In the early 1990s, the world fell in love with the adorable Mara Wilson, the child actor known for playing the precocious little girl in family classics like Mrs. Doubtfire and Miracle on 34th Street.
The young star, who turned 37 on July 24, seemed poised for success but as she grew older, she stopped being “cute” and disappeared from the big screen.
“Hollywood was burned out on me,” she says, adding that “if you’re not cute anymore, if you’re not beautiful, then you are worthless.
In 1993, five-year-old Mara Wilson stole the hearts of millions of fans when she starred as Robin Williams’ youngest child in Mrs. Doubtfire.
The California-born star had previously appeared in commercials when she received the invitation to star in one of the biggest-grossing comedies in Hollywood history.
“My parents were proud, but they kept me grounded. If I ever said something like, ‘I’m the greatest!’ my mother would remind me, ‘You’re just an actor. You’re just a kid,’” Wilson, now 37, said.
After her big screen debut, she won the role of Susan Walker – the same role played by Natalie Wood in 1947 – in 1994’s Miracle on 34th Street.
In an essay for the Guardian, Wilson writes of her audition, “I read my lines for the production team and told them I didn’t believe in Santa Claus.” Referencing the Oscar-winning actor who played her mom in Mrs. Doubtfire, she continues, “but I did believe in the tooth fairy and had named mine after Sally Field.”
‘Most unhappy’
Next, Wilson played the magical girl in 1996’s Matilda, starring alongside Danny DeVito and his real-life wife Rhea Perlman.
It was also the same year her mother, Suzie, lost her battle with breast cancer.
“I didn’t really know who I was…There was who I was before that, and who I was after that. She was like this omnipresent thing in my life,” Wilson says of the deep grief she experienced after losing her mother. She adds, “I found it kind of overwhelming. Most of the time, I just wanted to be a normal kid, especially after my mother died.”
The young girl was exhausted and when she was “very famous,” she says she “was the most unhappy.”
When she was 11, she begrudgingly played her last major role in the 2000 fantasy adventure film Thomas and the Magic Railroad. “The characters were too young. At 11, I had a visceral reaction to [the] script…Ugh, I thought. How cute,” she tells the Guardian.
‘Burned out’
But her exit from Hollywood wasn’t only her decision.
As a young teenager, the roles weren’t coming in for Wilson, who was going through puberty and outgrowing the “cute.”
She was “just another weird, nerdy, loud girl with bad teeth and bad hair, whose bra strap was always showing.”
“At 13, no one had called me cute or mentioned the way I looked in years, at least not in a positive way,” she says.
Wilson was forced to deal with the pressures of fame and the challenges of transitioning to adulthood in the public eye. Her changing image had a profound effect on her.
“I had this Hollywood idea that if you’re not cute anymore, if you’re not beautiful, then you are worthless. Because I directly tied that to the demise of my career. Even though I was sort of burned out on it, and Hollywood was burned out on me, it still doesn’t feel good to be rejected.”
Mara as the writer
Wilson, now a writer, authored her first book “Where Am I Now? True Stories of Girlhood and Accidental Fame,” in 2016.
The book discusses “everything from what she learned about sex on the set of Melrose Place, to discovering in adolescence that she was no longer ‘cute’ enough for Hollywood, these essays chart her journey from accidental fame to relative (but happy) obscurity.”
She also wrote “Good Girls Don’t” a memoir that examines her life as a child actor living up to expectations.
“Being cute just made me miserable,” she writes in her essay for the Guardian. “I had always thought it would be me giving up acting, not the other way around.”
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My Neighbor Started a Barbecue Every Time I Hung Laundry Outside Just to Ruin It
For 35 years, my laundry routine was sacred… until my new neighbor, armed with grudge and a grill, started firing it up the moment my pristine sheets hit the clothesline. It seemed petty at first. Then it got personal. But in the end, I had the last laugh.
Some people mark the seasons by holidays or weather. I mark mine by which sheets are on the line: flannel in winter, cotton in summer, and those lavender-scented ones my late husband Tom used to love in spring. After 35 years in the same modest two-bedroom house on Pine Street, certain rituals become your anchors, especially when life has stripped so many others away.
A smiling woman hanging a dress on a clothesline | Source: Pexels
I was pinning up the last of my white sheets one Tuesday morning when I heard the telltale scrape of metal across concrete next door.
“Not again,” I muttered, clothes pins still clenched between my lips.
That’s when I saw her: Melissa, my neighbor of exactly six months. She was dragging her massive stainless steel barbecue grill to the fence line. Our eyes met briefly before she looked away, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Morning, Diane!” she called out with artificial sweetness. “Beautiful day for a cookout, isn’t it?”
I removed the pins from my mouth. “At ten in the morning on a Tuesday?”
She shrugged, her blonde highlights catching the sun. “I’m meal prepping. You know how it is… busy, busy!”
I had to rewash an entire load that came out reeking of burnt bacon and lighter fluid after one of Melissa’s smoky meal prep sessions.
A barbecue grill | Source: Unsplash
When she pulled the same stunt that Friday while I was hanging clothes on the line, I’d had enough and stormed across the lawn.
“Melissa, are you grilling bacon and lighting God knows what every time I do laundry? My whole house smells like a diner married a bonfire.”
She gave me that fake, sugary smile and chirped, “I’m just enjoying my yard. Isn’t that what neighbors are supposed to do?”
Within minutes, thick plumes of smoke drifted directly onto my pristine sheets, the acrid smell of burnt bacon and steak mingling with the scent of my lavender detergent.
This wasn’t cooking. This was warfare.
Smoke emanating from a BBQ grill | Source: Unsplash
“Everything okay, hon?” Eleanor, my elderly neighbor from across the street, called from her garden.
I forced a smile. “Just peachy. Nothing says ‘welcome to the neighborhood’ quite like smoke-infused laundry.”
Eleanor set down her trowel and walked over. “That’s the third time this week she’s fired up that thing the minute your laundry goes out.”
“Fourth,” I corrected. “You missed Monday’s impromptu hot dog extravaganza.”
“Have you tried talking to her?”
I nodded, watching as my sheets began to take on a grayish tinge. “Twice. She just smiles and says she’s ‘enjoying her property rights.'”
Sheets pinned to a clothesline | Source: Unsplash
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “Well, Tom wouldn’t have stood for this nonsense.”
The mention of my husband’s name still created that momentary hitch in my chest, even eight years later. “No, he wouldn’t have. But Tom also believed in picking your battles.”
“And is this one worth picking?”
I watched as Melissa flipped a hamburger patty, the grill large enough to cook for 20 people. “I’m starting to think it might be.”
I took down my now smoke-infused sheets, holding back tears of frustration. These were the last set Tom and I had bought together before his diagnosis. Now they reeked of cheap charcoal and pettiness.
A teary-eyed woman | Source: Pexels
“This isn’t over,” I whispered to myself as I trudged back inside with my ruined laundry. “Not by a long shot.”
“Mom, maybe it’s time to just get a dryer,” my daughter Sarah suggested. “They’re more efficient now, and—”
“I have a perfectly good clothesline that’s served me for three decades, sweetie. And I’m not about to let some Martha Stewart wannabe with boundary issues chase me off it.”
Sarah sighed. “I know that tone. What are you planning?”
“Planning? Me?” I opened my kitchen drawer and pulled out the neighborhood association handbook. “Just exploring my options.”
A surprised young lady | Source: Pexels
“Mom…?! I smell rats. Big ones.”
“Did you know there are actually rules about barbecue smoke in our HOA guidelines? Apparently, it’s considered a ‘nuisance’ if it ‘unduly impacts neighboring properties.'”
“Okayyyy?!? Are you going to report her?”
I closed the handbook. “Not yet. I think we need to try something else first.”
“We? Oh no, don’t drag me into your neighbor feud,” Sarah laughed.
“Too late! I need to borrow those neon and pink beach towels you used at that swim camp last summer. And any other colorful laundry you can spare.”
“You’re going to fight barbecue with laundry?”
“Let’s just say I’m going to give her Instagram brunch a new backdrop.”
Bright pink and green striped towels on the sand | Source: Pexels
I sat on my back porch, iced tea in hand, and watched as Melissa’s backyard was transformed. Strings of Edison bulbs appeared along her fence. A new pergola materialized. Potted plants with color-coordinated flowers lined her immaculate paver patio.
Every Saturday morning, like clockwork, the same group of women showed up with designer bags and bottles of champagne.
They’d crowd around her long farmhouse table, snapping photos of avocado toast and each other, cackling like hyenas while gossping about everyone who wasn’t there… especially the ones they’d hugged five minutes earlier.
A group of women laughing | Source: Unsplash
I overheard enough of their conversations to know exactly what Melissa thought of me and my clothesline.
It’s like living next to a laundromat,” she once told a friend, not even bothering to lower her voice. “So tacky. This neighborhood was supposed to have standards.”
***
Snapping out of my thoughts, I rushed inside and grabbed the neon towels plus that hot pink robe with “Hot Mama” on the back that my mom gave me for Christmas.
“Mom, what are you doing?” my youngest, Emily, gasped. “You said you’d never wear this in public.”
I smiled. “Things change, honey.”
A woman wearing a bright pink robe | Source: Unsplash
Saturday morning arrived with perfect blue skies. I watched from my kitchen window as caterers set up Melissa’s elaborate brunch spread. Flowers were arranged. Champagne was iced. And the first guests began to appear, each one dressed more impeccably than the last.
I timed it perfectly, waiting until phones were out and mimosas were being raised for a group selfie.
That’s when I emerged with my laundry basket.
A woman holding a laundry basket | Source: Freepik
“Morning, ladies!” I called cheerfully, setting down my overflowing basket of the most garish, colorful items I could assemble.
Melissa’s head snapped in my direction, her smile freezing in place. “Diane! What a…surprise. Don’t you usually do laundry on weekdays?”
I hung up a neon green beach towel and laughed. “Oh, I’m flexible these days. Retirement is wonderful that way.”
A woman laughing | Source: Pexels
The women at the table exchanged glances as I continued hanging item after item: my children’s SpongeBob sheets, the hot pink “Hot Mama” robe, leopard print leggings, and a collection of bright Hawaiian shirts Tom had loved.
“You know,” one of Melissa’s friends stage-whispered, “it’s really ruining the aesthetic of our photos.”
“That’s so unfortunate,” I replied, taking extra time positioning the robe directly in their camera line. “Almost as unfortunate as having to rewash four loads of laundry because of barbecue smoke.”
A woman holding her phone | Source: Pexels
Melissa’s face flushed as she stood abruptly. “Ladies, let’s move to the other side of the yard.”
But the damage was done. As they repositioned, I could hear the murmurs and gossips:
“Did she say barbecue smoke?”
“Melissa, are you feuding with your widowed neighbor?”
“That’s not very community-minded…”
I hid my smile as I continued hanging the laundry, humming loudly enough for them to hear.
Two women gossiping | Source: Pexels
When the brunch ended earlier than usual, Melissa marched to the fence. Up close, I could see the perfect makeup couldn’t quite hide the tension in her face.
“Was that really necessary?” she hissed.
“Was what necessary?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Yes, I do. Just like you knew exactly what you were doing with your strategic barbecuing.”
“That’s different—”
“Is it? Because from where I stand, we’re both just ‘enjoying our yards.’ Isn’t that what neighbors are supposed to do?”
An angry young woman | Source: Pexels
Her eyes narrowed at hearing her own words thrown back at her. “My friends come here every week. These gatherings are important to me.”
“And my laundry routine is important to me. It’s not just about saving money on utilities, Melissa. It’s about memories. That clothesline was here when I brought my babies home from the hospital. It was here when my husband was still alive.”
Her phone buzzed. She glanced down at it, her expression hardening again. “Whatever. Just know that your little laundry show cost me followers today.”
As she stormed off, I couldn’t help but call after her: “That’s a shame! Maybe next week we should coordinate colors!”
A woman looking at her phone | Source: Pexels
For three consecutive Saturdays, I made sure my most colorful laundry made its appearance during brunch. By the third week, Melissa’s guest list had noticeably thinned.
I was hanging up a particularly vivid tie-dyed sheet when Eleanor appeared at my side, her garden gloves still on.
“You know,” she said with a chuckle, “half the neighborhood is taking bets on how long this standoff will last.”
I secured the last clothespin. “As long as it takes. I just want her to see me… and understand that I have as much right to my clothesline as she does to her brunches.”
A woman clipping laundry to a clothesline | Source: Freepik
After Eleanor left, I sat on my porch swing, watching my laundry dance in the breeze. The vivid colors against the blue sky reminded me of the prayer flags Tom and I had seen on our trip to New Mexico years ago. He’d loved how they moved in the wind, carrying wishes and prayers up to heaven.
I was so lost in the memory that I didn’t notice Melissa approaching until she was standing at the foot of my porch steps.
“Can we talk?” she asked, her tone clipped and formal.
I gestured to the empty chair beside me. “Have a seat.”
An empty chair on the porch | Source: Unsplash
She remained standing, her arms crossed tightly. “I want you to know that I’ve moved my brunches inside. Happy now?”
“I wasn’t trying to ruin your brunches, Melissa. I was just doing my laundry.”
“On Saturday mornings? Coincidentally?”
“About as coincidental as your barbecues starting every time my whites hit the line.”
We stared at each other for a long moment, two women too stubborn to back down.
A mature woman staring at someone | Source: Pexels
“Well,” she finally said, “I hope you enjoy your victory and your tacky clothesline.”
With that, she turned on her heel and marched back to her house.
“I will!” I called after her. “Every single sunny day!”
***
These days, hanging laundry has become my favorite part of the week. I take my time arranging each item, making sure the “Hot Mama” robe gets prime position where it catches the most sunlight.
Eleanor joined me one Saturday morning, handing me clothespins as I worked.
“Have you noticed?” she asked, nodding toward Melissa’s yard where the patio sat empty, curtains drawn. “She hasn’t fired up that grill in weeks.”
I smiled, adjusting a particularly bright yellow sheet. “Oh, yes!”
An empty patio | Source: Unsplash
“And have you also noticed she can barely look at you? I swear, yesterday at the mailbox she practically sprinted back inside when she saw you coming.”
I laughed, remembering how Melissa had clutched her letters to her chest and scurried away like I was wielding something more dangerous than fabric softener.
“Some people just can’t handle losing,” I said, pinning up the last sock. “Especially to a woman with a clothesline and the patience to use it.”
A woman running | Source: Pexels
Later, as I sat on my porch swing with a glass of iced tea, I caught sight of Melissa peering through her blinds. When our eyes met, she frowned deeply and let the slat snap shut.
I raised my glass in her direction anyway.
Tom would have gotten such a kick out of all this. I could almost hear his deep chuckle, feel his hand on my shoulder as he’d say, “That’s my Diane… never needed more than a clothesline and conviction to make her point!”
The truth is, some battles aren’t about winning or losing. They’re about standing your ground when the smoke clears… and showing the world that sometimes the most powerful statement you can make is simply hanging your laundry out to dry, especially when it includes a neon pink robe with “#1 HOT MAMA” emblazoned across the back.
Clothes hanging on a clothesline | Source: Unsplash
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