Sure, I eat bitter for breakfast, but I thought I could hold off on my 2011 annoyances until, say, at least February, unfortunately no can do. I blame Snookie. She set me off. Good God what is that hybrid of half mammal, half orange flame troll mated with a cabbage patch doll doing writing a book! She hasn’t even mastered English. Although, to be fair it is her second language. Her native tongue is inside somebody else’s mouth. In her T.V. interviews she’s very adamant that she didn’t use a ghostwriter. She used something very different – a consultant. Is consultant Jersey Shore for impoverished creative writing graduate student forced to write A Shore Thing to pay off looming student loan debts?
I really need to quit watching T.V. it just gets me ticked off. I’m so over Gwyneth Paltrow and I haven’t even thought about seeing her new movie Country Strong. The woman is cruel. She goes on T.V. talking about how she had to gain 20 pounds for her movie role (She did so mainly by eating biscuits.) and then it took her just 2 freaking weeks to lose the 20 pounds. The only way I could lose 20 pounds in 2 weeks would be to do daily body part amputations. I already was a little suspect of her from this past summer when she yacked about the juice fasts she religiously goes on every couple of weeks. Here’s hoping she chokes on a hearty helping of orange pulp while chugging her Colon Explosion Fruit Turbo Cleanse.
Celebrity Moms in general initiate my gag reflex. Lord, I’m so tired of hearing them talk about how they balance work, children and marriage to create their magical lives. They love to share their formula with us, mere mortals, for being amazing and doing it all – including a hot sex life which includes an Olympic gymnastic caliber floor routine in the bedroom. Please, would it be so hard for one of them to fess up and say: “ I’ve got a nanny for each kid and the dog, two maids (one for day, one for evening) a driver for me and another one for the kids and nannies, a personal chief, two trainers (one for day, one for evening), full-time hair stylists, make up artist, personal shopper, four plastic surgeons (one for the face & neck, one for the boobs and another for below the naval and a botox specialist), cosmetic dentist on call for emergency veneer replacement and Brite smile refresh, a home manager, three assistants and my spouse is gay so that means he’s well groomed, photogenic and requires zero romantic attention from me.” I won’t be holding my breath awaiting that groundbreaking celebrity full disclosure.
Another thing that has almost reduced to me to tears is trying to find a dress with sleeves. It’s winter. Why are all the nice dresses sleeve free? That’s one of the awesome perks of winter – being able to cover your body from neck to pinkie toe in black wool. My arms aren’t ready to go naked. They’re on winter break. My white, glow-in-the-dark, swinging in the breeze flab is taking a time out from the impending full exposure season of summer. What good is winter if you can’t use it as fat camo? Sleeves are our friends. Why did we break up? I love you sleeves. Please come back to me. I need you.
I had a mammogram today and I have a complaint about this whole medical office as day spa concept. When I go to the doctor I want to get it over with as quickly as possible. I don’t need to be conned into thinking that the doctor’s office or mammogram room is a day spa. I don’t need the whale sound c.d., the aromatherapy package or the pink robe. Just let me whip out my boobs, have them smooshed into a flesh pancake, while I feverently pray and cross my fingers that I’m tumor free and get me the hell out of there. All the day spa trappings are slowing the whole process down and no matter how many lavender-scented candles are being burned or birthing whale moans are being piped in I still know I’m at the doctors and that my life could change in an instant. So please hasten my journey through your office not prolong it.
On to a breast adjacent topic – babies. Specifically, cool babies. So, it’s not enough now to be just a cuddly, adorable baby. Newborns have to be cool now too. All rocker and biker baby cool. I went to a baby shower this week and all the infant wear was Ed Hardy/Harley Motorcycle and skull cool. Yuck! The mother-to-be selected pink bedding with black skulls for the nursery vibe. The only way I think that’s acceptable is if the mother or father are pirates. Eye patch wearing, one hoop earring swaying, sword displaying, gold doublon paying pirates. Then I can, sort of, get skulls or the “Davy Jones’ Locker” theme for a nursery. What’s next infant tattoos or how about tattoo diapers? When the diaper is wet a tat shows up in the front of the diaper for boys and a tramp stamp in the back of the diaper for girls. Here is my middle-aged, frumpy, dumpy, no fun take on all this. If you feel the need to have a cool baby then you’re not mature enough to do all the immensely uncool things it takes to be a parent. Therefore I enthusiastically suggest you just say no to procreation.
While at the baby shower the topic turned to Push Presents. What narcissistic, shopaholic, dim wit is responsible for thinking up of the idea of a push present? How do you calculate what the push present will be? Is there a mathematical algorithm that takes the hours one spends spread eagle, knees shoved up to your chin, grunting, groaning and panting multiplied by the circumference of the baby’s head and divided by the efficiency of the epidural? Does delivering a baby with a huge, almost Jay Leno size head, no epidural and 12 hours of pushing equal a Prada purse? If you just had to push 3 times and had a fully functional epidural mean you’re only alloted a McDonald’s gift certificate for a post partum Big Mac and fries? And what if you have a C-section does than mean no push present or do you get an incision gift?
Pregnancy and childbirth are already two ruthlessly competitive events. I don’t think we need to add push presents into these combatant arenas. With pregnancy it’s all about who stays the skinniest, who “shows” the latest, who swells and puffs up the least. Never before in the history of motherhood has being told in month 7 of your human housing gestation period that “You can’t even tell you’re pregnant” been a compliment worth striving for. The delivery “experience” is broken down into two categories for the contestants. Those who participated with drugs and those who were drug free. If you entered in the “drug” category, sorry to say, you’re already considered a loser in the Super Mom sweepstakes and must continue on to the consolation round – breast-feeding. Which features such categories as: nipple latchability factor, ability to breast-feed even though your nipples feel as if they’re shooting off solar nebula flares, and milk per boob ratio. If you have inverted nipples, require a nipple shield, contract mastitis or enlist the aid of a breast-feeding consultant you will be automatically disqualified due to your already significant inferior mothering skills. No, womankind we don’t need to add push presents into this maternal morass.
Whew, all that ranting about wore me out. You know what that means? Time for a cocktail or at the very least a restorative, robustly carbonated Diet Coke.
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Snarky in the Suburbs 