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    Everything About Me Is Fake . . . And I'm Perfect

    3.5 22

    by Janice Dickinson

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    • ISBN-13: 9780060554705
    • Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
    • Publication date: 09/05/2006
    • Edition description: REPRINT
    • Pages: 272
    • Product dimensions: 5.60(w) x 8.60(h) x 0.80(d)

    Janice Dickinson is the world's first supermodel. She has appeared on the cover of every fashion magazine in the world and is the author of No Lifeguard on Duty and Everything About Me Is Fake . . . and I'm Perfect. A former judge on CW's smash hit America's Next Top Model, she lives in Beverly Hills, California, with her two children.

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    Everything About Me Is Fake . . . And I'm Perfect

    Chapter One

    Going All the Way for Perfection

    How far will your average supermodel go to look fabulous before, during, and after the hot-hot days of a modeling career? Well, let's take a quick trek down Memory Lane to Perfection Junction because highlights like this -- well, they ain't pretty.

    The Origins of Perfection

    At age fourteen, naturally, I was no supermodel -- not just yet. But I wanted to be one, so badly that I practically slept with Vogue under my pillow. I guess I was hoping some beauty tips would invade my brain while I slept. Instead, I ended up with my first pair of fake boobs.

    When I say I stuffed myself every day, I don't mean gorging on burgers and fries. I filled my training bra to the brim (or as far as those baby cups could go) with tons of good old-fashioned affordable Kleenex.

    Now, remember, I grew up in Florida. That means 100-degree temps and 200 percent humidity -- so let's just say it wasn't exactly comfortable when all those tissues started getting moist and sticky. But I needed bigger boobs, and there was no way I was waiting around for Mother Nature's blessing -- much less for Victoria to reveal her secrets to me. At fourteen I couldn't really afford implants, so I did the next best thing and started reaching out to bathroom products. I never thought of it in my virginal state, but my slogan should have been Please don't squeeze the Charmin.

    One night I took my toilet-paper-packing self to the high school basketball game. I remember feeling a little strange midway through the second half, a little ... lighter. Maybe skipping lunch is working! I thought.

    Then, in a moment of horror, I looked down into the bleachers and saw a soggy, sweaty, melting ball of toilet paper on the floor below me. One of my counterfeit boobs had staged its own escape by leaping out of my bra and T-shirt. When I stood up to cheer the team on, I had one big tit and one nonexistent one, and there wasn't much I could do about it. In a million years I couldn't have endured that long, humiliating walk down the bleachers to hit the bathroom and wad myself up again.

    Ever the clever girl, I thought of the next best thing to rectify the situation. When no one was looking, I carefully slipped off a Ped sock and, while everyone else was cheering for the Nova Titans, granted myself a new second boob. I was like the Bionic Woman: We can rebuild her! A few minutes later my clammy hands were raised in fists to cheer -- and my fake tits (both of them) were bouncing along for the ride.

    That night, when my mother asked what I wanted for my next birthday, I surprised her. "Ten new pairs of Peds," I said. "But without the little pom-poms." No one had nipples that big.

    Oh, the Horror

    Okay, enough about my youth (for now, anyway). Let's pick things up in the backseat of a limo, circa 1980, after a Harper's Bazaar shoot for Gucci. I was making out with rocker Frank Zappa before we stepped out for dinner at the fabulous Russian Tea Room in New York City.

    As the two of us strutted inside the place, all eyes were on my hot white jeans, which left little to the imagination. Somewhere between the antipasto and the second bottle of vino, I looked down and noticed something clammy between my legs -- something that had nothing to do with Frank. Perfect, hot, model-babe Janice had all of a sudden turned into just-got-her-period-all-over-her-Calvins Janice.

    What to do?

    Before Frank got a load of the problem and decided I needed a transfusion (yep, it was that bad), my brain went into overdrive. Suddenly my hand was spilling half a bottle of wine into my nether regions.

    "Oh my God, Frank, you had me so hot I wasn't paying attention," I purred as $200 worth of booze soaked into my crotch. I could always get hold of another bottle of wine -- but at least this way I knew I wouldn't end up as the bleeding girl on one of his anthology albums!

    Out of Africa, Into a Mess

    I went to Africa once on a shoot for Playboy, and my body was crying out for a hunky native. Since the only one in sight had what looked like a large bone through his nostrils, I opted to focus on myself and my other need: relief for my dehydrated body. Hearing my cries for some spa activity, my handlers suggested I go roll around in a mud bath. All I could think was, Why not? Sounded like a cheaper, more rustic version of the $300 mud wrap they offer at any Ritz Carlton.

    Well, it was a tad more Farmer in the Dell than I expected. In fact, it was a giant mud pit. Sure, it was sort of interesting to feel that cold, smooth clay go into places previously reserved for men I invited into my bedroom. The downside was, I couldn't get the mud out of those private spots, no matter how high I reached or how hard I tried.

    Eventually I found myself in photographer Peter Beard's tub, which was actually a rusty tin can in the middle of this hog ranch where we were shooting. On the plus side, though, Peter's servants did bring pots brimming with hot, steamy water to get the mud out of ... well, I'll leave that to your imagination. At least I could finally claim I was earthy.

    Everything About Me Is Fake . . . And I'm Perfect. Copyright © by Janice Dickinson. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

    Table of Contents

    Acknowledgmentsix
    Perfliction1
    Part IModeling17
    1.Going All the Way for Perfection21
    2.Starving for Beauty33
    3.Are All Models Lesbians?45
    4.War Stories from the Beauty Front Lines49
    5.The Good Old Days of Debauchery63
    6.Dealing with Backbiting Bitches (Even the Ones in Your Own Mind)71
    7.The Perfect Career Comeback81
    8.How I Feel About the Modeling World Now93
    Part IIThe Circle of (Social) Life99
    9.My Teenage Wasteland101
    10.Men, Age, and Perfection115
    11.My School of Discipline123
    12.Perfect Men Who Have Captured My Fancy (or Not)141
    13.Me and JFK Jr.155
    14.Not-So-Perfect Sex: Lust and Betrayal161
    15.Advanced Faking It for Men171
    Part IIILooks and Beauty175
    16.The Perfect Body Image: Fat or Phat?177
    17.Toning Up Body and Mind--In a Hurry181
    18.Extreme Model Makeover (aka Janice Goes Under the Knife!)189
    19.In the Butt, Bob197
    20.Dressed to Maim199
    21.How I've Helped the Famous and Infamous Be More Perfect203
    22.The Best Beauty Tips Ever209
    23.Emotions in Motion227
    24.Compulsives Anonymous235
    25.The Perfect Ending245
    26.The Kind of Love That Makes My World Perfect251
    Index257
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    Everything About Me Is Fake is a fast, funny, name-dropping, incident-filled, sexy read about how the world's first supermodel doesn't even feel close to perfect and never did--despite appearances to the contrary. Even when Janice Dickinson was being stitched into clothing and having her boobs taped together to be a Cosmo cover girl, she heard only the words of her pedophile father, who always told her, "You'll never amount to anything. You're a loser because you're a girl."

    The book explores how women spend their lives striving for the unattainable, trying to look like they walked off the pages of a magazine with Jennifer Aniston stick-straight hair bouncing in the breeze and Cover Girl smiles hiding the pain. Janice tells us what's real about beauty and what's not, and how women don't have to be slaves to the pictures they see on the glossy pages of Vogue. She discusses why we need to feel perfect, and how our pasts, our unattainable ideas of beauty (thanks to Hollywood), and male expectations all collude to make women feel like they should be working towards the next major makeover before next year's model steps up to the bed.

    Yet she is also convinced that the world does need to glam up a bit, so Janice offers real tips for both men and women, drawing on the bizarre tricks of the trade that she learned while modeling all over the world. She knows what anyone can do to easily fake in order to feel and look as perfect as possible--and without spending a million dollars or living in an operating room. She offers every beauty trick in the book--not the ones you’re used to reading, but real, concrete tips that will make anyone feel better in a matter of minutes.

    Janice also includes more illustrative anecdotes from her personal life that she didn't include in her first book, No Lifeguard on Duty: she's the girl who prepped JFK Jr. for Caroline, who stole Trump's limo, got Bruce Willis to a good plastic surgeon, and made Warren Beatty mad because she was prettier than he was. But along with the wild tales of partying and bed-hopping, she tells us what it was like to strive for perfection, and fail. Her way to kill the pain of that failure was pills, booze, sex, and rock stars, until that lifestyle came crashing down around her. When you’ve spent a lifetime trying to be perfect and having it all cave in, the next question is perfectly simple: "Now what?" The answers to that question surprise even Janice, a woman who isn't easily shocked.

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