Paris Hilton recently displayed an all too familiar truth that painfully prodded me to say about a girl I seemingly have nothing in common with, sex tapes not withstanding, "I can identify with Paris Hilton."
If not for the simple, basic, carnal, inherent truth that - me and her? - we need our mommas. In her case, it's "Momm.....!!!" In my case, "Mommyy...!" It's really apples to apples. It's still ya momma.
I'm offering up no opinions on the subject of Paris Does Time, when Time isn't a beefcake offering up a night IN Paris. But I will share with you this: I did laugh a little when Sarah Silverman taunted her with prison-bars-as-penis jokes. But the laughing really stopped right there. Even as the media splashed Crybaby all over the papers.
Especially, when a grown woman, in her most hopeless state, reverted back to...
...princess leia buns on the side of her head, donning her first-class brat t-shirt and hopped on her strawberry sizzler pink huffy and trucked it down to mommy when some neighborhood girl bullied her and her butter sandwiches.
Or that's just me.
You see, I can tell my mom ANYTHING. Yep, that. And she's not even that kind of mom that tries to be your friend and asks you to smoke pot in the boy's room and five-finger some Revlon lipstick. Nope, she's Mom. And sometimes you just need your momma. She offers motherly advice, cookies and milk, and bandaids when the boo boos sting. I ALWAYS turn to my mom. And for Paris to recognize that? Finally tells me that she may be, just maybe, isn't entirely made of vapid stares, lip gloss, and hair extensions.
Very recently, when I was crying to my mom about recent troubles, my own mom offered me this: “You do need to come live with me. You need your mother.”
Paris and I know that Mom is where it's at.