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May 13, 2007

Discovering my inner bunny

except with clothes and zits and stuff. And more comfortable shoes.

Okay, I hate to be the literary chick who’s forever posting about shamefully cheesy TV shows she secretly likes, but…can we please spend a few minutes discussing “The Girls Next Door”? I’m fascinated by this series because it goes against every principle of feminism and pseudo-intellectualism I hold dear. And yet, somehow…somehow it has earned itself a season pass on my TiVo and I can’t look away.

For those of you who actually do something productive with your Sunday nights other than lounging around in yoga pants watching E!, “The Girls Next Door” is a reality show (and I use the term loosely) that follows Hugh Hefner’s three girlfriends (again, I use the term loosely). We have Holly, the “first lady of the Playboy Mansion”; Bridget, the M.A. candidate whose most cherished goal in life is to be a Playboy centerfold; and Kendra, a 21-year-old tomboy with a mouth like a longshoreman and a body like Barbie.

Yes. I know. When I summarize it like that, this doesn’t sound like must-see TV. It sounds like skeevy porn.

But it manages to be funny and interesting and kind of sweet, in an aw-shucks way. The show revolves around the three girls attending galas, organizing social events, and romping around with their vast assortment of dogs and cats. They eat out, they shop, they get their hair done, they dial up the mansion staff to get their every need attended to. And therein, I think, lies the true appeal of the show. I know a lot of other women who count “The Girls Next Door” as a guilty pleasure. Smart, well-educated, high-achieving women who would sooner die than pose nude or even get a Brazilian wax. So what’s the deal? Do we all secretly wish we could be surgically-enhanced trophy wives?

I don’t think so. Rather, I think we wish we could live the trophy wife lifestyle without actually having to make the socio-cultural and physical sacrifices that come along with it. Like 24-hour laundry and room service. First-class trips to Aspen and Europe. The total assurance that one is wanted and adored and appreciated merely for existing. The cold, hard truth is that these women were chosen because they look and behave a certain way, but no one ever makes reference to this. Everyone treats them as though they are rocket scientists/royalty and as though it is their due to be revered and catered to every minute of every day. It’s the total fantasy of every “real world” woman who’s overstressed, underpaid, and would kill for an extra hour of sleep every night. And the girls never gossip or criticize one another—they are like sisters/BFFs and the entire Playboy posse is portrayed as one big, happy, functional family. This is the other reason the show succeeds with female viewers, I suspect: although Holly, Bridget and Kendra are described as Hef’s “girlfriends”, they are actually more like his doting granddaughters. There are no seedy, sexual overtones to the storylines, and the most public display of affection we ever see is an avuncular kiss on the cheek.

But you want to hear the weirdest thing of all? Most men I know aren’t into the show. I mean, if ever there were an E! show that could keep a guy’s attention, you’d think this would be it! Lots of cleavage, blurred-out nudity, and giggling blondes. But Mr. Tall can’t make it through a whole episode. “Wait, honey!” I’ll cry as he grabs the popcorn bowl and slinks away to his office. “They’re going to shoot a bunch of photos for a calendar and Kendra’s wearing a microscopic cheerleading outfit! Don’t you want to see that?” He’ll just say, “Eh”, and be on his way. I was convinced this was just an act, but my female friends tell me their male partners react the same way. Maybe the idea of a round-the-clock pastry chef just doesn’t do for a man what it does for me.

Anyway, in the interests of fairness, I’ll be reading some point/counterpoint books on the REAL reality of life at the mansion: Bunny Tales: Behind the Doors at the Playboy Mansion, The Bunny Years: Women Who Worked as Bunnies and Where They Are Now, and Playground: A Childhood Lost Inside the Playboy Mansion. I’ll also be harassing my friend Sara for stories about her aunt, who was a bona fide bunny in the seventies and assures me that life with Playboy included a lot more than private jets and harmless flirting. I’ll keep you guys posted.

So yeah, I could definitely do without the plastic surgery and grueling three-hour workouts. But a groundskeeper to pick up after the dogs and an actual petting zoo in my back yard? Yes, please!

Posted by Beth at 11:11 PM | Comments (4)

Comments

Posted by: illiah at May 14, 2007 10:37 AM

Posted by: The LC Eileen at May 14, 2007 10:54 AM

Posted by: Kimberly at May 15, 2007 9:25 AM

Posted by: Jamie at May 15, 2007 11:08 PM