My mom says I remind her a lot of Bethenny Frankel. To which I say, "Really? She's so funny! And she's so skinny!" And then reality sets in, and I am reminded that it's not because I'm funny or skinny - two things which I don't really think I am.
It's because I'm quite possibly one of the most neurotic, high strung, on-the-verge-of-hyperventilating, temperamental people in the world. Everything must be perfect at all times, or I'm a failure at everything. I have noticed this more and more as a parent. When Collins does something in public that she shouldn't do, like take a toy away from a kid, I freak the eff out. She's a kid, she doesn't know about sharing and boundaries yet. I shouldn't expect her to behave perfectly.
I just need to chill the eff out.
What some might call immature or snotty or bratty, I call intense. I get it. I am incapable of being halfway on anything. I'm either speeding downhill faster and faster and faster and faster...or I'm sitting on the couch in my underwear eating potato chips. There's no middle ground. I'm either 150% or, well, dead. And I know that I compartmentalize my feelings because I "just don't have time for that kind of shit..." uuuuuuntil they just explode all over everything.
So imagine my surprise when I have an epic meltdown in the parking lot of CarMax. All day I have been coaching myself to just breathe. Just breathe and get the eff over it, you can't have an actual love affair with your car for Christ sakes.
But..........I do.
My meltdown wasn't about wanting a car I can't have, or wanting to spend more money than we should. It had nothing to do with that at all. It had everything to do with change.
For all intents and purposes Ol Blue is my very first car. It's my only car. I've had her since I was 16. I cannot count how many times my girlfriends and I drove around in that car, laughing and singing and dancing to music...or how many times I drove home from the movies after a date, feeling all bujiggity and giddy...or how many times I sat in my car crying because a boy broke up with me - or worse, because I broke up with a boy and really hurt him. Or how many times I drove back home from college with a semester's worth of clothes and crap piled in the backseat. Or how many rush parties my car caravanned to. Or how many pulls of vodka we took, sitting in the parking garage on 17th & R just listening to music (not driving). Or how many times I played mix CDs of music that reminded me of a great night or a great party or great friends. Or how many times I curb checked in the Sandoz parking lot. Or how many bottles I had to get out from the way back because Collins chucked it when she finished her milk.
I know it's just a car, but it's been an amazing car. We've had a great ride. She's gettin old and tired. But she's really the only tangible link I still have to the girl I used to be. Fun, flirty, young, wild, free, crazy. I still have some of those qualities, but I don't have the same mind, or the same heart, or the same body. Everything has changed in my life. Ol Blue is the only thing that has ever stayed the same. So when people talk about car shopping like it's so exciting and fun, I just can't relate. I think it's gut wrenching, because I guess I just hate change and not being in control of time.
But as I sat at the steering wheel, I just felt like the whole world was crashing around me and I was being confronted with the reality that I'll never be the girl I used to be. In a lot of ways, thank God for that. I did a lot of dumb shit. But at least the dumb shit I used to do, and the mischief I used to get into didn't carry the consequences that it carries now. But how sad is it when you have grown up and not even realized it until you are forced to part with the youth you had to leave behind?
I think I need the number for Bethenny's therapist.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Girl Crushes
We've all had them. UrbanDictionary.com defines a girl crush as, "an overwhelming sense of awe felt by a girl for another girl elicited by varying causes ranging from deep respect to unadulterated lust. may result in the any or all of the following: general euphoria, prolonged sense of inspiration, desire for intellectual-intercouse with crush, simple sexual arousal, etc."
I think the entire female population is in full-on girl crush mode.
I'm flattered, really, I am.
Just kidding.
But seriously though.
Everyone, including myself, who watched The Bachelorette and/or doesn't live under a rock is crushing on Emily Maynard. Sans her too-big-for-her-perfect-little-mouth veneers (as a dentist, I am fully qualified to make that assessment), Emily is everything we all want to be:
Okay, that's not even a name. What is it with people making up names for their kids these days? If you make up a name for your kid, you are a grade-A asshole. Your child will spend his or her WHOLE life despising you for bestowing upon them a name that A) means absolutely nothing; and 2) they will have to repeat at least once to each and every person they meet over the course of their lifetime.
I'm looking at you, Jessica Blimpson. If you are going to give your daughter a gender-bender of a name, at least cushion the blow with a feminine middle name. I'll be the first to admit, Collins isn't a prissy fem name, but her middle name is! No one is going to expect a crew cut when Collins Claire shows up. But when Maxwell Drew strolls in through the door, she'll either be wearing a tutu, a tiara and a pair of toddler Louboutins to overcompensate for her masculine moniker, or she'll do what I would do if I were her - just say eff it and wear basketball shorts, Air Jordans and a pixie cut (and not a cute Michelle Williams pixie cut. I'm talking like a Brandon Teena do.)
While I'm on the topic of J. Blimp, let me make a prediction.
In two months, J. Blimp is going to be plastered all over the tabloid covers with the headlines, "How I lost the baby weight!" "She lost 160 lbs after baby!" "Jessica and Jenny Craig - teaming up to beat the post-baby bulge!"
Whatever.
Let me tell you what really happened. This is what (I think) happens in Hollywood. You have two different kind of pregnant people. You have the Victoria Beckhams and Rachel Zoes who add a couple extra sugar-snap peas every week to sustain their fetus, and maybe lay off the nose snow for the duration of their pregnancy.
Then six weeks post-delivery they are like, "OMG look at me I'm tinier now than I was before I was pregnant because I'm somehow nursing a baby while subsisting on a 15 calorie-a-day diet!"
Then you have the Jessica Simpsons and the Kate Hudsons who go BANANAS during their pregnancy, gain 300 lbs and eat everything in sight.
Of course this type of celebmom is probs going to endorse Jenny Craig or NutriSystem or some other shit after they have the baby, so they are probs in a contract that mandates that they gorge themselves beyond all recognition so then they can "lose the weight" on whatever stupid diet they are hawking. Nevermind that their babies are probably born with Type-2 diabetes and high cholesterol.
While these two types of celebmoms are vastly different, it all comes full circle and vanity wins in the end. I think that when they go to deliver said baby, the doctor wheels over to the promised land and pulls on his rubber gloves, looks up at her and says, "Okay Jessica, are we doing the Hollywood Usual?"
The Hollywood Usual - I imagine - is a common procedure for celebmoms that includes: a caesarean delivery, liposuction, tummy tuck, Brazilian butt lift, breast lift and/or augmentation (keep that breastfeeding look for the rest of your life!) urethral botox (so that they don't piss themselves everytime they laugh or sneeze like normal moms do), fat injections into the lips, vaginal reconstruction, abdominal muscle creation/sculpting, eye lift (gotta look rested for those magazine covers), and for God's sake a freaking reach around. The doctor then sends her on her way with a pamphlet that reads, "How to make normal non-celebrity moms feel like absolute shit" and a prescription for cocaine - they're gonna need that morning bump to keep awake during those 3 am feedings.
Ha. Kidding. They have nannies for that. And then they pose 2 weeks later, gushing about how great Jenny Craig is. But they aren't even on Jenny Craig. They have a personal chef, four nannies, a personal trainer, and they even have someone to wipe their ass.
Anyways, that's what really happens in Hollywood moms' delivery rooms. Granted, some of the procedures I made up I think. Like urethral botox? Not sure that's an actual thing, but if it is I'd like to look into it.
And while I'm on a rant about the ridiculousness of celebrity pregnancy, can I just say one thing?
STOP. Stop with the naked pregnancy pictures. I don't care if you are fully naked or just baring your naked belly. We all know what a naked person looks like. We all know what a pregnant person looks like. Thus, I think we can safely concur what a naked pregnant person looks like. In real life, without Photoshop. With stretch marks. And disgusting dry flaky skin. We get it. We'll never have a picture of our pregnant selves, looking glorious with a fresh blowout (the hair, not the diaper), perfectly smooth, evenly pigmented skin. No. And these celebretards publicizing their naked pregnant body are encouraging less-fortunate-looking nonfamous people to do it too. Everytime I see a picture of a naked pregnant belly show up on my news feed, I feel so embarassed for the sadly misguided young sperminated woman.
Maybe I'm just bitter that I didn't LOVE being pregnant. I LOVE the outcome. To each her own, but I felt like a sweaty, fat, stretch-mark covered beast and I only gained 25 lbs. I can't imagine birthing a fourth-grader like Jessica Simpson did. Hopefully Maxwell Drew enjoys the lunchbox I sent her as a baby gift. Maybe she'll be able to use it on Monday at Beverly Hills Elementary School.
I think the entire female population is in full-on girl crush mode.
I'm flattered, really, I am.
Just kidding.
But seriously though.
Everyone, including myself, who watched The Bachelorette and/or doesn't live under a rock is crushing on Emily Maynard. Sans her too-big-for-her-perfect-little-mouth veneers (as a dentist, I am fully qualified to make that assessment), Emily is everything we all want to be:
- Tan
- Blonde
- Petite.
- Size -2 .
- She's a mom, so you know she puts out.
- Huge boobs.
- Had a baby with someone who must have had her as the beneficiary of his monster life insurance policy (um, 26 - seeming unemployed, living in a giant house, drives a Denali? Lezbehonest.).
Okay, that's not even a name. What is it with people making up names for their kids these days? If you make up a name for your kid, you are a grade-A asshole. Your child will spend his or her WHOLE life despising you for bestowing upon them a name that A) means absolutely nothing; and 2) they will have to repeat at least once to each and every person they meet over the course of their lifetime.
I'm looking at you, Jessica Blimpson. If you are going to give your daughter a gender-bender of a name, at least cushion the blow with a feminine middle name. I'll be the first to admit, Collins isn't a prissy fem name, but her middle name is! No one is going to expect a crew cut when Collins Claire shows up. But when Maxwell Drew strolls in through the door, she'll either be wearing a tutu, a tiara and a pair of toddler Louboutins to overcompensate for her masculine moniker, or she'll do what I would do if I were her - just say eff it and wear basketball shorts, Air Jordans and a pixie cut (and not a cute Michelle Williams pixie cut. I'm talking like a Brandon Teena do.)
While I'm on the topic of J. Blimp, let me make a prediction.
In two months, J. Blimp is going to be plastered all over the tabloid covers with the headlines, "How I lost the baby weight!" "She lost 160 lbs after baby!" "Jessica and Jenny Craig - teaming up to beat the post-baby bulge!"
Whatever.
Let me tell you what really happened. This is what (I think) happens in Hollywood. You have two different kind of pregnant people. You have the Victoria Beckhams and Rachel Zoes who add a couple extra sugar-snap peas every week to sustain their fetus, and maybe lay off the nose snow for the duration of their pregnancy.
Then six weeks post-delivery they are like, "OMG look at me I'm tinier now than I was before I was pregnant because I'm somehow nursing a baby while subsisting on a 15 calorie-a-day diet!"
Then you have the Jessica Simpsons and the Kate Hudsons who go BANANAS during their pregnancy, gain 300 lbs and eat everything in sight.
Of course this type of celebmom is probs going to endorse Jenny Craig or NutriSystem or some other shit after they have the baby, so they are probs in a contract that mandates that they gorge themselves beyond all recognition so then they can "lose the weight" on whatever stupid diet they are hawking. Nevermind that their babies are probably born with Type-2 diabetes and high cholesterol.
While these two types of celebmoms are vastly different, it all comes full circle and vanity wins in the end. I think that when they go to deliver said baby, the doctor wheels over to the promised land and pulls on his rubber gloves, looks up at her and says, "Okay Jessica, are we doing the Hollywood Usual?"
The Hollywood Usual - I imagine - is a common procedure for celebmoms that includes: a caesarean delivery, liposuction, tummy tuck, Brazilian butt lift, breast lift and/or augmentation (keep that breastfeeding look for the rest of your life!) urethral botox (so that they don't piss themselves everytime they laugh or sneeze like normal moms do), fat injections into the lips, vaginal reconstruction, abdominal muscle creation/sculpting, eye lift (gotta look rested for those magazine covers), and for God's sake a freaking reach around. The doctor then sends her on her way with a pamphlet that reads, "How to make normal non-celebrity moms feel like absolute shit" and a prescription for cocaine - they're gonna need that morning bump to keep awake during those 3 am feedings.
Ha. Kidding. They have nannies for that. And then they pose 2 weeks later, gushing about how great Jenny Craig is. But they aren't even on Jenny Craig. They have a personal chef, four nannies, a personal trainer, and they even have someone to wipe their ass.
Anyways, that's what really happens in Hollywood moms' delivery rooms. Granted, some of the procedures I made up I think. Like urethral botox? Not sure that's an actual thing, but if it is I'd like to look into it.
And while I'm on a rant about the ridiculousness of celebrity pregnancy, can I just say one thing?
STOP. Stop with the naked pregnancy pictures. I don't care if you are fully naked or just baring your naked belly. We all know what a naked person looks like. We all know what a pregnant person looks like. Thus, I think we can safely concur what a naked pregnant person looks like. In real life, without Photoshop. With stretch marks. And disgusting dry flaky skin. We get it. We'll never have a picture of our pregnant selves, looking glorious with a fresh blowout (the hair, not the diaper), perfectly smooth, evenly pigmented skin. No. And these celebretards publicizing their naked pregnant body are encouraging less-fortunate-looking nonfamous people to do it too. Everytime I see a picture of a naked pregnant belly show up on my news feed, I feel so embarassed for the sadly misguided young sperminated woman.
Maybe I'm just bitter that I didn't LOVE being pregnant. I LOVE the outcome. To each her own, but I felt like a sweaty, fat, stretch-mark covered beast and I only gained 25 lbs. I can't imagine birthing a fourth-grader like Jessica Simpson did. Hopefully Maxwell Drew enjoys the lunchbox I sent her as a baby gift. Maybe she'll be able to use it on Monday at Beverly Hills Elementary School.
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