Another diva in the making

Fiona “Ginger” Marciano, the first conceived of their six children, was born with the glamour gene. From her earliest day Ginger sought the limelight and yearned to be rich and famous beyond definition. It was part of a syndrome common to first-born children who are showered with unprecedented quantities of attention. It created an emotional addiction that required constant feeding, yet could never be satiated.

She became a devotee of the fake-it-until-you-make-it motivational movement. She felt perfectly natural pretending to be something she was not.

“Don’t be who you are,” she told her younger sisters, “be who you want to be.”

Ginger did exactly that, carrying herself like a Hollywood starlet, believing life wasn’t really worth living unless it was done in the limelight. Her every stride, her every glance, facial expression and movement was done under the gaze of imaginary motion picture cameras. Ginger fancied herself being watched by millions.

She patterned herself after Twiggy and Cher. Twiggy because of the fame and glamour she achieved as a British supermodel; Cher because she was a multi-talented screen and music star who, like Ginger, wore her black hair very long and ramrod straight. Wistfully, she watched the Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour every week.

Good posture was practiced by walking around the house with an algebra textbook balanced on the crown of her head.

On the advice of a bestselling self-help book, Ginger sat down one day and wrote her own obituary that summed up the life she was convinced she would live. It was a lavish treatment of a career celebrated by fans the world over. There was a modeling career, movie roles, product endorsements, television commercials, magazine covers, a ride on a Rose Parade float, semi-nude spreads in Playboy and Penthouse, USO shows for the troops overseas, high-profile affairs with Paul McCartney and a U.S. president,

coffee table picture books of her life, and a widely reported meeting with the Queen Elizabeth of England and her Royal Family. In time, marriage to one of Hollywood’s leading men came along. They sired three daughters blessed with special talents that seemed certain to carry on Ginger’s legacy. There was even speculation of a family dynasty in the making. She died peacefully in her sleep, while taking a mid-day nap on a chaise lounge in her sumptuously appointed home in Pacific Palisades, California. She was 100 years old and still so picturesque in her death scene — clad in a lacy Victorian blouse and Versace wool skirt — that snapshots of her final resting place were released to the media. A quote from the New York Times read: “Ginger Marciano established herself as the century’s undisputed archetype of female class and beauty.”

Unabashed by the grandeur of her dreams, Ginger handed the mock obit to her high school English teacher and said, “Well ... what do you think?”

After carefully regarding the typewritten treatise, the instructor replied, “You forgot to credit yourself with eradicating world hunger.”

“Let’s not go overboard,” Ginger said, taking back the sheet of paper. “It’s important that I be modest.”

All this carrying on led her high school classmates to conclude that Ginger Marciano was hopelessly stuck up and delusional. Sisters Angie and Maria had theories about adoption.

Though many boys were attracted to Ginger, she condescended to date a very few. None of the boys at her Catholic high school measured up; not for a girl was fantasized about having Casablanca’s Humphrey Bogart or Star Trek’s Captain Kirk riding roughshod atop her. The boys she did date were strictly props, and she certainly didn’t sleep with any of them. It was all part of her attempt to create an aura of

unattainability. Just like real divas of the Silver Screen, Ginger wanted to be a fantasy that was beyond the reach of the men who desired her.

By time she donned her cap and gown and was handed her high school diploma, Ginger had decided that fashion modeling would be her first act, the wedge that pried open the door to the entire entertainment industry. By Ginger’s estimation she possessed three of the four requisites for being a supermodel — a thin figure, small breasts and poise. The missing characteristic was height, which she figured could be overcome with a very steep pair of stiletto heels. An “education” loan was secured and she headed to a Chicago-based school named after a once-popular model who had gotten too varicose to keep strutting runways. Midway through Ginger’s second semester the school went bankrupt and closed its doors.

So Ginger exited modeling as fast as she had entered it. Still, she never lost that sense that life was being lived under the unblinking eye of the motion picture camera. She continued to be supremely self-conscious, dressing and behaving as though her life was being viewed by the multitudes.

Before long, Ginger was in her thirties and fixated on staving off the ravages of aging. There was a stubborn refusal to look her age. She wore revealing fashions, moisturized twice daily, ate plant-based vegetarian foods, avoided sunlight, quit smoking, limited herself to just a few drinks a week, exercised daily on her Nordic Track, drove a sporty car, took vitamins, laughed often, listened to subliminal tapes and treated all ailments with herbal remedies.

@copyright/Mike Consol