands with boiling water from the electric tea kettle.
Inside, Mark misses it all. He is a man alone. Later, on a long walk along the West Side Highway, the Hudson will seem a little darker, a little deeper than usual.
Doesn't seem all that unlikely, does it? Is Kelly counting on Mark to be too absorbed in stocks and fronds to recognize her on a magazine cover for twenty-five days? (Even longer, depending on his newsagent. You know how magazines always come out at the end of the previous month.) Well personally I think he'll see it. He's got to be more thoughtful than she is.
"The kids each get one nice gift," she goes on. "Otherwise I'm setting myself up for a kid who calls me one night from prison." Now I'm doing all I can not to take this personally—therapy, over-eating, soaking this part of the article in a bleach solution—but the fact is, I've enjoyed a number of gifts in my life, and I am not in prison, I am very much at large. Hi Kelly.
It's possible that the people at Self Magazine are very intimidating and Ms. Ripa was pressured into saying what she said. When you are a famous actress, one well-placed cut on your face and people will ask questions. So I'm not saying that Kelly Ripa is a liar. I believe that she's stressed. But you don't see me blaming Boris Yeltsin because I have three cavities and my grandmother is dying.
It is particularly irresponsible, because Kelly has an audience to consider. She is the star of two extraordinarily popular television shows, and has the ear of Regis Philbin. Clearly the woman is doing something right, even if she has been nominated for eight Emmys. What kind of example does this set? If just one kid comes downstairs this Christmas and there's one lonely present under the tree, by the influence of Self Magazine, well Kelly, I may get myself in prison after all.
posted by Paul S at 11:55 AM
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