I'm Afraid It's Time to Discuss Denise Richards

We are having our usual ghastly Sunday night, but the monsters are, for the moment, entertaining each other in the bath, so I thought I'd take time out for something really important. At the supermarket this afternoon (note to self: do not wait till after tee ball to go to the supermarket, even if there seems to be no time earlier in the day to go to the supermarket, especially when the reason there seems to be no time is that you are trying to give each girl quality individual Mommy time, because, really, the post-tee-ball supermarket excursion will fully nuke any remaining positive effect of the quality Mommy time, so it's like you didn't even visit Grandma with E or take M for a walk and ice cream,

--So much for that. I'm not even going to try and make the sentence work. Instead we're going to go for a kind of liveblogging my so-called life sort of effect. I was rudely interrupted by crying over water in eyes, stomping out of bath, and screaming about clarinet practice.

--Moving right along. #1 is now asleep. #2 should be asleep, but is watching TV, because going to bed before 9 is simply insulting for an about-to-be ten year old (and please don't say anything about how your children have gone to bed at 6:30 every day of their lives, even though they are now 11, 13, and 15, because bully for you and that's not how it is over here, and you'd be amazed at what violence can be wreaked through the ether, i.e. upon you by me). At any rate, I have ten minutes to get to the business at hand, so let's get on with it.

As I discovered at the supermarket, but in fact already knew through the graces of my good friends at Popsugar, Denise Richards is on the cover of every major magazine this weekend (useless links--nobody will give up the story online).

To briefly recap, for Grandpa, Denise Richards is famous primarily for Wild Things, a truly fabulous teen girl sexploitation flick, up there in the pantheon with Poison Ivy, a classic of the mid-career Drew oeuvre (post-scared little girl, pre-romantic comedies) (yes, I checked Denise's resume, and though it's long, there's not much else there to be famous for). Of course she is also famous for her brief marriage to--and apparently much longer divorce proceedings from--Charlie Sheen (if you don't have time to click on the link, we'll just say history with prostitutes and stints in rehab and leave it at that).

--Left you hanging there, didn't I? OK, everyone is now in bed, and sweet goodnights have mitigated the events of the evening. I must finish this up so I can repair to the NY Times and a strong drink (I'm thinking white grape juice and vodka), and attempt to wait up for S, though that seems unlikely.

So Denise Richards was married to Charlie Sheen and best friends with Heather Locklear, and don't you dare say anything bad about Heather Locklear, because, well, simply because Amanda Woodward, so there (and I just can't find a good link for Amanda Woodward--there's a project: someone needs to do a good Amanda Woodward website, and all will be right with the world--but for those for whom it's sufficient information, I'll just say Melrose Place, and if that doesn't help, sorry, Mom, I'll just say a stellar TV actress who has graced numerous trashy hit TV shows with aplomb and a remarkable ability to stay size 2 and not make you hate her for it).

Oh my god, why is this taking so long?!

Basically Charlie and Denise split up, and then, to everyone's surprise, because they seemed like one of those happy rock-and-roll marriages, but then again look at what happened to Valerie and Eddie, Heather and her husband, Bon Jovi guitarist Richie Sambora, split up, and now Denise is fooling around with Richie, and she and Heather have had a best-friend break-up.

That's all.

But the point I wanted to make, because this was meant to be analysis, not simply narrative, because you can get the narrative anywhere, but you come here for the analysis, is that basically, Denise Richards is a publicity hound. You know all those pictures of her at the park with her kids? (Can't find a link to those either, and I really must get to the end of this, but take my word for it--you trust me, don't you?--there are constantly pictures of her at the park with her kids.) Those pictures are so staged it's like you're watching stills from a movie. That woman is not weeping because her divorce is so nasty and her husband loved prostitutes more than her. She is not weeping because she has lost her best friend. She's kind of psyched because really it wasn't so much fun hanging out with Heather because every time one of her shows went off the air she was on another show, like, five minutes later, which was so unfair, and Richie Sambora is probably pretty good in the sack, and he's certainly cuter than David Spade, and, my god, she's on the cover of every magazine this week, and maybe this will get her a real movie offer! Score!

And I am so done with this.