Love, Lust And Faking It Part 8

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 p.o.r.n. 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 b.u.t.ton, and I stepped inside. When the doors opened, I arrived in the lobby of Playboy Playboy magazine. I approached the receptionist as if I knew what the h.e.l.l I was doing. "Hi, I'm just inquiring as to how girls get chosen for magazine. I approached the receptionist as if I knew what the h.e.l.l I was doing. "Hi, I'm just inquiring as to how girls get chosen for Playboy." 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. 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 ma.s.ses 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 h.e.l.l 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 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. 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 h.e.l.l down because there wasn't a chance in h.e.l.l that I would get it. There were 100,000 girls vying for a twelve-girl slot. Ring-ring, Ring-ring, I answered the phone, and it was I answered the phone, and it was Playboy, 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 p.o.r.n 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 s.e.xy, sultry girl, but I had confidence in myself to 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 p.o.r.n 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 s.e.xy, sultry girl, but I had confidence in myself to fake fake that I was a s.e.xy and sultry girl. that I was a s.e.xy 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 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 a.s.s out of myself. "Okay," the photographer said, "Off with the undies." 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 a.s.s out of myself. "Okay," the photographer said, "Off with the undies."

s.h.i.+t, really, it was time. b.o.o.bs are one thing, but a girl's nether regions are precious cargo. In the s.e.xiest 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 h.e.l.l out of this thing."

This thing? Oh my G.o.d, it was roadkill! He looked at the makeup artist. "Get your hairbrush and fluff it up. It's going in all different directions." The makeup artist pulled a giant paddle hairbrush out of her bag and started brus.h.i.+ng up and down with strong strokes. She looked at me oddly. "Guess I can't use this brush anymore."

Oh, the horror, the misery. How does one pose s.e.xy when you feel like you're wearing a dead squirrel? Fake it, fake it, that's how. I started pretending I was pretty hot. How would a hot chick pose? Not a clue. I kept doing dumb moves until they finally said, "Let's just do some b.u.t.t shots now." b.u.t.t shots?! Whew, I thought. I can just turn around and cry while they take pictures of my b.u.t.t. So I turned around and stood there, thinking the worst was over. It wasn't. The photographer said, "Um, Jenny, you have to bend over and then try to turn your face to the lens while sticking your b.u.t.t towards the lens, too." I felt like such a dork. I did what he said and bent over and heard, "Whoa." Not a good whoa, but a "You thought the front was bad" kind of whoa. Another surprise. "Look at all that hair that's coming from her b.u.t.t."

What?! I had no idea my b.u.t.t was as hairy as my crotch. I didn't even know I had hair on my exit door. "Let's light that chunk of hair coming out of her b.u.t.t," he said. I had no idea my b.u.t.t was as hairy as my crotch. I didn't even know I had hair on my exit door. "Let's light that chunk of hair coming out of her b.u.t.t," he said.

"Somebody kill me!" is what I kept saying to myself. The photographer proceeded to make me stay in the bent-over position for forty-five minutes while he lit my b.u.t.t-hole hair. Finally, after a twelve-hour day, the shoot came to an end. I was exhausted. is what I kept saying to myself. The photographer proceeded to make me stay in the bent-over position for forty-five minutes while he lit my b.u.t.t-hole hair. Finally, after a twelve-hour day, the shoot came to an end. I was exhausted.

The week the magazine came out was a disaster. As planned, I sent my parents on a cruise to Mexico so they would miss our house getting burned down by the neighborhood. Moments after their flight left, I received a phone call from my uncle, who said he'd just read in the newspaper that a Catholic girl named Jenny McCarthy had posed nude for Playboy. Playboy. I said, "Ummmmmmm, yeah, that's me." He started screaming at the top of his lungs. He told me that I was going to burn in h.e.l.l and that I had shamed my whole family. My body started trembling because I knew he was right. I was going to burn in h.e.l.l, and I had shamed my whole family. What had I done?! Things went downhill the rest of the week: my house was covered in toilet paper, and my sisters, who were still at my alma mater, were tortured by the girls there. I couldn't imagine what my parents were going to do to me. Five days later they walked in the door with smiles on their glowing faces. My sister sat them down and told them what I'd done, because we all knew I would have been murdered on the spot. I said, "Ummmmmmm, yeah, that's me." He started screaming at the top of his lungs. He told me that I was going to burn in h.e.l.l and that I had shamed my whole family. My body started trembling because I knew he was right. I was going to burn in h.e.l.l, and I had shamed my whole family. What had I done?! Things went downhill the rest of the week: my house was covered in toilet paper, and my sisters, who were still at my alma mater, were tortured by the girls there. I couldn't imagine what my parents were going to do to me. Five days later they walked in the door with smiles on their glowing faces. My sister sat them down and told them what I'd done, because we all knew I would have been murdered on the spot.

My dad took it well. My mom, on the other hand, not so well. She reacted by bursting into tears and running into her bedroom. She told my sisters that at least she had three other daughters to love. Ouch! d.a.m.n! Ouch! d.a.m.n! That's not something you want to hear from your mom. She had a breakdown, and so did I. It felt like the world was cras.h.i.+ng down on me, and I didn't know how to save myself. Then our eighty-year-old next-door neighbor Ruth came over and talked to my mom. She said, "Linda, who cares what anybody thinks? She's your daughter, and that's that. She's a good girl, and I think she looks beautiful." My mom only needed to hear one outside perspective to turn her thinking around. She came to me and said, I hate what you did, but I love you and will stand by you. I hugged her and cried. I told her to have faith in me. I was gonna get to Hollywood and become famous and do something good with my fame. Looking back now, we talk about that time in our lives. After all the autism activism work I have done, I have made my mom more proud than ever. She says I'm her hero, but to many others back home I will always just be the hairiest Polish p.o.r.n star from Chicago. That's not something you want to hear from your mom. She had a breakdown, and so did I. It felt like the world was cras.h.i.+ng down on me, and I didn't know how to save myself. Then our eighty-year-old next-door neighbor Ruth came over and talked to my mom. She said, "Linda, who cares what anybody thinks? She's your daughter, and that's that. She's a good girl, and I think she looks beautiful." My mom only needed to hear one outside perspective to turn her thinking around. She came to me and said, I hate what you did, but I love you and will stand by you. I hugged her and cried. I told her to have faith in me. I was gonna get to Hollywood and become famous and do something good with my fame. Looking back now, we talk about that time in our lives. After all the autism activism work I have done, I have made my mom more proud than ever. She says I'm her hero, but to many others back home I will always just be the hairiest Polish p.o.r.n star from Chicago.

[34].

Brad Pitt I met Brad Pitt once at a party, just after he had broken up with Gwyneth Paltrow. (He's going to kill me for telling this story, but he's so busy with his fifteen children I highly doubt he's going to do anything about it.) We were at some Hollywood Christmas party that movie producers like to throw in their backyards every year. These parties are painful to go to and are usually more like keggers in college than fancy parties. Mainly because they don't have sponsors like a movie premiere; they are forking out their own cash to wine and dine, and it's obvious they spend it only on booze. Anyway, I was there with my girlfriend, who had that disease I'm sure all of you have heard of, I-leave-my-friend-at-every-party syndrome. It's amazing to witness the disease in full outbreak. One second my friend is next to me, a guy approaches, and the next second, poof! She's gone. Not to be found until the next day, when the disease subsides. met Brad Pitt once at a party, just after he had broken up with Gwyneth Paltrow. (He's going to kill me for telling this story, but he's so busy with his fifteen children I highly doubt he's going to do anything about it.) We were at some Hollywood Christmas party that movie producers like to throw in their backyards every year. These parties are painful to go to and are usually more like keggers in college than fancy parties. Mainly because they don't have sponsors like a movie premiere; they are forking out their own cash to wine and dine, and it's obvious they spend it only on booze. Anyway, I was there with my girlfriend, who had that disease I'm sure all of you have heard of, I-leave-my-friend-at-every-party syndrome. It's amazing to witness the disease in full outbreak. One second my friend is next to me, a guy approaches, and the next second, poof! She's gone. Not to be found until the next day, when the disease subsides.

I found myself walking through the party alone but pretending to do that thing where you look left and right as you walk, like you're actually looking for someone. I was on my fourth lap when a guy said, "Can I help you find whoever you are looking for?" I laughed and said, "Oh no, I'm looking for the bathroom." Good cover, idiot.

The guy showed me where the bathroom was, and I headed toward it. Los Angeles wannabe actresses, a semi-actor that I thought I recognized from the third lead in a sitcom, and band guys were all crunched into a hallway waiting for the bathroom. I stood there listening to the "I'm gonna make it in this town" dialogue, wondering why the h.e.l.l I didn't just leave. Just when I'd finally had enough, I turned around to get the h.e.l.l out when Brad Pitt joined the line. I casually smiled and spun back around, hoping I didn't seem like a total dork. How do you not geek out on a guy like that? He was wearing a beanie and looked as if he had skipped a couple days shaving. I wanted to shove my tongue down his throat, but I controlled myself and decided to just bask in his scent. I guessed his cologne pretty quickly. You might have heard of it before, it's called marijuana. I didn't care if he was a pothead. He talked openly about it in many interviews, and his honesty turned me on even more. h.e.l.l, he could be blind and deaf with no arms and legs. (Well, maybe just one arm. I would definitely need one arm. Okay. A finger.) The thing about celebs is, you almost need to be one to understand the science of picking one up. Rule number one is, you never tell a celeb that you are a really big fan if you ever hope to sleep with him or her. I've run away from many men who had said that to me. So, what did I do in this bathroom line? I ignored him. I was hoping he was checking out my b.u.t.t, but people kept talking to him, so the chances were slim. Jeez, leave the guy alone, I kept thinking as I was obnoxiously bending over to pick up the lipstick I had purposely dropped on the ground. Then I heard a familiar voice talking to Brad. I turned around, and saw it was the guy who showed me the way to the bathroom. He told Brad not to wait in this line, that he could go to the room upstairs. The guy caught me looking at him and clearly felt bad that he had steered me to the line with all the normal folk; he asked if I wanted to use that one, too. Brad looked at me, and I kept my focus on the guy and smiled. Then I casually responded with, "Yeah, that'd be great." So the three of us headed to the bathroom, and I stared at Brad's b.u.t.t the entire time he walked up the stairs. How does he dress like he doesn't care, yet clothing hangs over each b.u.t.tock like it's making love to it? G.o.d, I wanted to bite it. We made it to the bathroom, and Brad went in first, leaving me to talk to the guy that showed us the VIP bathroom.

"My name is Noah, by the way," he said.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Jenny," I replied.

I could tell the guy took a little liking to me, so I gave him a little flirt-talk to keep the conversation going. But all I could do was imagine that Brad Pitt's p.e.n.i.s was exposed four feet from my body. I had flashes in my head of being the first woman in the world convicted for rape, and women everywhere in the world cheering me on for doing so.

Then I heard the sounds of flus.h.i.+ng and water running and the door opened. Oh, no, I thought, I don't have a plan to stop him. I smiled and walked right past him, cool as a cuc.u.mber, into the bathroom and shut the door. Dammit, I thought. There goes my one shot to bone the s.e.xiest man alive. And then I heard Noah striking up a conversation with him. I realized that I had my head plastered to the door while listening to what they were saying instead of peeing. I pulled my pants down, forced out three drops of urine, and quickly wiped. Flush flush, wash wash. Flush flush, wash wash. I opened the door, and it was just Noah standing there waiting for me. I was crushed. I'd blown it. I opened the door, and it was just Noah standing there waiting for me. I was crushed. I'd blown it.

And then Noah performed a miracle in front of my eyes. "So, Brad just invited me back to his place to hang. Do you want to come with?" Holy s.h.i.+t, this guy has no idea, but he just picked up a rapist and is about to take the rapist to the victim's house. "Yeah, that sounds cool," I said. Noah smiled, and I followed him through the house and out the door. We got to the valet, and that's where we met up with Brad. Noah made the introduction: "Hey, Brad, this is Jenny." My eyes slowly met his, and we shook hands. His voice went into slow motion, "Niiiicceee toooo meeeeeet youuuuuu." Then a girl popped out of nowhere and shouted to us, "Ready to go, our car is here."

Hold on, p.u.s.s.ycat, who are you? Who is this creature I must destroy who looks cute as a b.u.t.ton dragging my rape victim to a car? d.a.m.n. How was I going to try and do anything with a p.u.s.s.y-blocker in the way? The valet opened the car door, and she got into the driver seat and Noah jumped into the pa.s.senger seat. I stood there confused as Brad climbed into the back seat, leaving the only place for me ... in the back seat next to him! Brad must have asked Noah to ask me to come back to his place. The p.u.s.s.y-blocker had to be Noah's girlfriend. Holy c.r.a.p, Batman! I was dying. I tried to keep cool and just sort of agreed with whatever they were talking about in the car. We pulled up to a very nondescript gate, and it took security all of three seconds to open it. Brad started asking me questions about myself and was very casual about it in a flirty way. We walked into his house, and it looked like it came out of Architectural Digest. Architectural Digest. A butler or something approached us and asked if we wanted a drink. I ordered some vodka with a splash of lemon to calm my nerves. We headed into a den that was dark but cozy. I was seriously pitting out so bad from nerves that I asked to use his bathroom strictly to wipe some of the sweat away. "Yeah, I'll show you where it is," Brad said. Oh, no, I wasn't ready to rape him yet. I couldn't rape someone when I had BO. A butler or something approached us and asked if we wanted a drink. I ordered some vodka with a splash of lemon to calm my nerves. We headed into a den that was dark but cozy. I was seriously pitting out so bad from nerves that I asked to use his bathroom strictly to wipe some of the sweat away. "Yeah, I'll show you where it is," Brad said. Oh, no, I wasn't ready to rape him yet. I couldn't rape someone when I had BO.

We were walking down the hallway, talking about little s.h.i.+t, when he grabbed me and pushed me against a wall. I stared at him for a second, and then we slowly kissed. The b.u.t.terflies in my stomach were going berserk. I slid my hands down his back and managed to get one of my hands on his oh-so-fine a.s.s. And yes, ladies and gay men, it was oh-so-fine. We made out for a few minutes, and then I pulled him into the bathroom. I closed the lid of the toilet and made him sit down. I squatted on my knees and slowly started to rub my face on his inner thighs while looking up at him. I was giving it my super-duper naughty face, and just as I was about to unzip his pants... the freaking butler shouted that my drink was ready! What an idiot! He ruined the only rape moment I wanted to experience in my life with freaking vodka! Brad snapped out of my love spell and started to get up. I stopped him and said, "Wanna do me in the b.u.t.t?"

Okay, I can't go on any longer. I faked this whole chapter. Hahaha, sorry. I know, I wish it were real, too. Hahahaha.

[35].

What Are Friends For?

Well, the real ones hold your hair when you puke, lie to your boyfriend for you, loan you their favorite s.h.i.+rt, pick you up from a one-night stand, listen to your drama; they don't copy your hairstyle, don't gossip about you, they don't flirt with your your man, they're genuinely happy for you and would defend you in any battle. man, they're genuinely happy for you and would defend you in any battle.

The fake friends go to the hair salon and come back saying the hairdresser accidentally gave them the same haircut as yours, they buy the same clothes, get you wasted so they can flirt with your boyfriends, never call to ask how you you are doing, won't do a McDonald's run when you're hung over, compete with you, are jealous of you, and will talk behind your back the moment you turn around. are doing, won't do a McDonald's run when you're hung over, compete with you, are jealous of you, and will talk behind your back the moment you turn around.

My first experience of fake friends.h.i.+p came in eighth grade. A new girl named Joanna Kline moved to our school. We hit it off, and in no time we were meeting boys in back alleys to make out and dry-hump them against garage doors. We were so close in eighth grade that we would force each other to chug vodka to see who would puke green stuff the quickest and then take pictures of each other getting sick. I dropped almost all of my other friends because Joanna told me to. She wanted me all to herself. Sadly, it took less than a year for her demon horns to reveal themselves through her bleached hair.

I went to the mall with my sister one frightful day, and there I spotted Joanna holding hands with a boy that didn't look like her boyfriend. I pulled my sister behind a phone booth (remember those?), and we spent the next ten minutes spying on her indiscretions. I couldn't make out whom she was with, but it wasn't the Italian boy she usually dry-humped. This guy was blond, tan, and wore Cavaricci pants. Wait... hold on a second, I thought. That's... MY f.u.c.kING BOYFRIEND! I felt my heart chambers rip apart from one another like the Velcro strips on a Nike sneaker. My body started trembling as I saw them move their faces toward one another and lock lips. I looked at my younger sister, whose eyes were as big as saucers; she began to speak to me, but everything went in to slow motion and her voice sounded all distorted: "Oooooooooooooooooooohhh-hhhhhhhhhhhhhh nooooooooooooooooooooooo." I looked back at my boyfriend and the b.i.t.c.h and did what any girl from the South Side of Chicago would have done in my place. I took off running like a bat out of h.e.l.l. Not away from them. Oh, no. I took off directly toward them like a bull let out of a pen. I was a fifty-yard track star and used every piece of talent I had within me to get there in record speed and knock down my former best friend going about thirty miles an hour. She started screaming like a crazy person, so again I did what any South Side Chicago girl would do. I dragged her by her hair around the corner and down the stairs near the arcade and proceeded to beat the s.h.i.+t out of her.

So I'm beating the s.h.i.+t out of Joanna when I hear the mall police shout, "What the h.e.l.l is going on?" I got off Joanna and looked at my boyfriend, who stared at me in awe. He mumbled, "You really love me." I grabbed his hand, and we took off running away from the police. When we made it to a safe hiding place, I cried on his shoulder and told him to never ever ever ever cheat on me again. How stupid is that? He was the one I should have beaten the s.h.i.+t out of.

Joanna opened my eyes. My first week of high school was tough. I was scared of making friends because I now knew firsthand how hard it was to pick out who would be real and who would turn into a fake backstabbing b.i.t.c.h. I decided to take my chance on a girl named Krissy, and we hit it off that first week. Krissy seemed to come from good stock; she was as poor as I was, so we could relate to wearing hand-me-downs from our older sisters. We seemed to really get along and walked through the hallways of Catholic school giggling and gossiping like we had been friends forever. Sadly, it also only took the evil group of girls in the school one week to decide to target me for destruction. I didn't do anything to provoke it, but I'm guessing my long bleached blond hair made me the perfect choice. Krissy and I did everything to avoid the "Heathers" from seeing us in between cla.s.ses. It didn't take them too long to figure out my hiding spots, though, and they attacked me with shaving cream pies and punches to the stomach. I even had to endure the bus ride home without Krissy. Just me and the Heathers. They would shout names at me and spit on me, which I realized now was great training for Hollywood. I was so abused in high school that I'm unfazed by any critics or any negative press thanks to the thick skin I had to grow during my teenage years.

So, on this bus ride home, without my friend Krissy, the Heathers decided to sit behind me and talk about my fluffy long bleached Barbie hair like it was the ugliest haystack they had ever seen. I kept praying to G.o.d nothing too extreme would happen, but I think G.o.d was on a pee break and didn't hear. I started to smell something awful and couldn't figure out what it was. Then a voice inside my head said, That smells like hair burning. That smells like hair burning. I put my hand behind my head and felt fire burning my Aqua Net-sprayed locks. I stood up screaming and frantically patted down my hair while everyone on the bus laughed hysterically. I wore my hair in a French braid for the next four months. I put my hand behind my head and felt fire burning my Aqua Net-sprayed locks. I stood up screaming and frantically patted down my hair while everyone on the bus laughed hysterically. I wore my hair in a French braid for the next four months.

What surprised me even more than my hair burning was what happened next; I was walking to cla.s.s with Krissy, talking about how I had just gotten my period and didn't make it to the bathroom in time to get a tampon. My underwear suffered some damage, so I decided to take them off and put them in my locker. After the next cla.s.s, I made my way through the hallways with lightning speed to avoid the Heathers.

I turned toward the last wing to make it to Spanish cla.s.s to find the entire hallway backed up with girls screaming, laughing, and pointing to the wall above the lockers. I couldn't quite make it out, so I pushed through the crowd. As my vision became clear, my whole being (whatever was left of it) came cras.h.i.+ng down into the pits of h.e.l.l. My period underwear was hanging up on the wall with my name and an arrow pointing to it. The only person that knew my combination was Krissy. She had given it to the enemy.

From that day forward I missed so much high school they told my parents that I wouldn't graduate. How could I go to school with the Heathers plotting my demise, and now my very own friend joining the dark side? I was devastated and hurt and prayed college would get easier.

And it did. On my very first day of college, I met a girl named Julie who I knew was the real deal. We went out dancing and drinking and realized that we would be lifelong friends. I'm happy to say that she remains my best friend today. The only thing that's s.h.i.+tty about our friends.h.i.+p is that she still lives in Chicago, and she keeps having babies. I don't know how much longer I can stay friends with her if she keeps blowing her v.a.g.i.n.a to bits. I mean, seriously Julie, WTF. Get on the pill.

Moving to L.A. would seem like the scariest place to make friends, but fortunately I met up with a couple named Paul and Jackie from Canada soon after I moved here. They are funny and kind and have been at my side throughout Evan's autism and my interesting choice of men over the years. They know the perfect mixture of support and ridicule when I decide to do dumb things like get married or dye my hair black. I will forever be grateful for their real friends.h.i.+p.

Now, celebrity friends are a whole other ball of wax. Many have tried to become friends with me, and I couldn't run faster. Maybe because they reminded me of the Heathers. From an outside perspective one might think my friend Chelsea Handler would be cast as the perfect Heather, but she is anything but in real life. She takes care of her family and friends and even helps out some real losers that I don't approve of. She has put some of the biggest smiles on my face the past few years, and I continue to hold her responsible for continuously breaking my Botox. When I told her I was writing a chapter on real friends, she e-mailed me her thoughts on the subject...

"Jenny and I truly fell in love when we both became single, and that's when I realized, I'll always be straight."

So to answer the question, What are friends for? They are the ultimate reflection of yourself. Always surround yourself with people who inspire you and return the favor by giving them the best of you.

[36].

My Buddhahood Ending a five-year relations.h.i.+p (a mutual split) made me ask myself some serious questions, like, What's going on with you, girl? You all right? I felt really lost and confused as to what my path was. Life changes are always disorienting, especially when you've imagined yourself either growing old with someone or staying in the same occupation forever. During this transitional period in my life, I had to go back and remind myself of an earlier dream I had of becoming a big-time movie star actress, which obviously didn't come to pa.s.s. I envisioned myself on the big screen and getting my Walk of Fame star; instead, I currently hold the record for the most razzies any actress has ever received. I also have fourteen failed sitcom pilots sitting in my drawer. But even though I didn't find success in that career path, I managed to make this book my seventh New York Times New York Times best-selling book. (Well, I hope this one is also a bestseller.) My point being, even though I felt like the s.h.i.+t really hit the fan in this relations.h.i.+p, I stopped and thought, Hey, maybe not. I've proved it to myself before. This s.h.i.+t could turn into the best-looking s.h.i.+t I've ever seen. I mean, if anyone can turn s.h.i.+t into a rose garden, I think I've got a shot at it! best-selling book. (Well, I hope this one is also a bestseller.) My point being, even though I felt like the s.h.i.+t really hit the fan in this relations.h.i.+p, I stopped and thought, Hey, maybe not. I've proved it to myself before. This s.h.i.+t could turn into the best-looking s.h.i.+t I've ever seen. I mean, if anyone can turn s.h.i.+t into a rose garden, I think I've got a shot at it!

So off I went! I started to seek some outside help and invested in tarot cards, aura spray, crystals, and psychics to provide some direction. I'm a big believer in this kind of stuff, and it did help, but something was still missing. It felt like I was walking around the rose garden looking at the flowers, when what I needed was the key to get inside inside the garden. Where the h.e.l.l is the key? I kept wondering. I know it's out there. I've always been a spiritual person, but now I felt like I needed guidance gathering all of my beliefs into one place so that my roses could start manifesting. I wanted to find out who I was without anyone having to explain it to me. I wanted to be able to become less fearful of the future and eventually be ready for love again. But how? I thought. Where do I begin to find answers? the garden. Where the h.e.l.l is the key? I kept wondering. I know it's out there. I've always been a spiritual person, but now I felt like I needed guidance gathering all of my beliefs into one place so that my roses could start manifesting. I wanted to find out who I was without anyone having to explain it to me. I wanted to be able to become less fearful of the future and eventually be ready for love again. But how? I thought. Where do I begin to find answers?

The idea of organized religion wasn't ringing my bell after all the years of Catholic school I endured. Don't get me wrong, Jesus is cool and I dig 'im, but I felt an urge to expand my horizons. When you ask you shall receive, or whatever the h.e.l.l that saying is. A friend casually mentioned that she was enjoying learning about Buddhism and felt so enlightened by it that she had become a Buddhist. I knew something was going on with her, because over the past few months she just seemed at peace with whatever s.h.i.+t came her way. As she started to describe how much it helped her in detail, I felt the need to ask more questions. Could this be worth trying? I mean, if it really really worked for her (who used to be one hot mess, I might add), why couldn't I get some of that s.h.i.+t she was on? As I was about to ask my friend some more questions about it, I heard my mom's voice shout inside my head: worked for her (who used to be one hot mess, I might add), why couldn't I get some of that s.h.i.+t she was on? As I was about to ask my friend some more questions about it, I heard my mom's voice shout inside my head: They wors.h.i.+p a big fat guy who sits down all the time. They wors.h.i.+p a big fat guy who sits down all the time. So I reworded it and asked, "Why do they pray to Buddha?" She responded, "We don't pray to Buddha. Buddhists don't really have any Buddha statues around the house. Other people just seem to use them for decor, but not usually Buddhists. Buddha is a term for an enlightened state. We all have Buddha in us." So I reworded it and asked, "Why do they pray to Buddha?" She responded, "We don't pray to Buddha. Buddhists don't really have any Buddha statues around the house. Other people just seem to use them for decor, but not usually Buddhists. Buddha is a term for an enlightened state. We all have Buddha in us."

I responded with, "Well, what kind of religion is this if you don't pray to someone?"

She said, "Buddhism is not really a religion. It's more of a philosophy."

I said, "Well, can it turn s.h.i.+t into roses?"

She replied, "Absolutely. Its called turning poison into medicine, but you're calling it turning s.h.i.+t into roses, which is the same thing."

"Well, I got s.h.i.+t right now, and I want roses. I already have plenty of medicine in my cabinets."

She said, "There is no outside force that will make you do anything. Everything comes from within you. You are in charge."

I replied, "If this is true, then why bother praying or wors.h.i.+ping or following any type of philosophy or religion when you can do it all by yourself?"

She said, "I agree. Buddhism just gives me the tools I need to make sure I'm always in charge of my destiny, and chanting in the morning and at night holds me accountable for my progress. When we chant in Buddhism we chant nam-myho-renge-kyo nam-myho-renge-kyo, and by saying that, we are allowed to polish our own mirror so we can see ourselves clearly. We are chanting/'praying'/believing in ourselves. Transforming our fear into courage."

Transforming fear into courage was what I was longing for. Being alone in the house was scary, wondering how I would pay all the bills by myself was scary, thinking of growing old with no one at my side was scary, and hoping Evan was okay with the transition was scary. I figured, "What the h.e.l.l? Why not give some Buddhism a whirl?" As long as I can still think Jesus is a cool dude and Buddhism just gives me the tools to manifest change within me, it all sounded kinda cool.

I've been practicing for a little over three months now, and I have managed to take my s.h.i.+t and not only use it as fertilizer to grow roses but to cultivate the most beautiful lotus flower within me. I don't feel lost now when life gives me a hiccup. I know what to do. I chant and I get stronger every day. Before I would have said, "Thanks, Buddha, for this new direction in my life." But now I know better. The chubby dude that sits around all the time would say, "No, thank yourself. I'm just holding the mirror."

There seem to be two phases of moving on. The one where we pick up our lives, create new routines, heal past resentments, and love ourselves. The second phase is being ready to find love in a companion again. As I write this, I'm only in phase one. But I know already that as far as my future love life is concerned, my expectations will be very high. I don't mean I have a laundry list of superficial things I need from a man-like doing whatever I say, or letting me have the remote control. When I say expectations, I mean baseline qualities I know I deserve: a man who respects women, a guy who enjoys life, someone who wants to spiritually grow with me and has enormous amounts of self-love. Basically, what I'm saying is that I'm raising the bar in terms of my future guy only because my own own bar will be raised before I ever meet him. I intend to know who I am, love myself, feel okay on my own, and not need anything from my partner to make me feel better. Can't wait to meet him. Hope he doesn't have a mullet. bar will be raised before I ever meet him. I intend to know who I am, love myself, feel okay on my own, and not need anything from my partner to make me feel better. Can't wait to meet him. Hope he doesn't have a mullet.

P.S. Go to www.sgi.org for more info on how to turn your s.h.i.+t into roses and follow me on Twitter @ JennyMcCarthy.

Acknowledgments.

In no particular order, these are the brave souls who have stood by me while I continue to make an a.s.s out of myself.

Leigh BrecheenErwin MoreJennifer Rudolph WalshJennifer BarthLauren AuslanderPaul GreenbergJulie RibordyChelsea HandlerBecky (Jennifer) ObirekBrad Cafarelli Thank you for helping me bust out another awesome book!

About the Author.

Model, comedian, actress, and activist Jenny McCarthy is the author of the New York Times New York Times bestsellers bestsellers Belly Laughs, Baby Laughs, Belly Laughs, Baby Laughs, and and Louder Than Words, Louder Than Words, among others. The former host of MTV's hugely popular dating show Singled among others. The former host of MTV's hugely popular dating show Singled Out, Out, McCarthy began her career as a McCarthy began her career as a Playboy Playboy magazine model before launching a high-profile comedic television and film career. Most recently, she has appeared on the shows magazine model before launching a high-profile comedic television and film career. Most recently, she has appeared on the shows My Name Is Earl, Two and a Half My Name Is Earl, Two and a Half Men, and Men, and Chuck. Chuck. She has been featured on virtually every television talk show, from She has been featured on virtually every television talk show, from Larry King Live, The View, Ellen, Larry King Live, The View, Ellen, and Letterman to Conan O'Brien, and Letterman to Conan O'Brien, Hannity & Colmes, Hannity & Colmes, and Howard Stern. She is also a frequent guest on the and Howard Stern. She is also a frequent guest on the Oprah Winfrey Show. Oprah Winfrey Show.

In addition to her work in the world of healing and preventing autism, she is the cocreator, with practicing speech language pathologist Sarah Clifford Scheflen, of Teach2Talk, a series of DVDs for children. She has also served as a spokesperson for post-pregnancy weight loss for Weight Watchers. Her unique combination of intelligence, s.e.x appeal, and humor has landed her on the covers of magazines as diverse as People, Playboy, Rolling Stone, People, Playboy, Rolling Stone, and and Self; Self; recently, she was featured in recently, she was featured in Time. Time.

Born in Chicago, McCarthy currently resides in Los Angeles with her son, Evan.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

ALSO BY JENNY McCARTHY

JEN-X.

BELLY LAUGHS.

BABY LAUGHS.

LIFE LAUGHS.

LOUDER THAN WORDS.

MOTHER WARRIORS.

HEALING AND PREVENTING AUTISM.