Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1938)

Plain Girl in Paradise (Continued jrom page 17) Hollywood scene. So, if you deviate from the routine of Vendome lunches, Trocadero dancing, Saturday at the races, a week end at Palrr. Springs, you are "special." And that's what you want to be — for a successful holiday. I remember the office I walked into the second day I was there toward the end of the Santa Anita racing season. It happened to be a Friday. A tall, bespectacled fellow in the publicity department said 1 could visit one of the lots the next day, to see a famous star in action, but added: "Oh, but tomorrow's Saturday. You'll be at the races." "No, I won't," I told him, eager for my glimpse of a favorite. "Why not?" Sheer dumbness prompted my reply: "Why should I?" The young man looked over my head and met the knowing gaze of his officemate. Then, with a gesture of selfabnegation, he said: "Would you like to go to the races with me?" I hesitated for a moment, thinking quickly of the alternative prospects. "I think I'd rather visit the lot," I said candidly. "I never go to horse races ct home. Why should I do something here that I could do at home, if I wanted to? 1 can't visit a studio at home. So let's go there." "Okay, lady," said the publicity man, and he was grinning. "I'll save a lot of money if I take you on the lot." He didn't — for Saturday night we dined together, and I wore an orchid on my shoulder, and we danced until three and arranged to drive to San Bernardino the next day. which must have cost much more than betting at Santa Anita would have cost. But the young man seemed to feel it was worth it. I was, he told me solemnly, "a breath of fresh air." He saw nothing funny in that expression in the land of fresh air and sunshine and artificial women. I HEY do tell you things, when you are an ambitionless visitor. Take down their back hair and confess their sins and the sins of others; the racy gossip of a city where there is the longest and most dazzlingly painted back fence in the world, over which more chitchat passes than in any other one spot known to man, with the possible exception of the Court of Louis XIV. (And I'd pit Sardi's on a rainy night against even Louis' salons!) Who doesn't enjoy getting, at first hand, "just between you and me — " what even Hollywood columnists can't print? What So-and-So did at Palm Springs the time he went there incognito; how Such-and-Such lost her job at the height of her power; why the famous co-stars refused to make another picture together; how the matinee idol happened to marry before he became famous. It's fascinating hearing — but you wouldn't hear it if they thought you knew anybody to whom to tell it. Then there are the more intimate things. Why a man couldn't get along with his wife, who was oh! so different from you, of course. Surprising, the number of men in Hollywood who are legally and physically unattached, but who have had the experience of one or two marriages, each epitomized in a nice roll of parchment from Reno, somewhere in a bottom desk drawer. Divorced men, they say, don't make the best of husbands. I wouldn't know. But they do make the pleasantest of admirers, the most flattering holidaysquires. And that, mind you. is the objective — that and that alone. It's very pleasant to be told you are all manner ot nice things; it's revivifying, ego-building, more refreshing than a dozen sea voyages taken in the company of other nice girls and a minimum of eligible males. It gives you a pleasant glow around the region of your heart, fills your head with fresh pictures of your own personality, which has the effect ot making you more like those self-portraits than you were before you heard about yourself from a Hollywood man's lips. But you mustn't take it too seriously. Not the least of your charm lies in the fact that you won't be there long enough to turn up, eventually, at Central Casting Bureau, using a fellow's name as an "in" at the studio, repeating the things he's told you in confidence where it might do him some harm or — faux pas of faux pas — hold him to his declarations. It must be carefully established at the outset that you are as transient as a trailer-inhabitant. You have a home somewhere else. You might even have a job. You have come to Hollywood for a vacation and, when the vacation's over, you'll depart, leaving behind nothing but a dream. A dream which might possibly be renewed at a later date, but then also for a stipulated, regular period of time. You won't be a dream walking around the street some blue Monday, a dream with a long memory. It is much easier to "show the kid a good time" when you know she'll b3 on her way a week, two ■weeks or three, from now. NOT that marriages aren't made in Hollywood. They are. But they're suspect. The regular, employed citizenry of Hollywood is pretty cynical about marriages, having seen so many go on the rocks and with a louder noise than wrecked marriages make anywhere else. That may be because so many Hollywood men marry girls "in the business," girls whose own careers conflict with their husband's greater or lesser ones. Or perhaps it may be because the plain. American girl, sans movie hopes, is bored with the Hollywood existence which centers around the industry, after she has lived there awhile. It could also spring from the fact that "a breath of fresh air" loses its tingle when you breathe it every day and the hothouse fragrance of the authentic glamour girls then becomes the "different," attractive thing. Anyhow, marriage wasn't the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow of my Hollywood holiday. I came home. And — lo and behold — the same thing happened, in reverse, right on home territory. "Diana's been to Hollywood. Tell us all about Hollywood. Diana!" And then you speak, and speak freely — who knows from whom you collected your items of information? Who cares? You have been in Wonderland. The brilliance clings to you in the mundane surroundings of home. You are as different as satin and sequins in a sea of organdy. "I don't see how they let you get away!" says a pleasant non-Hollywood voice. All in all, it's well worth while for the plain American garden-variety girl to visit Hollywood. M I've lived an extra month this year— Like so many women, Janice believed menstrual pain had to be endured. As regularly as her dreaded days came on, she stopped "living" — gave up all pleasure to give in to suffering. Then, a year ago, a thoughtful friend told Janice about Midol; how it relieves functional periodic pain even at its worst, and how it often saves many women even slight discomfort. Now Janice is "living" again — not just part of the time, but twelve full months a year. Letting Midol take care of unnecessary menstrual pain has restored to her a whole month of wasted days! MIDOL is made for women for one special purpose — to relieve the unnatural pain which often makes the natural menstrual process so trying. And Midol is dependable: unless there is some organic disorder requiring the attention of a physician or surgeon, Midol helps most women who try it. Why not give Midol the chance to help you? It acts quickly, not only to relieve the pain, but to lessen discomfort. A few Midol tablets should see you serenely through your worst day. Ask for the convenient, inexpensive purse-size aluminum case at any drugstore. MIDOL RELIEVES FCXCTIOXAL PKKIODIC PAIN NOVEMBER, 1938 77