by Marko Domazet
During one of my many sleepless nights, I decided to entertain myself by watching Mummy Dearest, a film starring my favourite live
wax figurine mature actress Faye Dunaway. It was a superb way to spend a night and Faye did not disappoint. Her face was so beautiful (and wax like), her acting so camp and her use of wire hangers as a prop a stroke of genius. For those of you who are yet to see it, the film tells the story of Joan Crawford and how she used to molest her adoptive daughter Christina. Needless to say, it was all very sad, but at four AM when you’re all alone in your boudoir, sad things have a tendency to seem even sadder and emotions can get the best even out of an ice maiden such as myself. I knew, right there and then, that Mummy Dearest would change me forever.
That night, with a rollie in my mouth, I got to thinking. Mummy Dearest was all about the pressures of motherhood, career and, well frankly, about being one crazy lady. Still, the kid in the film wanted nothing more than to be loved by her mummy. Why? Why are our mothers so important? What is so special about them that we allow them to be such an integral part of our lives? Why do Faye Dunaway’’s eyebrows never seem to move? I found myself staring out the window in a Sarah Jessica Parker-esque pose and I couldn’t help but wonder if mothers are the ones who rule the world.
Growing up, my parents were my idols. As a camp boy growing up in an Eastern European ghetto, I tried not to stand up for myself. The other boys (and a few girls with a hint of a moustache) would call me all sorts of things, but I never acted upon my frustration. I would just sit there in my concrete pit and daydream. (Sadly enough, I am not exaggerating as that pit did actually exist and was the main playground attraction. It was all very Chernobyl chic. ) As I said, I would just sit there and dream about things that glitter and was perfectly happy doing so until some fool uttered the words “”Your mamma””. Those words of disrespect resulted in me kicking, hitting, spitting and doing everything in my power to exterminate the ugly bugger who voiced them.
It’s funny how sometimes it takes years to realise certain things. Back then I blamed my reaction on adrenalin. It took me small lifetime to realise that it was all because off the bond I was sharing with my mother. And this goes for all of us. We either love our mothers, or if we’’ve had the bad luck of having bitches for mothers, we find ourselves secretly hoping for their acceptance and love. (They were onto something when they wrote Snow White you know.)
Lord knows there isn’t such a thing as a perfect mother. Hell, when my own mother was on hiatus (very much the same way Mariah Carey/Mimi/whatever her goddamn name is these days was) I spent a fortune on bitches with mother-like characteristics. I started reading Martha Stewart Living, watching Family Ties and even dreamt that I was the long-lost son of Alexis Carrington. To this day, I cannot walk past a pine comb without thinking about Martha or, for that matter, see a fur coat without thinking about my adoptive mother Alexis.
Being the slow fuck that I am it took me a few more years to realise that my mother planted the seed that would turn into my life-long love affair with women. And this, my friends, brings me to my theory. Women rule the world and they do this by playing the mother card. They can either pretend to be the mothers we never had (shout-outs to Delia Smith and Martha Stewart) or they can be too cool for school (too many to mention). Simply by being women, they can make us admire them, long for their love, approval and (as most straight guys out there would agree) their tits.
The trick is to find your lady and if you study the world out there, you can see some obvious tendencies. Hey, how else can you explain train wrecks such as Mimi and Liza Minnelli only surrounding themselves with faggots – emotional men? Another thing that has occurred to me is the importance of being yourself if you really want to rule the world. Lord knows that Delia and Martha didn’’t get away with it and for ages they seemed to be the perfect women. Now it turns out, that the British one likes to get drunk at football games and the American one was sent to jail. (Something also tells me they’’re not virgins and, as we remember from our childhoods, all good mothers are). The Olsen girl is another fine example – a) the bitch claims to have a twin sister, even though we all know there is no such thing as two skinny girls in one family b) don’t ever trust someone skinny enough to hide behind a lamp post.
Perhaps the above means, that only real women rule the world. In order to be a real woman you actually need intelligence, you need to be able to captivate the attention of the people around you and, most importantly, you need to be able to do it throughout your entire life. Are there women like that out there? There must be, because they make the men in this world do some pretty fucked up things. They fight with other men, prance around like peacocks and even start wars. (How much do you want to bet that George Bush does the things he does so that Laura will be impressed and go down on the tiny, teeny appendage he calls his cock?).
All I’’m saying is that certain people (mostly men) need to get over themselves and realise they’’re not the ones running the show. I think the ladies out there do and there isn’’t enough appreciation for them. My suggestion is that all of us find our own personal icon and that we start adoring her. She in turn might do the same for us, and before we know it we’’ll be living in a world full of adoration and love. Neat, huh?