I'm Just Sayin'

Hannah Montana Mauled by Big Cat

Ok, that’s not exactly true. It was a Hannah Montana doll. She was not so much mauled, but just dragged through the house. And the big cat was one of my pets. Let me explain.

I could lie and promise to make a long story short, but I’ve already sunk to sensationalism and admitted to owning a Hannah Montana doll. How low do you want me to go? So settle in. This is going to take some time. It’s January. You’re broke, tv sucks, and it’s cold outside. You might as well stick it out with me here.

It all started with a girl’s weekend in Asheville, NC, in early December. I promised to change the names to protect the innocent, so we’ll call the participants Thelma, Louise, Betty, Cagney and Lacey. I’ll be Betty. Thelma and Louise got a one-day head start, and the festivities began. By the time I arrived a day later, they were, let’s say, very relaxed … giddy with relaxation already. Typically on these weekends, we take in a show or two, eat too much, drink too much, sit in a hot tub, and laugh our butts off at really silly and inane things that you later file under “you had to be there.” This could possibly be one of those you-had-to-be-there stories. Just sayin’ …

Anyway, a day or two prior to my arrival, the national media reported that a woman was upset because her daughter’s Hannah Montana singing holiday doll was apparently dropping the f-bomb. Yep, her little angel was dancing around the house singing “Rockin Around the Christmas Tree,” a la Miley Cyrus (but hopefully with actual talent). Feel free to sing along here:

Rockin around the Christmas tree, have a happy holiday.
Everyone dancin’ merrily in the new old-fashioned way.
Rockin around the Christmas tree, let the Christmas spirit ring.
Later we’ll have some effin’ pie and do some caroling …

Wait, did she say pumpkin pie, or something that sounds like pumpkin, but begins with an f and gets your mouth washed out with soap when you’re six?

For some reason, this story captivated me. I mean, does this mom actually think her daughter picked up the f word from hearing Hannah Montana sing it? I think not. Kid must have heard the word somewhere before, mom. So I posted a link on my Facebook page, and suggested that perhaps mom could have bought the kid a book instead. And I arrived in Asheville still marveling over this national news nugget. And like a dog with a bone -- or five women with wine, lemon drop martinis and beer -- we seized upon it. The effin’ pie became a theme for the weekend.

What’s for breakfast? Effin’ pie. This martini is better than an effin’ pie. It’s colder than an effin’ pie outside. Thelma, you’re getting skinny. Need some effin’ pie? You get the picture. Guess you had to be there. (Don’t say you weren’t warned.)

Fast forward: exchanging Christmas gifts a few weeks later. Guess what Thelma bought me? No, not an effin’ pie. Pay attention! The Hannah Montana singing holiday doll! Apparently it was impossible to find locally, and she had to order it off the internet. Now that’s friendship for you.

She’s resplendent. The doll, not Thelma. Ok, sorry, Thelma, you are also resplendent, especially in your new size six jeans (I mean, EFFIN SIZE SIX). Hannah is indeed a glorious specimen, especially if you are a little girl who just can’t wait for puberty so you can grow into some really slutty-looking clothes. She is wearing bejeweled pleather pants and a red sequined sleeveless v-neck top. A silver belt with rhinestone buckle is slung around her hips, and it coordinates with the silver sparkly stilettos. She has dangly diamond earrings (really, they are shaped like diamonds, so for a six-year-old, they are diamond earrings), a red ruby necklace and matching bracelet. But, oh, her crowning glory is her maxi coat. It is white faux suede, with white faux fur collar, cuffs and hem, silver embroidery on the sleeves, silver piping up the front, rhinestones on the lapels, and silver ribbons at the wrists. Liberace would have loved it. Elvis would have wept.

Hannah came with a plastic keepsake ornament and a plastic stand that she straddles to remain upright. Really, you can’t expect her to hold up that coat on those teeny little stiletto heels. Let me just assert something: I would cuss too if I had to straddle a plastic pole longer than my legs! Course, I would cuss if I had to wear a ruby necklace, ruby bracelet, diamond earrings, a rhinestone belt and bejeweled jeans all at the same time. And those shoes! I don’t even know words bad enough for anyone who made me wear them.

Since this story is already waaaaaay too drawn out, I might as well digress here and let you know that, in order to activate the merriment, you have to pull down her pleather pants to access the on/off switch, located roughly were you might expect to find a tramp stamp. Praise Jesus that Hannah Montana does not sport a tattoo! She does, however, favor white bikini panties. Really, they are painted on. I know, TMI … just sayin’ …

And then you press a button near her navel to make her sing. Really, I am not making this up. Thankfully, you can press the button again to make her shut up.

Thelma and I gave it a listen. My brother stopped by, and he gave it a listen. (He seemed really confused about why a woman my age would have such a thing, and then he beat a hasty retreat.) We all agreed: given the singer’s nasally delivery, and the technical limitations of a dime-sized speaker embedded in a doll’s tummy, you could mistake “pumpkin” for something else, especially if you had heard that something else once or twice before.

Fast forward again: I am putting away the Christmas decorations and decide it is time for Hannah to relocate her resplendency to my bedroom, on top of my armoire, alongside Elmo, Woody from Toy Story, my Ozzie Smith Cabbage Patch doll, and a couple of Joe Crede White Sox bobbleheads. (Sorry, cousin Joe, but I happen to think you’re in good company up there. With Hannah’s arrival, it could turn into a real party. She is dressed for it, but remember, she’s 16 effin’ years old.) To ease her transition, I let her rest a while on the steps. (Yeah, I was too effin’ lazy to make one more trip up the effin’ stairs, ok?) I decided she might as well stay there overnight, because on my final trip of the day, my hands were full of my night-time necessities – ice water, cell phone, book, effin' glasses, maybe piece of chocolate).

I must have slept soundly. I didn’t hear the attack ensue. All I know is, when I got up this morning, poor Hannah was in the living room, her belt was in the dining room, and one shoe was in the kitchen. I’m not sure which cat it was. I know that Chloe does not like country music. Fannie has no tolerance for anything that usurps my attention. Sophie looks good in silver, so maybe she wanted the accessories. Maybe they all worked together to teach the teen-age tart a thing or two. Kind of like an episode of “What Not to Wear.” Feline Fashionistas … only on Bravo … watch what happens …

Whatever, Hannah survived. Still has a full head of hair, her magnificent maxi coat, and a smile on her face. I guess she enjoyed getting off that effin’ display stand for the night. I’m just sayin.