Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Janice Dickinson is the world's first supermodel. She has appeared on the cover of every fashion magazine in the world and is the author of No Lifeguard on Duty and Everything About Me Is Fake . . . and I'm Perfect. A former judge on CW's smash hit America's Next Top Model, she lives in Beverly Hills, California, with her two children.

Von der hinteren Coverseite

In Everything About Me Is Fake...and I'm Perfect, the hilarious and candid follow–up to the national bestseller No Lifeguard on Duty, Janice Dickinson tackles our society's unattainable standards of beauty and reveals the secrets behind her own lifelong struggle to achieve perfection –– from her bra–stuffing days as a flat–chested teenager through her career as the world's first supermodel to her ultimate comeback as a bestselling author and television star on the top–rated reality television hit America's Next Top Model.

Even as she graced the glossy pages of Vogue and Cosmo, Janice had to struggle to keep up the image of brazen self–confidence and bravado that became her trademark. Behind every smile and pose was a sea of self–doubt and insecurities. Now, after years of experience as a supermodel –– being stitched into clothing, starving herself, and undergoing cosmetic surgery –– Janice debunks the beauty myths and breaks down what's real and what's not. Drawing on her vast knowledge of fashion, beauty care, and fitness, Janice offers no–nonsense advice and tips on how to look and feel your best on your own terms.

you see on the magazine pages starve themselves for weeks on end, smoke up a storm, and scarf down enough diuretics to blast out the Pacific Ocean.

No one tells a story like the world's first supermodel, and Janice's eagerly awaited follow–up is filled with outrageous anecdotes from her personal life, including how she stole Donald Trump's heart after jacking his limo, her steamy date with JFK Jr., and the wonders and pitfalls of going under the knife. In a fabulous fashion that only Janice can deliver, she tells all about her bumpy and unpredictable road to a healthy self–image and pulls back the curtain on the modeling industry, as well as her own life, proving why, as Janice explains: "Everything about me is fake . . . and I'm perfect."

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Everything about Me Is Fake . . . and I'm Perfect

ReganBooks

Chapter One

Going All the Way for Perfection

How far will your average supermodel go to look fabulous before, during, and after the hot-hot days of a modeling career? Well, let's take a quick trek down Memory Lane to Perfection Junction because highlights like this -- well, they ain't pretty.

The Origins of Perfection

At age fourteen, naturally, I was no supermodel -- not just yet. But I wanted to be one, so badly that I practically slept with Vogue under my pillow. I guess I was hoping some beauty tips would invade my brain while I slept. Instead, I ended up with my first pair of fake boobs.

When I say I stuffed myself every day, I don't mean gorging on burgers and fries. I filled my training bra to the brim (or as far as those baby cups could go) with tons of good old-fashioned affordable Kleenex.

Now, remember, I grew up in Florida. That means 100-degree temps and 200 percent humidity -- so let's just say it wasn't exactly comfortable when all those tissues started getting moist and sticky. But I needed bigger boobs, and there was no way I was waiting around for Mother Nature'sblessing -- much less for Victoria to reveal her secrets to me. Atfourteen I couldn't really afford implants, so I did the next best thing and started reaching out to bathroom products. I never thought of it in my virginal state, but my slogan should have been Please don't squeeze the Charmin.

One night I took my toilet-paper-packing self to the high school basketball game. I remember feeling a little strange midway through the second half, a little ... lighter. Maybe skipping lunch is working! I thought.

Then, in a moment of horror, I looked down into the bleachers and saw a soggy, sweaty, melting ball of toilet paper on the floor below me. One of my counterfeit boobs had staged its own escape by leaping out of my bra and T-shirt. When I stood up to cheer the team on, I had one big tit and one nonexistent one, and there wasn't much I could do about it. In a million years I couldn't have endured that long, humiliating walk down the bleachers to hit the bathroom and wad myself up again.

Ever the clever girl, I thought of the next best thing to rectify the situation. When no one was looking, I carefully slipped off a Ped sock and, while everyone else was cheering for the Nova Titans, granted myself a new second boob. I was like the Bionic Woman: We can rebuild her! A few minutes later my clammy hands were raised in fists to cheer -- and my fake tits (both of them) were bouncing along for the ride.

That night, when my mother asked what I wanted for my next birthday, I surprised her. "Ten new pairs of Peds," I said. "But without the little pom-poms." No one had nipples that big.

Oh, the Horror

Okay, enough about my youth (for now, anyway). Let's pick things up in the backseat of a limo, circa 1980, after a Harper's Bazaar shoot for Gucci. I was making out with rocker Frank Zappa before we stepped out for dinner at the fabulous Russian Tea Room in New York City.

As the two of us strutted inside the place, all eyes were on my hot white jeans, which left little to the imagination. Somewhere between the antipasto and the second bottle of vino, I looked down and noticed something clammy between my legs -- something that had nothing to do with Frank. Perfect, hot, model-babe Janice had all of a sudden turned intojust-got-her-period-all-over-her-Calvins Janice.

What to do?

Before Frank got a load of the problem and decided I needed a transfusion (yep, it was that bad), my brain went into overdrive. Suddenly my hand was spilling half a bottle of wine into my nether regions.

"Oh my God, Frank, you had me so hot I wasn't paying attention," I purred as $200 worth of booze soaked into my crotch. I could always get hold of another bottle of wine -- but at least this way I knew I wouldn't end up as the bleeding girl on one of his anthology albums!

Out of Africa, Into a Mess

I went to Africa once on a shoot for Playboy, and my body was crying out for a hunky native. Since the only one in sight had what looked like a large bone through his nostrils, I opted to focus on myself and my other need: relief for my dehydrated body. Hearing my cries for some spa activity, my handlers suggested I go roll around in a mud bath. All I couldthink was, Why not? Sounded like a cheaper, more rustic version of the $300 mud wrap they offer at any Ritz Carlton.

Well, it was a tad more Farmer in the Dell than I expected. In fact, it was a giant mud pit. Sure, it was sort of interesting to feel that cold, smooth clay go into places previously reserved for men I invited into my bedroom. The downside was, I couldn't get the mud out of those private spots, no matter how high I reached or how hard I tried.

Eventually I found myself in photographer Peter Beard's tub, which was actually a rusty tin can in the middle of this hog ranch where we were shooting. On the plus side, though, Peter's servants did bring pots brimming with hot, steamy water to get the mud out of ... well, I'll leave that to your imagination. At least I could finally claim I was earthy.

Excerpted from Everything about Me Is Fake . . . and I'm Perfectby Janice Dickinson Copyright © 2005 by Janice Dickinson. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.