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They were just jealous that Janice was the star.
                    21.
                    How I’ve Helped the
                    Famous and Infamous
                    Be More Perfect
                    So many questions about perfection, so
little time. The other night, I was at an exclusive Bel Air birthday party,
feeling totally out of place—as I often do at these soirees. There was so much
fabulousness in the air, it was fucking depressing. So there was only one thing
to do: drown out the endless, mindless chatter with the most numbing substance
in the ultrachic mansion. I’m not talking about drugs or alcohol. My hooch of
choice that night was a huge plate of corn chips. I know, I know—the fat
grams—but what was a girl to do? I needed something, and I’d done enough
crunches at the gym to crunch a little at the buffet line.
                    All that loud chewing was pure perfection,
though. It drowned out the excruciating silence in my head—that loud and
painful nothingness between your ears when you’re swimming around a party with
no companion to talk to, and nothing but cold stares from all the strangers 204
    J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N
                    around you. It’s a sound that never fails to
make me want to jump out of my skin.
                    Sure, peace and quiet can be the best gift
of all, but, indoors, at an A-list event, silence basically sucks. It’s an
unmistakable signal: they all think they’re more perfect than you.
                    So I decided to rectify the situation by
bringing on da noise. Apparently my junk-food orgy was so fascinating that it
caught the attention of none other than Ms. Barbra “Funny Girl” Streisand.
Suddenly, the singing diva, director, actress, mother, and multimillionaire was
in my face. I guess Babs must have been marveling at the sight of a supermodel
with the guts to dabble in a product that doesn’t get much action in the state
of California. It’s a miracle I wasn’t hauled off to the L.A. County jail right
then and there.
                    Staring wistfully at my greasy corn-chip
nirvana, a bewildered Barbra locked her icy blues with my baby browns. She had
a painful, pleading look on her face, like that of a woman looking for the
answers to life’s most important questions.
                    “What’s up, Babs?” I asked midcrunch, and
she smiled. I guess she’s sick of all those asskissing sycophants who treat her
like her shit doesn’t stink. I always check my bullshit at the door.
                    “I know who you are,” said Ms. Yentl.
                    “I know who you are, too,” I said (crunch,
crunch, crunch).
                    “Janice,” whispered Babs, and I stopped
chewing. This sounds serious, I thought. Maybe she wants some workout advice.
                    “I have to ask you something,” Babs
continued to whisper. “How in the world can you stay so skinny and eat chips?”
                    I nodded, swallowed, and gave her the good
and bad news. “Swiss Kriss, honey,” I shot back. “It’s all about laxatives and
diuretics.” I figured she already knew about canyon walking and yoga.
                    She was fascinated. “Can you repeat that?”
                    Opposite: Tina Turner lives. Selling
panty hose for a German magazine.
                   
                    206
    J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N
                    “Swiss Kriss. It’s a laxative. Once a
week—boom—flat stomach. Just stick close to the john, or things could get ugly,”
I warned her with a smile.
                    Now I can’t say for certain, but Babs was
starting to look like she was digging this conversation. I was ready