Reflections of the Burger Babe
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The dawn of 2001 will mark the presumably tipsy beginning of my official reign as Kidd Valley Burger Babe.
Back in August, drug-addled and guilt-ridden, I somehow won the pageant and its requisite tiara and oversized check (for $25,000! redeemable only in the form of Kidd Valley product, unfortunately). I had resorted to prescription pills to quell my terror at the prospect of sitting atop a giant model cheeseburger and addressing the crowd on the topic of "How the Burger Babe Can Influence Future Leaders" in short-shorts and platform heels. The pills were nothing fun, just a blood-pressure regulator, though it was difficult to tell if they contributed to the surreality of the event. I went undercover to blow the lid off the local burger joint pageant scene for the Weekly, and, inconceivably, I won. Were they going to be mad when I used foul language to describe their corporate icon in print? Was it my fault that the pretty blonde girl loser was weeping?
The novelty of the tiara wore off more quickly than one would think. A phone call from an inmate at Monroe State Correctional Facility was a little alarming, and it became difficult to remain as gracious as a Babe should when confronted with strangers at Linda's shouting, "YOU'RE THE WENDY'S GIRL, RIGHT!?!" But gracious I did remain, even during on-air ridicule at the hands of morning classic-rock DJs. Yet I fear my biggest hurdle as Babe is yet to come: the Poster.
Who knows the loneliness of the perch atop the giant burger as the flashbulbs pop and the shorts ride up impossibly further? Sad to say, I do. My reign will be commemorated with a poster that is being finalized for the New Year. On it I have a strange expression (think of it as akin to Manet's enigmatic, confrontational Olympia) and my naked haunch figures prominently (reclaiming the female form from the dominant paradigm, yes) and I am made up like a whore (Manet's Olympia was a whore, see?) and the shoes are less '70s and more you-are-paying-me-to-beat-you (it's not too late for a little Photoshop, people). Ah, layer upon layer of irony. The Kidd Valley people are as nice as you could wish your exploiters to be, but they wouldn't let me say "vote pro-choice" on the poster (now it's too late anyway). They will, however, be donating money to the very worthy Childhaven on the Babe's behalf. But I will never enter another pageant, no matter how many press releases about them my coworkers bring around, haw-hawing away. And those who do not make fun of me in the wake of the poster will have a much better chance of getting a free burger.
BETHANY JEAN CLEMENT
'Regrets, I've had a few . . .'
My lover of the past four years has decided she's had enough of my non-committed behavior and is moving on to more mature relationships.
Now I sit at home, wondering if I'll ever get laid again, wondering if my inability to shack up is a problem requiring a shrink's guidance or a bold, independent stand in a sea of cohabitation, monogamy, and coupled behavior I want no part of.
Relationships no more! I will spend quality time with my friends, my family, and my left hand. I will shower often and alone. I will rise and shine when and if I want, go only to events and dinners of my own choosing (unless my mother makes me attend a family gathering or it's the one time a year I go to temple). I will watch sporting events day and night, eat Doritos, and smoke joints the size of the Kursk submarine. I will do as I please, when I please, pleasing no one, and clearly not being pleased in the less-than-pleasing near future.
Couples, schmupples! Self-inflicted, self-centered quality time—that's my new ticket. I'll see Arnold Schwarzenegger movies, watch porn, wear the same pair of boxer shorts for weeks on end, and floss only when a large chunk of steak is wedged between my molars. When Valentine's Day comes, I'll buy myself chocolates, kiss the mirror, and save money on lousy romantic pre-set dinners at overcrowded restaurants filled with happy people.
Yes, I'm through with unions, alliances, and interdependence.
Still, I regret not sharing my fears, apprehensions, and idiosyncrasies from the start. I regret not setting up rules in the relationship about phone call frequency, double dating, and familial obligations. I regret not laying it all on the line and seeing if we might have had m鮡ges with friends and strangers, experimental sex, and mud-wrestling tournaments. Now those fears have turned inward: Will I die lonely? Will my hair fall out, my waist increase to John Goodman proportions, and my face fall further than Amazon stock? Who will take care of me when I'm old and gray? Can I find a long-term, nonmonogamous, three-night-a-week sex partner willing to put up with a vague plan for the future? Was my gal pal the best thing that ever happened to me? Will I ever "be ready"? Did I let a wonderful mate go due to my own inability to cope with closeness, communication, and letting another see my weaknesses?
