Making time for celebrity crime


I can’t even get arrested in this town. Well, OK, technically I could probably get arrested, but what I probably wouldn’t get is a CNN ticker and headline news.
Meanwhile when Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, or Nichole Ritchie is booked on suspicion of, well, just about anything including but not limited to just being really tacky, it’s sure to be breaking news. This despite the fact that, at least in Lohan’s case, there is nothing remotely “new” about it.
Not bad enough. Lohan gets arrested for something virtually every 15 minutes. As for me, being unwilling to drive under the influence and well past the risk of being picked up for underage anything, if I tried to emulate the celebrated “bad girl” lifestyle, the most I could hope for was a citation from the ASPCA for endangering the life of one of those tiny little dogs that all spoiled celebrities are apparently required by law to carry in their purses.
Things do tend to get lost in my purse. Of course, there is also the pesky little problem of the fact that I’m not spoiled, addicted, or most daunting, famous.
Having never personally earned a drop of fame or fortune should not necessarily infringe on the right of people willing to apply themselves to some truly drunk and disorderly behavior.
Need famous name. Judging from the lives of such gifted luminaries as Ritchie (daughter of pop singer, Lionel Ritchie) and Hilton (daughter of someone – does it really matter who – in the Hilton Hotel Empire) all you really need is a famous parent.
He or she needs to have made a mountain of money, owned an entire empire of something and/or have a famous last name. All you have to do as his or her progeny is repay the years of pampering adoration and life of ease by publicly embarrassing your family at every turn.
Sadly, crime doesn’t pay unless you are already rich. Would a tabloid pay a million bucks for a picture of you or me being stuffed into the back of a squad car? I’m guessing that’s a solid “no.”
Ironic considering that you and I are a lot more likely to need the cash. Hilton can probably make bail with what she stashes in her change purse for her tiny dog to sleep on. You and I are probably going to need some help.
Big hurdle. Of course, the real hurdle in the path of my bright future as a celebrity criminal is this: I can’t see myself taking a really good mug shot. I’m generally unhappy with photographs taken of me at weddings and holidays. Anything taken in the wee hours by the Hollywood P.D. probably isn’t going to be all that flattering.
You do have to concede that Paris, Lindsay, et al. can take some really fetching line-up photos. It must be hard to look so glam with crazed bloodshot eyes and the slack-jawed stupor of the truly hung over. Yet somehow, these gals keep the dewy glow of the freshly arraigned booking after booking.
Perfect pout. Just in case I am ever tapped for community-service-greatness, I am working to perfect that spoiled-little-rich-girl-pout that works so well for the celebrity criminals. Practicing, I tilted my head, tousled my hair, squinted my eyes and bore an eerie resemblance to Charles Manson.
As I was perfecting my mug-pout, a friend (someone who loves me enough to do the necessary intervention) explained (somewhat in horror): “That’s not a pout, that’s contempt! Think petulance. Tantrum. Stick out your bottom lip.”
Thus was the exact moment when my future life of pin-up style crime came to an abrupt halt. Tantrum? Pouting? Bottom lip?


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Warm, witty and just a wee bit warped, Kymberly Foster Seabolt is a native of Kent, Ohio, who survived childhood exposure to disco and grew up to marry and move to the country. Her column weaves her special brand of humor with poignant, entertaining, and honest portrayals of parenting, marriage, and real life. She currently lives in northeastern Ohio with her husband, two children, two dogs, two cats, and numerous dust bunnies who wish to remain nameless.