WHAT YOU TALKIN BOUT GWYNETH?

Stupid stuff

It took me a while to gather my thoughts for this post. I had to first gather the pieces of my exploded head and put them all back together again. What made my head explode? Not men this time, no. It was the asinine comments made by a celebrity. Usually I ignore what a celebrity has to say. About anything. Unless it’s George Takai or Morgan Freeman. Or my future husband, Al Pacino. As for every other celebrity and/or model, they need to understand that the general public doesn’t respect anything that comes out of their mouths simply because they make too much damn money. Anyone who spends more on a child’s birthday party than what an average home costs in California is not rooted in reality.

Let’s take Gwyneth Paltrow for example—the celeb who made my head explode. I already dislike her, because 1. She’s blonde and I’m not, and 2. She’s super skinny and I’m not, and 3. She’s very rich and I’m not. So the bitch already has 3 strikes against her. As if those weren’t reasons enough, I started to really despise her when I discovered this funny little piece written by Jamila Rizvi (who I don’t know, but I automatically like because she looks more like me). Gwyneth is a health and fitness fanatic who I’m guessing doesn’t consume more than 50,000 calories in a year. During the holidays she admitted she splurges a little, which probably means she consumed 5 salted cashews and a handful of popcorn with butter. That’s certainly enough sodium to make anyone gain half an ounce in water weight. So what’s Gwyneth’s solution to getting back on track after all that gluttonous splurging? A cleanse, of course—a cleanse that’s “warming, filling and doesn’t feel like a sacrifice.”

Great! Sign me up, because I’m positive I must have 17 pounds of chocolate and Christmas cookies impacted in my colon.

Gwyneth explains, “Our winter detox has looser guidelines and restrictions than ones we’ve done in the past but here is what we’re avoiding: dairy, gluten, shellfish, anything processed (including all soy products), nightshades (potatoes, tomatoes, peppers and eggplant), condiments, sugar, alcohol, caffeine and soda.”

Wait, what?

Breakfast is a cup of freaking herbal tea. Fine, I might be able to hang with that, but come lunch time I’ll be ready to eat my own arm, so what’s to eat? 6 cups of hot water with chickpeas. I stopped reading after that, because while she suggested things to do to make you less hungry (Wearing socks and drinking MORE herbal tea), my guess is she must eat her money to stay full, since no human can remain conscious on a mere 300 calories a day. But stars and models are a special kind of breed so I’ll forgive the insane dieting rituals they must put themselves through to remain emaciated.

Then came the announcement last week of Gwyneth and Chris Martin’s separation—no, wait, “conscious uncoupling.” Gwyneth introduced the term many of us hadn’t ever heard before. It’s basically a new-age, no-drama approach to the splitsville process coined by the psychotherapist, Katherine Woodward Thomas. “The process of conscious uncoupling involves breathing exercises and a lot of self-reflection to ‘break up victimization,’” Ms. Thomas said. Right. So instead of wallowing in self-pity for years like I did, lamenting the fact that I was a complete dumbass for choosing my dysfunctional partner in the first place, or going the no-drama route as opposed to say, having to call 911 because he threatened to kill me, I imagine Gwyneth and Chris sat down to dinner one night and in between Gwyneth asking Chris to pass the brussel sprouts without any seasoning, butter, or oil, she asked him for a divorce as well. Now that’s what I call congeniality.

Now again, I can forgive Gwyneth for being an airy fairy head, because let’s face it, you have to be somewhat kooky to survive Hollywood; what I can’t forgive is her making ignorant and downright stupid remarks over something she knows nothing about. On Page Six of the NY Post, she talks about wanting to spend more time with her kids—a noble gesture, only she should have stopped there, because she goes on to say “things are more difficult for her than other moms, because of the demanding nature and unpredictable schedule of her acting career.”

Uh-huh. Do tell, Gwyneth.

“I think to have a regular job and be a mom is not as, of course there are challenges, but it’s not like being on set,” Paltrow said.

You’re damn right it’s not like being on set. You want to know what it’s like being on set? I’ll tell you, because I have, in fact, been on set and it sure as hell doesn’t give you varicose veins from sitting all day for a stinking office job. When you’re a lead actress, you roll out of bed and in to the hair and makeup chair. Then you go back to your private trailer and wait until they’re ready for you. You see, all the tedious work is done by a stand-in (which I’ve been) so the lead doesn’t have to stand on her feet for hours under hot lights while the crew sets up the shot. As soon as things are ready, the actress comes out, does her scene, and returns to her trailer where she is free to do whatever she wants—have sex, sleep, exercise, eat then vomit, get a massage, yap on the phone, online shop, fart around on Facebook…she can even have her kids with her if she so chooses because there are on-set tutors!

Gwyneth bitches about not being able to do a routine with her kids because, “When you’re shooting a movie, they’re like, ‘We need you to go to Wisconsin for two weeks,’ and then you work 14 hours a day, and that part of it is very difficult.”

Yes, it is indeed very difficult to have to work 14-hour days for only two weeks out of the year when you could be working 9 to 5 every day, and then rushing home to make a box of Mac n Cheese before soccer practice, racing home after that to get homework done, a shower, bedtime, after which you collapse from exhaustion into bed yourself. That’s my idea of quality time with the kids X 100. (Check out this delicious open letter to Gwyneth from a working mom.)

What do you mean that’s NOT the routine you were referring to, Gwyneth? Your nanny does all that crap for you? You just wanted to be home to kiss the kids good night? Why didn’t you say so? It’s extremely stressful to have the nanny thrown off her schedule. Everyone knows that. So next time, Gwyneth, let’s have your nanny make these comments instead of you, because as I said before, no one wants to hear complaining from someone who has probably never had a “regular” job and makes more money in a second than they’ll ever see in a lifetime. Mmmkay?

IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT YOU CHOSE CRAPPY MEN

Bad Decision

2014 is the year I’ve decided to take back my power. Nobody likes a whiny little bitch and God knows I’ve blamed myself for my craptastic life way too long. Women have a tendency to do that all the time—blame themselves for everything that goes wrong. They become the “victim,” which in turn leads to depression or apathy or alcoholism (or all three) and trust me, that’s no way to live.

2014 is the year I start blaming other factors for my craptastic choices. So if you’re a woman who has made craptastic choices in men and blamed yourself, read on to realize why it wasn’t your fault.

BLAME HORMONES. A U.K. study found women who take the Pill choose the “wrong” man. Women are attracted to men whose genetic makeup is dissimilar to their own. But women on the Pill end up choosing a more genetically similar mate, which would be like the equivalent of having sex with your first cousin. Ultimately, it all has to do with a man’s smell. If she’s on the Pill and her man smells like ass, she won’t realize it until she’s gone off the Pill. Then her man will make her want to hurl every time he gets close, and no amount of Drakkar Noir is going to change it. So, kudos to being responsible with birth control; Boo to unknowingly choosing a man who stinks.

BLAME BIOLOGY. Women are hard wired to respond to a confident man. It has to do with survival of the fittest and all that caveman nonsense. The problem is that confidence is often coupled with douchebaggery. His level of self-confidence usually doesn’t match his successes…or morals…or values…or ability to remain faithful. And by the time we’ve figured that out, we’re the ones left feeling like crap because they’ve chosen yet another asshat. So, kudos to wanting to propagate the species; Boo to choosing an unevolved Neanderthal.

BLAME ALCOHOL. Alcohol is the mother of bad judgment. Why do people look so much more attractive when you’re drunk? Because alcohol impairs your vision so everything looks fuzzy and out of focus. You don’t notice the numerous imperfections or you’re too drunk to care. So when you end up marrying a man with a peg leg and an eye patch at an Elvis Chapel in Vegas, chances are in order to make that union work, you’re going to have to remain drunk throughout the marriage. So, kudos to being a fun party gal; Boo to choosing road kill that should have remained on the road.

I don’t know about you, but blaming everything else under the sun but me for my mistakes feels pretty liberating. It’s like finally seeing the results from dieting, without having to do all that pesky deprivation and exercise crap.

What else can we blame for our mistakes?

THE HOLIDAYS—MAY THEY REST IN PEACE

Bah humbug

I can’t lie—I’m glad the holidays are over. Yes, I’m one of those people. But when you have no family to spend Christmas with and no significant other to kiss at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve, the holidays blow. I survived by drinking more than I should and religiously following the posts on a site called Emerging from Broken. It was on this site I learned I was not alone. There’s many, many more like me who either have no contact or minimal contact with their terribly dysfunctional families.

Every day I’d peruse Facebook even though I was continuously assaulted by happy people getting together with their families. Even worse was seeing photos and postings of my own happy family. It stung. A lot. It wasn’t so much the lack of them I was missing. It was the lack of a family to call my own. Most people who are estranged from their family have chosen to create their own—usually through marriage. In my case, it’s only my son and I.

At some point in December, my son threw out those dreaded words no single mom ever wants to hear: “Why can’t you marry Daddy so he can come live with us?”

“Because Daddy is engaged to be married to another woman,” I told him. The boy is 11. Sorry, but I’m just not sugarcoating it anymore. At least my response succeeded in halting the conversation in its tracks.

We spent Christmas day with my friend’s in-laws who have graciously “adopted” us. There are advantages to celebrating with other people’s families. In between the ham and the pumpkin pie, the conversation turned to religion (a big social no-no) and ended with my friend’s husband banging his fists on the table and accusing his father of refusing to acknowledge his nephew’s homosexuality. “Why can’t you admit your nephew is gay, Dad? Say it!” he screamed.

This drama didn’t faze me in the least because hey—it ain’t my family. So I got up and went into the other room with the kids. It was very freeing. But New Year’s Eve was a completely different story. Who wants to go to a party where everyone is coupled up, or worse, there are 3 token single men all vying for my drunken attention? No thanks. Plus, everyone’s an alcoholic in my neighborhood, or a meth head (or usually both), so if driving is especially dicey under normal circumstances, can you imagine on New Year’s Eve?

But after a meh Christmas and an utterly craptastic New Year’s Eve, the Gods of Fair Play decided to reward me with a book contract for my hot mess that took me over a year to write and edit. It’s called THE MEATBALL MISTRESS and it’s about a sassy Italian girl from Bensonhurst, Brooklyn who flees to the Jersey shore after finding her fiancé in a compromising position. She’s, of course, bitter and cynical about men (I really had to stretch to write about that!) and meets her match in a guy who’s probably the biggest commitment-phobe in Jersey. So how do they wind up falling in love, you ask? Hmmm…

Since I literally thought I was going to end up burying this one in my backyard underneath a mound of compost, I’ll admit I’m pleased. Hopefully this recent euphoria will work to balance out the emotional upheaval I’ll be experiencing next month when I turn 46.

So how were your holidays?

WORST GIFTS EVER.

worst_christmas_gift_ever_mugChristmas is my favorite time of year, along with Halloween. I love giving, more than receiving (which is why I’d make a better Mistress than Sub) and because of that trait, I’m going to give you all a Gift-Giving Guide for every person on your list. Stress no more, because I have all the answers for you…

Are you scratching your coconut, wondering what to get the cat lover in your life? How about this magnet set, so every time they open the fridge they get the ole stink eye, aka the furry eyeball? It’ll remind them constantly of their fur baby, and if they’re dieting, may even help reduce their appetite a bit.

Cat butts

No cat lovers? How about a lover of dogs? Bet they’ve never seen anything like this: Yes, it’s a humping USB dog! I’d even bet his little rump moves back and forth, too, for authenticity.

humping dog usbPerhaps you have a friend who finds cats and dogs distasteful, yet is stuck with the family pet since the son left for college. The major problem with those pesky creatures (besides needing to eat and relieve themselves) is they like to be pet. But now you never have to touch your pets again! And what I find particularly versatile about this product is it says it’s “Rechargeable for hotel use”–you know, for all those hotels you stay in while on vacation with your distasteful pet.

Pet petterIn keeping with the whole animal theme, someone must have a baby they need to buy for. Babies are easy, because it usually doesn’t take much to amuse them. Every baby has a gazillion teddy bears, but how many have a FARTING teddy bear? Am I right? Guaranteed laughs for everyone! And hopefully the surprising noise won’t scare the hell out of the baby and make them howl with fear.

Farting teddy bear

Moving up a little in ages and being a mother myself, I’m here to tell you what will bring joy to every young boy’s face on Christmas morning:

UnderwearCan you see the joy?

And little girls? There are so many gift choices out there for them. Who doesn’t love Barbie? I know I did. She’s such an inspiring role model. Dog Poop Barbie teaches girls Responsibility, while Pole Dancer Barbie teaches Entrepreneurship.

Barbie and dog poop

Pole dancer Barbie

Do you need to rinse your eyes with bleach yet? No? Okay, good. Moving right along…

What about those hard-to-please teenagers? For the budding man concerned about smelling good:

Bacon soapOne would have to be olfactory-challenged not to love the smell of bacon–especially in the morning.

And for the ripe girl on the brink of womanhood? This book should be given to girls as soon as they’re able to read imo, but I suppose the sooner you can get it into their inevitable poor-choice little hands, the better. Look, over one million in print! How surprising.

smart women-foolish choices

Men, are you racking your brains trying to come up with something to wow your SO? I have 2 gems for you to choose from, or why not splurge and buy both? We all know how crucial it is for a woman to be well-groomed, especially down there.

kitty carpet

Placenta shampoo

(Note: I wouldn’t advise using placenta to wash the toupee. Just sayin’.)

Aren’t men so hard to shop for? Seems like they have everything they need, don’t they? I can almost guarantee they won’t have either of these babies already. I mean really, if the woman is going to go through all the trouble of wearing a carpet down there and shampooing with placenta, the least he can do is keep his wiener clean.

weiner cleaner

And warm. Because nobody likes a frozen wiener.

Cock sock

If you happen to be the single male friend of an attached man you’d like to see single–you know, so you can do fun single male stuff together like go to bars and cruise chicks, get him these and you’ll be sure to see his relationship quickly implode. Hurray! Shots for everyone!

Control a Woman

Is there a Climax button on this thing?

The Equality Illusion

Everyone knows at least one pathetic, sad female without a special someone to call her own, right? They deserve gifts, too. The boyfriend pillow lets them know they’re not painfully alone; Unfortunately, the cookbook states otherwise, but it’s a practical gift–especially for the gal who has to watch her finances because of a meager one-income household.

boyfriend-pillow

Microwave Cooking for one

Do you have a friend who always gets depressed around this season? Telling them to “Snap out of it!” may seem a little harsh so why not give them one of these gifts instead, to subtly convey your sensitivity over their “delicate condition”?

Depression for dummiesWorst of times

Coffee lover? Mmmm, I don’t know about you, but nothing makes me want to enjoy my coffee more than drinking it from a toilet bowl.

Toliet bowl mug

And what about the nauseating cutesy couple in Apt. 4G? You know the one–they appear to be conjoined twins and share a joint Facebook page. Awww, doesn’t it look like 2 elephants holding trunks?

pb-and-j-beard

What about your Jewish boss? Move over ugly Christmas sweaters! There’s a new kid in town.

Ugly Hanukkah Sweater

Don’t forget Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma needs to look hip before she can go to the casino and gamble away her Social Security check.

GOLDEN GIRLS NECKLACE

Beads and feathers

And Grandpa? Have him use his aimless puttering around the house for good, instead of constantly-sticking-his-nose-in-your-business evil.

Kleen Stride

        Or, if he really does have EVERYTHING under the sun already, give him a big, fat…

Nothing

There, that should have covered just about everyone on your list. A word of advice–Always have an extra present on hand, just in case. If someone surprises you by unexpectedly giving you a gift, surprise them right back with this one:

shavebaby

Some gifts can’t be bought. Remember, it’s the thought that counts.

Disappointment

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

DIVAS COME IN ALL SHAPES AND SIZES

Have I ever mentioned how I came to adopt my diva Chihuahua–aka Satan, aka My Worst Nightmare, aka My Baby? No? I’m a guest on one of my favorite blogs: http://www.menopausalmom.com/2013/11/wacky-wednesday-writers-guest-post-by_26.html?showComment=1385577452301#c8604764490218201249

Come on over and show some love, and tell me whether you’re a dog or cat person. While you’re there you can check out MenoMom’s blog–she is a POWERHOUSE blogger. This woman has more blog awards than I have notches on my bedpost. And in case you need some motivation…

The diva ChihuahuaShe’s lucky she’s so cute!

RANDOM CRAP THAT FILLS MY HEAD

THINKING

Sometimes when I’m feeling particularly low energy and I choose to indulge my procrastination tendencies, I think. A lot. About important stuff. Meaningless stuff. All right, it’s mostly meaningless stuff. This is some of the meaningless stuff I thought about this week:

How do women in relationships maintain their sexiness throughout winter? I live in SouthernWarm socks California and I still complain about the winters being too cold for me. For anyone reading who thought I might be remotely sexy because I like to watch porn, I’m going to annihilate that image right now. Do you want to know what I wear to bed when I’m cold? FLEECE! And lots of it. Fleece bottoms (with ridiculous patterns on them like black cats or the character, Animal from Sesame Street), a fleece top, some kind of fleece thingy over that, and of course, socks. It all stays on while I sleep under a sheet, a down comforter, and 2 fleece blankets. Now granted, I’m single with only the diva Chihuahua sharing my bed, but as my friend’s husband stated last night, “No man can see a woman’s beauty through layers of fleece.”

WTF is Tumblr and Reddit? Is it important? Do I need it? Is it even worth my time to Google them? Do I even have the brain cells necessary, or rather, the brain capacity to keep up with changing technology for the rest of my life? It already isn’t looking good.

How do you get the toilet bowl to smell nice without using that toxic blue crap that I’m convinced will ultimately poison all the fish in the ocean?

What’s up with all these bogus rules as you get older? I just read that women over 35 shouldn’t wear powder anymore because it settles in the lines and wrinkles. You know what else we’re not supposed to wear? Sequins, miniskirts, the color grey, bright nail polish, leather pants, and words plastered on our asses. I hate rules. It makes me want to purposely break them, and the older I get the more defiant I become. So don’t be surprised if you see me on the street wearing too tight black leather pants with the words “Hot Mama” on my butt cheeks, a grey sequined top,  blood red acrylic fingernails, and spike heels.

And for the men over 35? Don’t think you’re exempt. It said: No wearing tight jeans, baseballs caps, cargo pants, “band” T-shirts, or 21 year olds on your arm. Just sayin’…

Tattoo ladyHow many tattoos will I have when I die? I got a new tattoo 2 weeks ago. I’ve since had a dream I was getting another tattoo. I can hear my mom screaming, “Noooo!” as she’s reading this. Hey, it’s either another tattoo or another cat. And I’m already feeding 5. Tattoos are addicting. I’m not quite sure why. But I find they’re quite effective at hiding physical imperfections. When I showed the tattoo artist where I wanted my tattoo, I hiked up my dress, pointed to the back of my thigh and told him he needed to put it wherever there was cellulite.

Writing, like child rearing is getting harder as life goes on, despite EVERYONE telling me they get easier with time. (Lies, all lies.) Does ANYTHING get easier as one gets older? I Googled “What gets easier as we age?” Of course, there’s the usual crap written by women about how once you hit your 40s and beyond, life gets easier because you’re more confident, secure, sex gets better, blah, blah. As far as I’m concerned, sex only gets better if you’ve been doing it wrong all these years and some gracious partner finally shows you the light—or the G-spot, as the case may be. You’re more secure, unless you’ve just been cleaned out by your vindictive ex-wife and are now forced to rent a room in a house and share a bathroom. You’re more confident if you’ve finally taken your doctor’s advice and filled that prescription of Xanax he prescribed you some time ago when you complained about how your social anxiety was preventing you from leaving the house. Even bowel movements get harder as one gets older. Thank you, Google.

Is there a Sicilian curse on the women in my family? My Italian grandmother, who had only everThe Sicilian been with one man remained single from her early 60s on after my grandfather died. My mother has been single since her mid 40s, and I have been single now for 10 years. Although in my case, that may have more to do with the over-abundance of fleece in my life more than anything else.

Why do I have the sudden urge to start an annual tradition of throwing an Ugliest Christmas Sweater Party? I hate parties and I hate ugly sweaters, but together? For some inexplicable reason, I think it would be pure magic.

Ugly sweaters

Would I be able to overlook a man’s emotional insensitivity if he were a certified massage therapist? Yes, I believe I can. Any man who would be willing to give me a decent back massage every night would be able to slide on a lot of things. Hell, he wouldn’t even have to know how to spell. He’d simply have to know how to get through the fleece.

What meaningless crap fills your head?

I SHOULD BE A GYNECOLOGIST IN MY NEXT LIFE

Thumbs-up

A male friend and I have this ongoing argument without resolution. He claims there are female nymphomaniacs out there—women who only want sex for sex’s sake, women who need it, a lot of it and often. I argue that it doesn’t matter how many men women sleep with, they’re almost always hoping these numerous encounters might turn into something more, that they sleep with all these men because they’re really looking for a relationship.

Now I’m not saying there aren’t many cases where a woman gets drunk and ends up going home with a troll. Usually when she sobers up she realizes her poor choice in judgment. And runs home to take not 1, but 2 showers. I’m referring more to the girls who give it up too soon to men who more often than not prove to be unworthy by never getting in touch with them again.

Case in point: My 26-year-old neighbor came over the other day. Background: Lives at home with her mother with 2 daughters under the age of 7 from 2 different baby daddies.

So she came over and said, “I have this huge favor to ask you” to which I immediately answered, “No, I’m not watching your kids.” Because that’s usually what she asks of me, and let me just say right here, I’m so glad I have a boy and not girls; those 2 are loud and chatty and whiney and active.

“No, it’s not that,” she told me. Then she got this sheepish look on her face, and in a hushed tone said, “You know how I just got an IUD put in, right?” Yes, I did know, because my neighbor went in to get her 5th abortion and the nurse told her (didn’t ask) that she was inserting an IUD during her next visit. “I can’t feel the string that’s supposed to be hanging down from it. The nurse said I’m supposed to check it to make sure it’s hanging down, but…” She held up her fingers and wiggled her 2-inch-long painted nails adorned with rhinestones. “The problem is I can’t get all up in there to find it.”

I stared at her. Finally, I said, “Ummm…” She spoke faster. “I had sex a couple days ago and now I can’t feel the string. I can’t feel the string!” she said in near hysterics. “I can’t get pregnant again! I just can’t!” No argument from me. “I need you to see whether you can find the string and pull it down. Please,” she begged.

“Fine,” I sighed, and followed her to her house. I didn’t actually have a problem with this. I mean, I’m a licensed esthetician, so I’ve had my face in between the legs of women spread-eagled on the table for a Brazilian wax. It’s no big deal. Although having my fingers inside a woman puts a different spin on the whole thing. I’m happy to report that with the donning of a latex glove I soon discovered I knew where everything was from personal experience. And while I had to do some major digging and feeling around inside her that was at times slightly awkward, I managed to find that string, dammit, and pull that sucker down without yanking out the IUD. I would have made an awesome gynecologist.

“Are you sure you felt it? You felt it, right? Are you sure?” I reassured her that I had. “Thank you,” she said.

“I’m just glad I didn’t have to buy you dinner first.”

I stayed a little while afterward and she told me how stupid she felt because she had let herself be used by someone who had sworn it would be different. Uh-huh. How many times have women heard that? We often make the mistake of sleeping with men too soon. Why? They pressure us? We’re horny? We’re afraid we’ll lose them?

Magazine articles claim if you have sex with a man too soon, they’ll lose respect for you, figuring you must do it right away with every man you meet. One of my male friends agrees; another says it’s an antiquated notion. I waited a month before I slept with my ex. I figured if I wanted a serious relationship, then I needed to “send that message.” It worked, but he was also having sex with someone else at the time, so I doubt if it was too big a hardship.

My neighbor became misty-eyed as she told me how much it had hurt that this guy hadn’t responded to any of her calls or texts–my neighbor, who the ONLY time I have seen become warm and fuzzy was when she was pregnant and had more estrogen flowing through her, I suppose. But she was genuinely sad and disillusioned, and tired from it having been done to her many times before.

Hey, I’ve been there. What could I say? Wait 4 weeks before you get naked with a man? Respect yourself more? If they’ve been in prison, they may not be a reliable bet? Pocket their cell phone so they have to get a hold of you?

I have no idea. I’m a gynecologist, not a psychologist.

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