An Open Letter to Demi Moore

Yesterday I was sitting in a nail salon while Wifesy got her very first pedi, ever.  I was hanging out and googling things on my phone when a headline on one of those trashy nail salon mags caught my eye.  The title was something like, “Demi’s Downward Spiral.”  I know Demi Moore’s fall from the Queen of Cougar-dom to just another dumb slut trying to act younger than her age is old news, but I still read the whole thing like I was thirsty.  It made me want to have a Demi-intervention.  These letters comprise the bulk of what I would say to her.

Dear Demi,

I feel, as if, I have grown up with you.  Granted, you are more than a decade my senior, but a decade is not much between people, once we all reach adulthood.  I grew up watching you.  St. Elmo’s Fire, About Last Night, Ghost, Indecent Proposal, A Few Good Men, right up to GI Jane.  I related.  I think it all started with the height of your St. Elmo’s Fire hair.  We all had hair like that back then.  It was less styled and more sculpted into place with an aqua-net sheen and a final appearance that could rival the mane of any lion.  I understood that hair and your baggy, button down shirt coupled with light colored jeans.  So, I thought I understood you.

I knew you then.

I thought you would do what most actresses do when they are the highest paid actresses of the current moment.  You say to yourself, “This won’t last.  I have a good ten years here before someone else comes along who is prettier and maybe even more talented.  So, I’m going to enjoy it and then I’m going to take my oodles of money and put it into something awesome.”  You know, ike cray-cray Melanie Griffith’s mom did – the one that Hitchcock stalked – she took her money and tried to save the entire feckin’ animal kingdom in her own backyard.  You could’ve done something like that.  Money is the freedom to do something outlandishly awesome.  You can buy an airport or make a musical about youth-obsessed Hollywood or rescue a child from Africa or New Jersey.  I thought you were grounded like that.  I trusted you to do something reasonable with your dough like build a library made entirely out of Oreo cookies or reserve a flight to outer space with the Paypal guy like Brangelina.

But, no.  I now realize you used your ungodly influx of cash to try every stay-young-stay-fit-stay-feckable brand of snake oil poured your way.  You’re a workout-aholic and a raw foodist and a chemical peel, steam bath, pluck and prune, human topiary, enthusiast.  I almost missed it.  But, your cracks started to show somewhere circa Charlie’s Angels.

I remember that final scene of yours.  Those hot, young, worked out things – Drew, Cameron, and Lucy, were going to walk up to you, on the beach, in their string bikinis and flaunt their winning youth right in your face.  But, you wouldn’t have it.  So, you worked out so hard that you caused both airbrush and photoshop to rethink themselves.  You stood there on the beach jutting out your bony stick of a hip with your vag smashed out on the end of it like a warrior waving a spear, victoriously displaying that morning’s kill.  We all should’ve known something was wrong then.  But, we didn’t…or worse yet, we “couldn’t handle the truth.”

We let this little Ashton thing go on.  Even though every self-respecting woman knows that if you’re over 40, you feck the 20 year old, sure, but you never bring him home.  Home is for the man who has read something and lived a little and maybe even been broken once or twice.  Home is NOT for the man-boy who says he’ll pull out, but then hesitates because he doesn’t want to feck up his Star Wars sheets!

And no growing girl should have a peer-classmate-daddy like you forced upon your girls.  This fecks up years of feminism.  You can’t listen to a guy whose birthday was in the fall, while yours is in the winter.  All this does is confuse a growing vag.  She thinks to herself, “Jesus, I guess I have to listen to everything with a penis that looks good, even if he’s the stupid one who would’ve cheated off me in biology lab.”

That’s not the way to raise a girl.  Hell, that’s not even the way to raise a boyfriend.  A boyfriend should be raised along with you.  You feck up and then he fecks up.  This is the cycle of life.  But, if he wrecks the car and then you begin menopause, that’s not feckin’ up.  Goddamn it, Demi.  Menopause is not feckin’ up.  Ripping off your Kabbalah bracelet and threatening to trade someone’s crow’s feet for a twat so tight you need a Land Rover to overcome it, well, that’s just being a feckin’ jack-hole.  Menopause vs. tighter-pus is not a reasonable fight for a mature couple!!

You brought the Kutcher home when it should’ve been a fling.  What is wrong with you??!!

Next thing we all know, you’re doing whip-its with Rumer and Tallulah, while The Kutch gets it on with a 20 year old emo-girl at a movie junket in Brazil.

Sure, you can have fun over the age of 35.  I swear, you can.  But, you’re supposed to have fun flaunting your knowledge around and writing things of interest and producing passion pieces.  You’re supposed to show your girls that you can grow old gracefully and every now and again Diane Keaton gets Keanu Reeves, by turning DOWN playboy Jack Nicholson.  But, you see, Diane is a successful playwright and Keanu is a doctor with an old soul.

I can assure you Diane would NOT have landed the hot, SMART, Doctor-boy by doing whip-its while grinding Snoop Dog’s dirty thigh in a club that last made the news because Lindsay Lohan got blasted in the corner by the DJ booth!!!

She-sus Christ (like Jesus, but a lady)!!

Every time you go out with Rumor, get high at a 21 and over club, and then chase Zac Ephron around, Meryl Streep and I weep, while the vagina of Gloria Steinem steams like a bowl of fresh ramen!  It ain’t right!

What it is…is wrong.  Just wrong, what you’re doing to yourself and all of us, Demi.  Stop it.  Stay in.  Stay under the covers.  Read.  Re-group.  And then re-enter.  We’ll forgive you, but you’ve got to grow up.

Much love,


Okay, I realize the above letter might be too wordy for a woman eating nothing, but alfalfa sprouts, while she burns her AARP card and pretends to have a crush on Justin Beiber.  So, here’s the cliff notes version:


Eat Carbs.  Lots of them.  Right now…because you’re creepy.

Let the grey show.

Date a man old enough to remember Watergate and just about to collect social security, while it’s still even available.

Put on some sweat pants and see the world.

If you do that, our lady gardens will forgive you.

It’s never too late.

Much love,

Sweet Mother


If you’d like to read some more, I have a new and fun post over at ICN where I talk about the man who should raise my gayby, if for some reason, I can’t.  CLICK HERE FOR ICN PIECE.


You might also like:

Newest:  Letter to my Gayby


Photo creds:  demi-kutch-feature, 80sdemi