Millihelen, n. That quantity of beauty required to launch one ship.
I admit to having read only a relative handful of those comments, but one common theme seems to be that they hate her for thinking she’s a looker. Based on the available evidence — see photo and click to enlarge if desired — I’m willing to accept Roxeanne de Luca’s judgment here, up to a point.
[F]or a normal woman (i.e. one you are likely to encounter while walking to the supermarket), she’s lovely, and for over 40, she looks damn good.
The smile looks somewhat forced to me, but otherwise, I’ll go with “damn good for over 40,” if nowhere near, say, Helen of Troy.
The key here, I think, is “supermarket,” since I have previously admitted to scoping out the babes in the frozen-food aisle. On any given Saturday afternoon, there’s probably someone at least as high on the millihelen scale as Samantha Brick, somewhere within the Homeland at May and Britton, and while she’s not going to pay any attention to me — odds are she’s spoken for anyway — I am always grateful for the view.
Well, almost always grateful. Somewhere in this sea of pulchritude might be someone like this:
There is a certain type of middle-aged woman who is just so unhappy with her lot in life that she’s not going to rest until every other woman around her is miserable, too, and her prime targets are younger, successful, well-proportioned, happy women.
And Lewis Grizzard isn’t around to take them off our hands anymore, either.