An Open Letter to Miley Cyrus

Dear Miley,

First off, let me say congratulations. You have reached your 15th birthday, and despite being somewhat of an "It girl" on the Disney scene, you've managed to not have a sex tape put on the internet or been photographed vacuuming up strawberry Quik tinged coke whilst "DJ ing" a party with Tom Sizemore on your arm. That warrants a hearty congratulations from me. Because my daughter admires you so very much and because I have thus spent a minor fortune on t-shirts, cd's, posters, even wigs with your face emblazoned on them, I just can't be happy enough that you have managed to avoid rehab for another year. Thank you.

And I say that kind of tongue in cheek, but really Miley, I really appreciate that you do seem to be a rather wholesome girl and that you're giving lip service to the whole "staying pure" issue. Good for you.

But Miley, we really need to talk about the signals you're putting out there.

Now, normally when I see a picture like that, I say something to the effect of "Yowza! Those legs just will not quit!" because I seriously do talk like that. And I would be right. Miley, I would do anything (save strenuous excercise) to get some gams like those. Like the dress, love the shoes, and you "Who, me?" pose is adorable. But here's the thing Miley: you're 15. And pure. That's a mighty short skirt for a girl who is waiting for a Disney Princess theme wedding to open up the family business. And strapless? And orange? Yeah, I like it, and honey if I had the body, you know I'd be strapping this thing on--but I'm in my mid 20's. This doesn't make you look like a pure Disney sweetheart. This makes you look like a girl on the one way expressway to Lohanville.

And honey, I understand that your hormones are probably raging and that this all seemed like a good idea when you saw yourself in the mirror. But the thing this picture is portraying--you don't want that. Let me take you on a little trip. Picture it: southwest VA, the late 90's (and if you're getting vibes of Sophia Petrillo from The Golden Girls here, good for you--I like you more already). A young 14 year old girl is also feeling the mighty power of hormones. And she's succumbing to them. She's 14 and here are the things she has: an 18 year old, pot smoking boyfriend, obvious daddy issues, a wardrobe full of wide leg jeans (it was the mid 90's) paired with skimpy tops, and a dirty mouth. She acts like she knows everything because she does. She's bored out of her mind, and looking for some sort of escape--even of the temporary, back seat variety. That girl--I--would have loved this dress (although probably in black). I would have wanted this dress and all the things that come with it.

Miley, you don't need that. And I'm not just saying that because you're my daughter's idol. I'm speaking purely as one hormone addled teen to another. It sounds old fashioned, but seriously honey. Lengthen the hemline. Wait a little bit. You'll be older soon enough. I got lucky, Miley. I met a guy who calmed me down and we tackled this hormone crazed shit together, one book at a time, making a kind of cool teenage normality in a chaotic world. Not everyone gets so lucky. Hell, look at Britney. Seriously though. You seem to have a nice family, a killer body, a sweet disposition, and marketing geniuses that are going to make sure your great-grandchildren have Louboutinson their feet when they pop out of the womb. Don't fuck it up.

And I know I'm kind of coming down on you hard for what could have been an innocuous little dress, but there's also this photo:

Girl, I have seen that look. I know what a girl probably said right before she made that look, and honey it's something I still have in my arsenal for a quiet day when the kids are occupied. And I swear to God, if you get my daughter started doing that, I will hunt you down, slap a chastity belt on you, and make you do SAT critical reading passages on a Friday night. Do not make me do that.

By the way, if you or someone you know is taking the SAT, call me. If you think my life lessons are good, my standardized test talk is better.

Love,

Morgan