Uma Thurman had a really intense year
I read all about it in a hospital waiting room. I also read all about it in Vogue a few months back, in much more pleasant surroundings, unencumbered by wailing infants, consumptive alcoholics, cantankerous hags and their ilk. Oh, Uma, if you had spent at least two hours of your intense year in this waiting room, not even your dickhead of an ex husband would seem so bad.
I was in the waiting room to get grandpa’s prescription filled. G-pa, being the evil genius that he is, swiftly concluded that icky waiting rooms cramp his style, so he pleaded tiredness and puttered back home. He may be 80, and he may have prostate cancer and bad arthritis, but at least he can take solace in the fact that he has the inalienable right to boss me around.
So, stuck in the waiting room with no reading material prompted me to visit the paltry hospital news rack, where I had a choice between tabloids, tabloids, InStyle, little ‘word find’ booklets, Elle, and Allure. I picked InStyle with dear Uma because Mischa Barton (Elle) and Jessica Simpson (Allure) seem too insubstantial to make suitable people material, to say nothing of reading material for an insufferable waiting room.
Weirdly enough, my perusal of InStyle took almost exactly the 2 hours and 15 minutes I spent waiting for grandpa’s number (772) to be called. The Uma interview was like the Cliffnotes version of Vogue’s Uma interview, which totally made me think that I could write my very own Uma interview, no problem. At the end of 500 pages, my favorite thing in the entire rag was the new (to me at least) Calvin Klein ads with the lovely Natalia Vodianova. I’m convinced that the evil brain of Anna Wintour wants me to tire of her, what with her seemingly endless string of Vogue editorials, but it hasn’t happened yet.
I had lots of least favorite things about the magazine:
1) that I was stuck reading it in the first place.
2) Selma Blair, doing her best to squash her expression of permanent irritation, and failing miserably
2.5) Jessica ‘Special’ Simpson. And there I was happy that I had avoided Allure’s trap. Damn it!
3) Rob Thomas & wife & their sickeningly nice house. Bastards.
3) two pages on “stylemaker” Jennifer Anniston, who gets praised for wearing red (she’s a daredevil!!! how was she not cast in that movie after such a show of bravado?!) on the red carpet. Fuck, no. Wearing a swan to the Oscars is daring. Wearing red is playing it so safe, she might as well accessorize with wrist guards and shin pads.
4) Julia Roberts and her pet peeve, which I have to quote: “My pet peeve is people who think that just because I’m considered a celebrity I don’t clean up my own messes. Believe me, I can grab a mop in my house.”
Alright, that’s actually kinda funny.
If I believe that, I’d have to believe that Julia has a bridge she’d like to sell me.
If I had her money, I’d make it a point of never touching a mop again in my life. I’d put it on my marble headstone as one of my proudest wordly accomplishments: Herein Lies A Fabulous Person Who Doth Never Touched A Mop From The Day She Hath Made It Big!!! P.S. Suck It, Julia!
I’d have this done in incised gothic letters and everything.
Seriously, why does she bother?
Doesn’t she believe in minions?
Oh, to have minions instead of having to play one to grandpa’s grouchy ruler and overlord. Agh, poor g-pa. He’s up for a shitty, shitty year. I shall have to bring him up in my future Uma interview, which shall be set on a beach in St. Barts, where things can’t possibly seem as bad as they do in hospital waiting rooms, and in most other non-tropical-beach-paradise-like settings . . .
I was in the waiting room to get grandpa’s prescription filled. G-pa, being the evil genius that he is, swiftly concluded that icky waiting rooms cramp his style, so he pleaded tiredness and puttered back home. He may be 80, and he may have prostate cancer and bad arthritis, but at least he can take solace in the fact that he has the inalienable right to boss me around.
So, stuck in the waiting room with no reading material prompted me to visit the paltry hospital news rack, where I had a choice between tabloids, tabloids, InStyle, little ‘word find’ booklets, Elle, and Allure. I picked InStyle with dear Uma because Mischa Barton (Elle) and Jessica Simpson (Allure) seem too insubstantial to make suitable people material, to say nothing of reading material for an insufferable waiting room.
Weirdly enough, my perusal of InStyle took almost exactly the 2 hours and 15 minutes I spent waiting for grandpa’s number (772) to be called. The Uma interview was like the Cliffnotes version of Vogue’s Uma interview, which totally made me think that I could write my very own Uma interview, no problem. At the end of 500 pages, my favorite thing in the entire rag was the new (to me at least) Calvin Klein ads with the lovely Natalia Vodianova. I’m convinced that the evil brain of Anna Wintour wants me to tire of her, what with her seemingly endless string of Vogue editorials, but it hasn’t happened yet.
I had lots of least favorite things about the magazine:
1) that I was stuck reading it in the first place.
2) Selma Blair, doing her best to squash her expression of permanent irritation, and failing miserably
2.5) Jessica ‘Special’ Simpson. And there I was happy that I had avoided Allure’s trap. Damn it!
3) Rob Thomas & wife & their sickeningly nice house. Bastards.
3) two pages on “stylemaker” Jennifer Anniston, who gets praised for wearing red (she’s a daredevil!!! how was she not cast in that movie after such a show of bravado?!) on the red carpet. Fuck, no. Wearing a swan to the Oscars is daring. Wearing red is playing it so safe, she might as well accessorize with wrist guards and shin pads.
4) Julia Roberts and her pet peeve, which I have to quote: “My pet peeve is people who think that just because I’m considered a celebrity I don’t clean up my own messes. Believe me, I can grab a mop in my house.”
Alright, that’s actually kinda funny.
If I believe that, I’d have to believe that Julia has a bridge she’d like to sell me.
If I had her money, I’d make it a point of never touching a mop again in my life. I’d put it on my marble headstone as one of my proudest wordly accomplishments: Herein Lies A Fabulous Person Who Doth Never Touched A Mop From The Day She Hath Made It Big!!! P.S. Suck It, Julia!
I’d have this done in incised gothic letters and everything.
Seriously, why does she bother?
Doesn’t she believe in minions?
Oh, to have minions instead of having to play one to grandpa’s grouchy ruler and overlord. Agh, poor g-pa. He’s up for a shitty, shitty year. I shall have to bring him up in my future Uma interview, which shall be set on a beach in St. Barts, where things can’t possibly seem as bad as they do in hospital waiting rooms, and in most other non-tropical-beach-paradise-like settings . . .