Love, Lust & Faking It

by Jenny McCarthy

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “No, it’s God,” he replied.

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “Haven’t figured it out yet,” he said.

  “Well, I think people are kinda waiting on me.”

  “Jenny, what in the hell made you go to a doctor and get your entire chin Botoxed? I mean, let’s get real for a second. Who does that? I can see your forehead, but your chin?”

  “God, I started to get these two dents in my chin, and when I mentioned them to the doctor, he told me I could Botox it to make it go away.”

  “I gave you those dents. Why would you not want something I gave you?”

  “Well, let me get real with you now, God. Why in the heck would you give women wrinkles in the first place? We already have to go through childbirth, we stay up with the babies, we are exhausted, our boobs sag, we get wrinkles, and many husbands cheat on us because we get frumpy. Why couldn’t you just give us a break in the wrinkle department?”

  “Listen, you are the stronger of the two human forms. I knew you women could handle almost anything and personally … I like saggy boobs.”

  “Well, that’s because you’re like one hundred trillion years old.”

  “Go to hell.”

  All of a sudden the clouds parted, and I fell through them. I began screaming and continued to scream until I hit a hard surface. The wind was knocked out of me, and I struggled to get my bearings. It was dark and gloomy. All of a sudden a shadowy figure approached. He looked familiar. Oh my God, it was Satan!

  “Greetings, my insecure one!”

  “Satan, what za hell em I do in here? Oh no, I canth talk again.”

  “Well, you are obviously caught up in your looks, and I couldn’t be more proud. I think you look fantastic, by the way. Those wrinkles in your chin really did disappear.”

  “Weally?” I ran over to a mirror in Satan’s dojo and began screaming in horror. My chin looked liked Jay Leno’s! “You canth weave me like tis.”

  “Leave you like what?… beautiful? You are destined to be my second best student!”

  “Who’s your first?”

  Suddenly a body came down from the ceiling and landed in a loud frump. Once the smoke cleared, I saw that it was Joan Rivers.

  Satan said, “She is.”

  Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!

  I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again I was sitting across from the host, who repeated her sentence, “Jenny, it’s so great to have you here.” I realized at that moment that it was inevitable: I must surrender to the gods of aging and be comfortable with some wrinkles in my life. In the meantime, I had to get through this interview. I drew on the same strength that people use if their baby is trapped under a car and they lift it with one hand. I moved my mouth with all of my might and replied, “It’s great to be here.”

  I did it. I said a sentence! Now I only had six minutes of talking to do. Throughout the rest of the interview I spit on the host at least thirteen times and sounded like I had a lisp. I was happy with that. Once I got backstage Jojo looked at me and said, “You’re an embarrassment to our family.” I knew Jojo would get over it. I was a few years older than her. No doubt Satan’s potion would beckon to her at some point, too.

  [32]

  Women: The Masters of Manipulation

  I thought only evil girls manipulated men to get what they want. Oh no, Charlie Brown, we all do it! I was first made aware of this when I sat down with a therapist shortly after moving to L.A.: “You know you manipulate guys by testing them to get what you want.” I was shocked. How dare she say such an awful thing?! She said, “Think about everything you told me and try to find it.” So I flashed back to what I had told her, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. Holy crap, Batman! I was a master of manipulation!

  I moved to Los Angles in 1994. By 1997, I had moved in with this guy named Paul. I had a really hard time adjusting to his house because of course it was his home. I didn’t feel like I belonged and never felt truly at home there. I roamed the halls afraid to leave my shoes in the corner. I also noticed I would start hoarding and holding on to boxes of junk in the guest room so I felt like I actually had something of mine in the house. I know this sounds so stupid, but it was real to me, and it will give you a good idea about how we unconsciously manipulate, so just hang in there with me.

  So … within the first week of moving in, I said to Paul, “We need a new mattress.” He answered with a perfect guy response: “Yeah, eventually.” I immediately went into an internal mind spin and thought, I don’t have a say in the house. I’m just a guest. I feel worthless, and I don’t belong here. I really started to believe these thoughts because, as the spiritual teachers teach us, once we believe our thoughts, they do become our reality. And for three years I roamed those halls believing, I don’t belong here, I don’t feel welcome. So unconsciously I began to test him. Again, I wasn’t aware of this until the therapist woke me up to it. My sob story to her was, “Paul doesn’t make me feel like I’m at home; Paul doesn’t let me do anything in the house. Wah wah wah wah wah wah.” And then I looked at how I tested him to prove to me that I belonged in his home. I walked him to the living room one day and said, “It really looks like an old lady died in here. No one wants to sit in this room ever. Can I change it? I don’t want to buy anything. Let me just move all the furniture around.” Paul answered, “I think it’s fine just the way it is, babe.” Ahhhhh. My insecurities were going nuts.

  Then I tried something easy, or so I thought. I took down some of his pictures to hang some that I liked. He got upset with me because he thought they belonged in a different place in the house. He said his dead mom was always on that wall, and to move her would be wrong. I pleaded, “But she won’t know she was moved because she’s dead, baby!” He stormed off with a strong, “No!” This threw me into another “I don’t belong here, this isn’t my home” tailspin. At night, I was like a hamster roaming from room to room, imagining how I would change things.

  Because of my “issues,” I started holding resentment toward Paul. I would be sitting across the room looking at him while he was watching TV, and have so much anger because I just wanted to feel at home. Poor guy had no idea! Looking back now, I can’t believe how much energy I wasted trying to test Paul into proving I belonged in his home. I was driven to get my mission accomplished. I thought to myself that even dogs pee on their surroundings to mark their territory. It’s human nature. I pictured myself going outside and peeing on a bush. Again, I was completely oblivious to the fact that I was testing him. I really thought that I simply wanted to redecorate, and that Paul was being stubborn.

  So … I started to up the pressure and got my friend to pose as a decorator to come in and do a quote. I showed Paul what the designer was going to do to the living room, and he said, “That’s too much money.” I replied in perfect manipulative form: “No, I’m gonna pay for it.” Wow, I thought, there is no excuse now. This will prove now that I belong here. This will make me feel like I’m home if he allows me to do this. I’m paying for it, not him. So there’s no excuse … or so I thought. He replied, “We’re having Christmas at my house this year, and I don’t feel like dealing with construction.” Dammit!!!!!!

  I failed again. Now, I don’t want you guys to think I was doing this to him every day for three years. It was sporadic, flaring up whenever I felt unworthy of being in his home. That’s when Jenny “Martha Stewart” McCarthy would rear her ugly head and find anything to change in the house. And to answer the question I hope you guys are asking by now—Why was Paul being so stubborn about his place? Why wouldn’t he just let you redecorate a room?—believe it or not, the reason doesn’t matter, because I was still trying to manipulate him into proving that I belonged there. If I kept blaming him, I would never get to the problem of it being my problem.

  Then after three years of living together he said to me, “You know, it does kinda look like an old lady died in the living room. Go ahead and change it.” I coul
dn’t believe it. Oh wow, that should make me feel at home now! I walked out of the room with a big smile on my face. Within minutes, however, I felt the smile fade. After three years of trying to test him into letting me change the house, I still had that sense of not feeling at home. WTF? This was supposed to be the answer to all of my worries. Weeks went by, and I did nothing with the living room. I would walk past it and think, I don’t want to redecorate. I hate decorating. Paul kept asking, “Did you start to pick things out?” I would answer with, “No, I’ve been really busy.” Which was total bull. I was numb and confused as to why I didn’t want to redecorate, and why I still felt out of my element. Which brings me back to the shrink:

  “Jenny, you are a huge manipulator. You tested Paul just so he would prove your insecurities wrong.”

  I replied, “Don’t we all? Doesn’t every woman and man do things to manipulate to get what we want?”

  “Yes,” she replied, “but they are not awake to it, so they can’t change it yet. Now you are awake. Now you are going to be able to stop yourself from testing Paul in order to make yourself feel better. Jenny, did you ever think from day one you could have sat down and simply said, ‘I’m going through these weird emotions since I’ve moved in, and I don’t feel like I belong here. I want to feel at home, but I’m having a hard time”?

  Yeah, why didn’t I? I totally could have. Why couldn’t I simply state my insecurities? I’ve realized that it’s hard to express our insecurities to our men when we really just want to be adored, loved, and lusted over by them. We want to look like the perfect mates, not insecure hot messes. Well, looking at my own crap, I could see so clearly that I’d done this with more than just the furniture in my life. I mean, if we haven’t felt desired by our man in a long time, haven’t we all dropped a, “This guy hit on me at the store,” instead of just saying, “I’m not feeling like you find me sexy anymore”? We are masters of manipulation.

  So, I hope some of you saw yourself in my story. I’ve gotten so much more self-aware, but I still bust myself from time to time. Let’s just remember to examine our behavior and ask the question, “What do I really want? What do I really fear that’s causing me to act this way?” And then sit down with your man and tell him. It could save you years of manipulation.

  [33]

  The Making of a Polish Porn Star

  I worked in a Polish grocery store selling Polish sausage to Polish people for five years of my life. I was half Polish, so I sort of connected with them. We didn’t just sell Polish sausage, this store was unique. We sold porn magazines, too. (Polish people really know how to party!) I was only a teenager, so it was really awkward when men would come in and buy the magazines. “Four links of sausage and Lip Lust magazine,” they would bark. I would get so angry having to dig through the rack to find their stupid porn, it made me sick. I threw it in their bag and damned their sausage to hell. Ironically, when it was slow, I would glance at the magazines to see what my vagina actually looked like, considering they show angles women never actually see on themselves.

  The one magazine that made me a little curious was Playboy. Those girls didn’t seem like whores, even though I was certain they had sold their souls to the devil. The month I was looking at had Anna Nicole Smith as the centerfold. I remember thinking, “Well, her thighs aren’t perfect. I could maybe pull something like this off.” Then I quickly put the magazine away, shocked I could ever even have thought that I could do something so disgusting.

  A week later I was in front of my garage with a Polaroid camera, taking pictures of myself for modeling agencies. I sent a picture to every agency in downtown Chicago that was a legitimate agency for commercial work. Out of the seventy agencies I sent my picture to, only one called back. I took the bus downtown and stared out the window, dreaming of the fame and fortune that I was sure this commercial agent was going to offer me. I sat down with her and showed her my multiple Polaroids of fancy poses I did in front of my garage door. She immediately laughed and told me to get a bartending job.

  I sat there dumbfounded. Did she know I’d spent two weeks’ worth of my Polish sausage job money on this outfit? Did she know what I’d told all of my friends and family back in my neighborhood? I told them I was going to Hollywood! I walked out of her office defeated, resigned to a life of serving men sausage and porn. At that moment I looked up and saw the Playboy building. I stared at the giant metal bunny dominating Chicago’s skyline and thought, Maybe I’ll just go talk to somebody there. Just talk. As I walked across the street and entered the building, I had visions of my mom crying and holding my leg, screaming the Lord’s Prayer. I thought of my dad working three jobs to put his four girls through Catholic school and how he would be so disappointed if I posed nude. Yet I watched my hand reach for the elevator button, and I stepped inside. When the doors opened, I arrived in the lobby of Playboy magazine. I approached the receptionist as if I knew what the hell I was doing. “Hi, I’m just inquiring as to how girls get chosen for Playboy.” The receptionist told me, “Well, they don’t just walk in. We receive over one hundred thousand pictures a year in the mail. You have to submit.” I pictured myself posing naked in front of my garage door and realized how horrible my own pictures would turn out. I thanked her and began to walk away. I was so grateful it was a dead end. I wasn’t cut out to be a nude model anyway. As the elevator doors opened to take me back to Poland, I heard a voice say, “Excuse me, are you asking about becoming a Playmate?” I turned around to see an executive in a suit. “Um, yeah,” I replied.

  “Well, we don’t normally do this, but we have a photo session going on right now, so if you’re comfortable putting on a bikini, we can take some test photos.”

  People have crossroads in their lives, and before me was a huge one. I come from good stock—have I mentioned I am Catholic? How could I even consider posing naked when I’d missed maybe three masses in my entire life? “Okay,” my mouth said. And I followed this man back into a studio, where I watched my body put on a bikini. How the hell am I here? I kept thinking. I was just on a city bus an hour ago, and now I’m putting a bikini on at Playboy magazine. I walked out and stood in front of the camera and began to pose like I was getting a mug shot taken. I couldn’t move. I just turned left profile, and then I turned right. The photographer shouted thanks, and I ran out the door as fast as I possibly could. The entire bus ride home, all I could think about was how stupid I was for going there, and how I should start to fill out applications for bartending as fast as possible.

  When I walked in the door, I whispered to my sister what I’d just done. She was shocked. My family was so Catholic that we had a statue of Mother Mary that was four feet tall in our living room window. My mom allowed strangers to come in and pray whenever they wanted. I have three aunts that are nuns, two uncles that are priests. We couldn’t get any more Catholic short of being the pope. Ya dig? Anyway, I told my sister to calm the hell down because there wasn’t a chance in hell that I would get it. There were 100,000 girls vying for a twelve-girl slot. Ring-ring, I answered the phone, and it was Playboy, telling me that I was going to be Miss October! I’m not kidding. I had just walked in the door. Either they were desperate, or I was destined to become Chicago’s Polish porn star. I hung up the phone in shock. I told my sister, and she looked at me like I had just been sentenced to death. “Mom and Dad are going to kill you. Kill you. Kill you. You need to run away.” As I paced my bedroom, which was as big as a closet, I realized that this was my ticket out of the barrio. I knew I wasn’t a sexy, sultry girl, but I had confidence in myself to fake that I was a sexy and sultry girl.

  I devised a plan: I would take $2,000 out of my $20,000 paycheck and send my parents on a cruise the week the magazine came out. It seemed like a genius idea at the time. So I went off to the Playboy studios and started my first day of posing in my birthday suit. They had me start off in a robe and slowly undress every hour. I felt so weird, uncomfortable, and cold. How often do you stand completely naked in a room full
of men? Um … never. So, I kept telling myself, Fake it, Jenny, fake it. I tightened up my tummy and arched my back. I got some ooohs and ahhhs, so at least I knew I wasn’t making a complete ass out of myself. “Okay,” the photographer said, “Off with the undies.”

  Shit, really, it was time. Boobs are one thing, but a girl’s nether regions are precious cargo. In the sexiest possible way I took my panties off and proceeded to strike poses while still covering my crotch with my hands. “Um, Jenny, put your hands on your hips,” the photographer politely said. Dammit, he was on to me. Slowly I moved both hands away from my crotch and watched the crew’s faces turn confused. Almost as if they’d never seen a crotch like mine; they just kept staring. I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t a man, for Pete’s sake; what were they looking at? The photographer called the makeup artist and whispered in her ear. What was he saying to her? Put makeup on my ugly parts? The suspense was killing me!

  The makeup artist finally came over and said, “You have the most pubic hair we have ever seen on a girl that has come in here. You’ve never even shaved, have you?” “Um, no, I didn’t know I was supposed to.” “Have you ever trimmed?” she asked with a repulsed look on her face. “No,” I said with a quiver in my voice. “I’m Polish, I think we’re just naturally hairy.” The makeup artist turned around and shouted to the whole room, “She’s Polish, that’s why she is so hairy!” I almost died. I was standing there in the most vulnerable state, and this woman had just shouted that I had roadkill on my canooter. The photographer brought his lighting grip friend over for a closer look. They squatted down, staring and waving their hands across my crotch to see how the light reflected on it, for what felt like an eternity. Finally the photographer said, “Let’s just light the hell out of this thing.”