Ode To A Pretty Girl

Pretty girls. For me, that phrase conjures up images of my best friends older sister; blond and petite, with a smattering of golden hued freckles dusting her perfectly upturned nose. My childhood babysitter, tanned, responsible, and fun (she played a mean game of "go fish"). The girls in high school, with shiny hair and cheerleader sweaters. Pom pom bearing flamingos; flocking together in hallways and cafeterias, willowy, spirited and girlish pink. All irresistible creatures; delicate charmers that could seduce you with the wink of a curled eyelash, or the flash of a feminine smile. I sat in front of the television watching some frivolous award show about young celebrities. A show where they handed out oscarlike trophys to whoever had the best catch phrase, or something equally absurd. My only excuse for not flicking the channel on this insipid bit of ratings fluff was pure laziness. I lost the remote control somewhere under the sofa. Cursing my luck at not having my own personal butler (oh Jeeves, please fetch the clicker), and not wanting to relinquish my couch potato status, I decided to tough it out, and stay tuned. It was a little rocky at first. To be completely honest, I had never even heard of half the people they were honoring. I had absolutely no desire to know who coined the phrase "that's hot" or "flip a bitch", (Paris Hilton and Justin Timberlake respectively), but after the first half hour I was spellbound, in some horrible hellish trance I couldn't break. I felt like I was sucked into a black hole of some parallel universe. Am I really that out of touch with reality? So uncool and out of date, that names like JoJo Levesque and Justin Bieber don't even register a palsied blip on my pop culture radar screen? Completely out of tune with the fact that the pretty girls of my adolescence were now replaced with tough looking chicks with names like Miley and Brittany. Disney channel actresses and singers taking the stage in costumes better suited for 20 dollar hookers, rather than 16 year old ingenues. Hard, wizened looking maidens over made up and under dressed. On display in skintight, sequined outfits that would make a Vegas showgirl blush. Using props like whips and stripper poles, teetering around obscenely on 6 inch stiletto heels. Young things; parading and prancing in circles, with desperation overshadowing their talent, begging for acceptance. I quickly said a silent prayer to the gods, thanking them that I didn't have a daughter. Knowing, as sure as I know that Lindsay Lohan is a true redhead (thanks for the spread eagle pics Firecrotch), that childhood innocence for girls has been all but completely obliterated. My jaw was on the floor, somewhere in the same vicinity as the hiding remote. I felt old fashioned, and out of touch, and I always fancied myself a progressive thinker. I was now scrambling to find the remote, I had to get this teenybopper peep show off my TV set, and quick. I felt dirty and creepy, I suppressed the urge to scrape at my eyes with my fingernails. Click, click, click, click, anything, anything at all, just no more of this. Ah, Little House On the Prairie is on PAX, perfect! (deep cleansing breath) I was still dazed, confused and vexed. Snippets of what I had witnessed still piercing my brain, sending me well on my way to my first migraine. Was this really progress, or have we just lost our way? Laura Ingalls what do you think of all this? Wasn't Nellie a mean girl, a bad girl? Would she be a budding stripper with tribal tats and nipple rings if she were somehow transplanted to the here and now? What has happened to young women? Women who do not want to be objectified, have become objects, and of their own volition. Damnit Half Pint, say goodnight to Ma and Pa and Mary, and give me some insight. I'm dyin' ovahere. Sex isn't a new thing, we had plenty of sex, drugs and rock n roll "back in the day", but somehow it was different. I'm not talking about some puritan naivety, or the contrived innocence of when knighthood was in flower, just different. It wasn't flagrantly and continuously pushed and peddled by the media then. So raw, so in your face, forcing you to take it, whether you want it or not. There is no need to give away all your secrets within a first glance. Being sexy, is a natural, organic part of who women inherently are. Whatever happened to the mystery, the allure? The thrill is gone. Sexiness has been replaced by cheap, blatant displays of gratuitous vulgarity. Trash TV has taken on a whole new meaning, bumping and grinding its way into your home 24/7. A ratings bonanza to see who can pull in the most viewers, via teenage Lolita's. Pubescent lasses warbling simpering ballads about lost love, (what do they know about lost love?) while gyrating seductively to the beat. A lifetime already written across their young faces. My newly found carnal knowledge made me feel queasy. I, myself felt naked and bare. Stripped of all my "swagger and shine". Life was no longer as "groovy" as it used to be. Exiting a car sans panties is about the same as saying a casual hello these days (that way the paps can get the best snaps). A homemade porno leaked onto the Internet, and wham, bam, thank you ma'am; you are now a Superstar. Contemplating if "throwing" gang signs, sending "shout outs to my peeps", and being on the "hip hop tip"; is this the answer to amp up my "gangsta flava". Pondering that if I had a few "bitches and hoes" who consider a G string and pasties "fly" for any occasion, or a " baby mama" that thinks it is "off the chain" to bare her ..."ass ets" in public; would that make me more relevant? In a world that has traded ethics for greed, regards kindness as weakness, where children cannot be given the luxury of playing outdoors for fear of being preyed upon, and human life is worth no more that the cost of a bullet; maybe a little modesty and self protection doesn't sound like such a bad choice after all. Sometimes it seems like this planet has gone stark raving mad. They say that times change, but people don't ... I have my suspicions. I worry, and I wonder!


I was at a friends restaurant the other day. I spotted a small group of clear skinned women celebrating the holiday. The tinkling of glasses clanking softly together mingled with their laughter, the toasting of wine, food and friends. Each pretty spring flower in Easter egg pastel dresses. Not prim and proper old lady frocks, but stylish ensembles, soft, muted, and not a midriff or an exposed breast in sight. A wave of nostalgia washed over me, I stood there a moment trying to sort out this feeling that I couldn't quite define. Not coming to any direct conclusion, I shrugged it off and walked to the front of the restaurant to say hello to the hostesses. We stood there a few minutes talking, sharing a joke. One flipped her hair back from her fair face, and the other one giggled while chewing demurely on end of a pencil. There it is again, the same feeling. This fleeting freeze framed deja vu. Something I knew, but had somehow forgotten. The exact feeling I had no less than five minutes before. The girlfriends sharing a meal, the hostesses having a laugh. Holy cow, it hit me like a ton of instant celebrity bricks. These are the pretty girls I remember. They aren't extinct after all. They have no need to stoop to tacky and tawdry clothing, or desperate lewdness to prove who they are. Chic without being contrived. Charming without assuming silly airs. Witty, and smart and beautiful. Classy young women, comfortable in their own skin. Confident in knowing that just being who they are is enough, and it was so damn sexy. I come from another time, a distant land where "peeps" were baby chickens, and "hip hopping" was done by rabbits. An era where selling your self esteem for 15 minutes of fame was unheard of. An antiquated place where "bitch" or "hoe" was not a term of endearment. Maybe its time to pass the baton on to the tweens and teens, letting them make their own distinct antiestablishment mark on the world. I would be hard pressed to say that I don't have a healthy amount of angst for for the daughters of this generation. A new age landscape where little girls no longer aspire to be doctors, teachers, scientists, or ballerinas. I guess I'll have to let time tell me if my fears were all in vain. I have my fingers crossed, but for the time being; I have officially become my parents. Unyielding, disapproving and tragically unhip, and that's just "peachy keen" with me.


As Keats penned so eloquently: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever". A pretty girl transforms any interior to a higher level, making it just a little bit lighter, a little bit brighter, and a lot more fun to be in. Beauty is always in the eye of the beholder, and that's the greatest beauty about beauty. So to all the pretty girls everywhere, I raise my glass to you. You have made my life fuller, richer and happier, and I will be forever glad I knew you. And that's that! (cue the pole dancers)