Not Your Average Christian
Growing up in my family meant being involved in church. Actually, that’s an understatement. Our lives revolved around the church. My paternal Grandfather was a Presbyterian Minister and both my paternal Grandmother, who passed away in her mid-50s, and my “GrandMary” whom he married when I was about 10, were devoted to whatever parish he happened to be ministering to at the time. On the flip side of that, my mother’s side of the family were all (emphasis on “all”) born-again, evangelical, fundamentalist Christians. My own parents “defected,” as it were, to Quakerism when I was still a toddler. My father taught at Quaker colleges, my mother was not only the music director for our meeting for worship, but ended up becoming an ordained minister at the age of 60.
I, myself, never fit in. I went to church every Sunday. Even then I was a loner. There were cliques at church as well as at school and I was a rebel and an outsider. Summer vacations would find me attending Bible School with my cousin in Pittsburgh. She was only six months older than me and I looked up to her as someone who had a sense of belonging. Both sides of my family were so tight. Their respective families were unified and the siblings were all very close. In the meantime, I took out my aggression on my only sister and my parents felt distant…removed. I wanted that close bond but I came to resent the harsh, judgmental attitude that rained down on me from those that felt they had the ultimate knowledge of a higher power.
As time went on and I got older, it became clear that I was not only the black sheep, but an absolute pariah. My path in life veered in a completely opposite direction. While my cousins went off to Christian colleges, I set off for art school. I lived a rather Bohemian lifestyle. I lived in the moment. Impetuous. Unrestricted. Loud. My cousins got married and had babies. I left my fiancé and entered into the lesbian community with abandon and acceptance. My cousins went off to faraway lands to convert the unholy to Christianity and I moved around to NYC and Boston, a liberal set free in my own territory.
Through the years, though, I always felt something missing. I felt a hole in my heart that was left when I walked away from the centering that had come so naturally to me during the golden silences of my Quaker meetings for worship. I wanted my God. Not someone’s idea of God, but my own personal relationship. I would never be able to attend a church where someone else told me what to think, what to feel. I often felt lost, but didn’t know how to connect to my God.
In 1997, my partner and I decided it was time to bring a child into our lives. I wanted so very much to have a biological child and we embarked on a three year process to get pregnant through alternative insemination. I finally conceived and happily settled into my growing belly, our plans for the nursery, and our hopes for our child to be. Sometime during the summer months when my stomach was ripe and round and my heart skipped a beat with every kick, I received a note in the mail from my eldest cousin on my mother’s side. It said a lot, but the words that stuck with me were “Since you have chosen to abandon the familial path set forth in the Bible, you are no longer under the protection of God’s umbrella.” I was dumbstruck. Here was the proof that I was not worthy of God’s love. Because of the way I had lived my life and the choice I’d made to have a child in a lesbian household, I was being told that great misfortune would be my lot. Perhaps not immediately, but at some point, I would pay.
From then on I blamed myself every time something went wrong. My pregnancy became an endless series of complications. No protection from God. My son was born two months prematurely. No protection from God. My relationship fell into unrecoverable disrepair. No protection from God. I lost my job and wound up seeking welfare. No protection from God.
My mother finally convinced me that my cousin’s words could no longer hold any power over me. She asked me to build a fire and burn the note. Cleanse my soul of the hole she had worn in it with her words. Her words had become a self-fulfilling prophecy and I had to admit to myself that God didn’t make these things happen. My God wouldn’t punish me. My God loved me anyway. My God brought me through it all, was there all along, and I came out stronger for it on the other side.
Over the years, I have begun to rebuild my relationship with my Lord. I still live an unconventional life. Others may shun my ways and call me heathen, but I know that Jesus lives in my heart because I talk with him on a daily basis. A constant basis. I have found my own call to ministry through music. I may not have the voice of an angel, but when I sing in praise to the Lord, my heart soars beyond that which I ever dreamed possible. I’m never going to be part of the right-wing moral majority. I am left of left and my minority is a tightly knit community of love and caring for each other. It is a family of friends who love unconditionally and that, to me, wraps up God’s love in a nutshell.
I am not your average Christian. I’m a Christian who just happens to be average. But then again, maybe I’m a phenomenal person who happened to finally realize that I am so worthy. So very worthy.
Liver Spots
While channel surfing the other night, I happened upon my new guilty pleasure: Bridezilla. After Don proposed in June, I immediately bought up every possible bridal magazine, started scouring the net for venues, made our honeymoon reservations (actually, I did that first since we’d already set our minds on the Boston to Bermuda cruise), and started a huge file of dresses, flowers, and cake ideas. At any rate, Don wound up playing Scrabble on his laptop while I laid into these horrible women who were demanding such things as $18,000 first class tickets to Bora Bora (and that was just for the flight!). We actually watched a woman gather her bridesmaids the night before the wedding and give them instructions on the exact shade and type of nail polish (pink on pink french manicures), how they should wear their hair, and (can you get over this?) which ones should stuff their bras to match her silicone prow-of-a-ship bustline.
I spent the evening punctuating the Bridezilla marathon with a lot of “honey, I promise I won’t do’s….” At some point the subject of makeup came up. It had to do with the aforementioned reigning queen of bridal bitches who looked as though she used a trowel every morning to layer her foundation. Well, guess what? Evidently, I come across the same way! Don suggested, as I could feel even the hair on the back of my neck bristle (yes, I’ll take care of that, too), that I have a professional do my makeup on the morning of our wedding.
“Why? What’s wrong with the way I do my makeup? I’ve been doing it myself since I was 16!”
“Yes, but maybe it’s time to do it differently.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it? Is it because you like a lighter shade?”
“I like it lighter.”
“The color?” I persisted, feeling extraordinarily defensive about my carefully applied face.
“No. Ummm…just lighter. Okay, sometimes I can see it caked here,” as he points to the area around his nose, “and sometimes it looks orange.”
GASP! I had visions of old ladies with powdery makeup that laid like a mask against their faces and ended in a significant line pf demarcation along their sagging jaws. All I could think was “get thee to an Estee Lauder counter and fast!” It’s pending, trust me.
The next morning I was in the middle of my daily ablutions when I suddenly stopped and really took a look at my face. Fuck, I’m going to be 44 years old in a scant few weeks. And I look it. For the first time in my life, I look my age. I’m a middle-aged mother with a tramp stamp on her lower back and a nose ring. I got up closer to the mirror. I’d always prided myself on my lack of wrinkles but actually attribute that to the fact that I come with my own built-in fat pads and don’t need my ass fat injected into my face. But there they were, a tiny network of lines criss-crossing the perpetual fluid filled pockets under my heavily charcoaled eyelids. And my laugh lines didn’t disappear when I stopped laughing. Crows feet. My gaze landed on a darker spot on my left cheekbone. Is that? Nooooo…it couldn’t be. Oh. My. God. It’s an age spot. And there’s another one near on my chest! Which really offsets those lovely skin tags on my neck.
So I run naked to the full-length mirror. Not a great idea. I stood there and looked at this stranger looking back at me. 160 lbs. of flubber. Whale blubber. Dubble dubber. My always perky breast were definitely riding a little lower this year. A C-section and hysterectomy had graced me with a pouch that I could raise a Joey in. My ass bore a Cabot logo. Whole curd. My thighs make a swishy sound when they rub together. In warm weather, they actually chafe.
I am very self-critical. I always have been. For the first 2/3 of my life I weighed about 103 lbs. and ate everything in sight and never exercised. Then my metabolism decided to ditch me. Just took off and left me with the luggage to carry around. I could wax on this subject forever but it gets boring and narcissistic to everyone but me. So, here’s the thing. I’m a middle-aged mother. I’m not going to turn back the clock and I don’t have the money to just stop by the plastic surgeon and say “could you just tighten up these jowls, inject a little botox into my perpetually frowning forehead, and slice and dice the folds of my eyes so that I can see a bit better? And perhaps a breast lift. A little liposuction here and there and there and over there and oh yeah, right here. How about a butt lift?” Really, why not just turn myself into a barbie doll?
Because. I am a middle-aged mother. I’m still reasonably attractive and my FHTB (future-husband-to-be) loves me regardless of my lumps and bumps, my wide load, and my orange makeup. So, I’ve got about nine months to get to the gym regularly and at least tighten up some.
In the meantime, I’ll be heading to the Estee Lauder counter. And the dermatologist. It’s the least I can do.
Plan B…further thoughts
[January, '07]
I think Anne Lamott and I were separated at birth. At least she seems to come from a much closer gene pool than my own sister. Truly. About halfway through her book she’s got an essay on being a single parent called “Heat”. Man, did this resonate with me. I know that I’ve come a long way from the days (which seem so long ago now, but were actually just months ago) when I was panic stricken that I couldn’t take care of this six year old child by myself. Not to mention, myself and a full time job and an apartment, etc. I had to learn to mow a lawn, take out the garbage, shovel snow, fix things when they broke, and keep going even if I felt sick or out of sorts. That may make me sound like a total princess but I always did all the domestic housewifey things.
At any rate, I learned that I could take care of my son all by myself. I could get him up and dressed for school, get decent meals into him, pack his lunch, get him into the bathtub, provide him with the best education possible, kiss his boo-boos, and just love him as much as I could. But lately, I’ve found that I get annoyed with him so easily. Because it is just the two of us we circle each other like pent-up cats in a cage. He wants to play, I want to lie down and lick my wounds. He wants to pounce and I want to nap. He wants to play ball and I just want to stare dreamily out the window and think about my next weekend blissfully and peacefully alone. I’ve become this total shrew. I lose my temper and I yell and I say irrational things. I get frustrated with having to repeat myself twelve times and end up trying to enforce consequences only to be faced with all out war on Mom. I hate myself this way and I want to love him unconditionally and be ready to play with him all the time but I feel like my whole world has been eaten up by my child and there’s nothing left of me until he falls asleep (the little angel then that I love to watch) at which point I’m so exhausted from being such a bitch that I can’t even keep my eyes open any more.
These were some really pertinent passages I read today while waiting for my long overdue grease and oil and all of the sudden I didn’t feel like the world’s worst mother at all. Just probably pretty normal….
“I’m pretty sure I only threatened not to intercede. But there have been other nights when I’ve made worse threats, thrown toys off the deck into the street, and slammed the door to his room so hard that things fell off his bookshelf. I have screamed at him with such rage for ignoring me that you wuold have thought he’d tried to set my bed on fire.”
“…at other people’s homes, my child does not suck the energy and air out of the room…But at our house—comment se dit?—he fucks with me. He can provoke me into a state similar to road rage.”
“…This is a closely guarded secret; the myth of maternal bliss is evidently so sacrosanct that we can’t even admit these feelings to ourselves. But when you mention the feelings to other mothers, they all say “Yes, yes!” You ask, “Are you ever mean to your children?” “Yes!” “do you ever yell so meanly that it scares you?” “Yes, yes!” “Do you ever want to throw yourself downt he stairs because you’re so bored with your hcild that you can hardly see straight?” “Yes, Lord, yes…”
I love my son. I love him with all of my heart and soul. I would die for my child. But he makes me crazy. He makes me a crazy person. I don’t WANT to sound like a shrew but I do want to be able to take a crap without his sitting on the edge of the tub. I do want to have a half an hour to watch the evening news. I do want to lie down with a migraine for an hour without having him come in every ten minutes asking if it has been an hour yet. I DO want a social life more than every other weekend! I want adult interaction and I want other parents to admit that they honestly feel that they could choke the life out of their kid although they know they won’t because they’ve been spared that part within others that permits them to cross a line that should never, ever be crossed.
Parenting is the hardest job in the world. Single parenting is a nightmare. But I do it and he and I are new at this and we’ll find a way to bob and weave and get through each match unscathed. Relatively. And every morning, no matter how hard it was to get him out of the house and into the car because we’re running late and I’m shrieking like a banshee about catching trains he still kisses me goodbye and tells me he loves me when I leave him off at school. I hope I provide enough love and good times that he forgives the old crone in me that I’m afraid will scar him for life.
Just Supersize Me
[early May, '07]
Salad and I just don’t get along. This morning I’m all chipper and Holly Golightly as I hit the Milton Fruit Center at 8 a.m. in my little orange denim skirt and my white sleeveless tee and sandals (very Miltonish). The scale said I’d lost 5 of those pesky pounds this week – chalk it up to water weight or to eschewing the carbs again – but it’s 80° out and I’m a happy fucking camper. So I pick up a few necessary items – protein and veggies and hit the salad bar for a huge lunch of romaine, balsamic marinated tofu, mushrooms, chick peas, a little feta cheese, some eggplant…eh, you get the picture. I’m psyched. Top it all of with Tahini dressing and lunch is mmmm mmmmm good.
Until I get the hershey squirts. What IS it with me and salad? Honestly, this doesn’t happen with a double quarter pounder at McDonalds and it doesn’t happen with my beloved cheesy tots at Burger King! Try to eat healthy and you wind up hanging out in the loo all afternoon. Good thing I picked up this week’s Star magazine to keep me company. God knows I can’t live without another update on Brangelina. Especially when my ass is on fire!
Maybe it’s the Tahini. What the hell is in that anyway? Lord, give me some meat and potatoes. I don’t want to leave the house and now it’s time to go pick up my son and play Mommy. I’m sure the first thing he’ll point out is the emanating stench from the bathroom. He’s always so tactful. Huh, maybe I better grab the Febreeze first. Or some heavy duty Lysol.
Thanks for joining in. That was refreshing.
Celebrity Death Match I
[outdated to May '07, but some of this stuff is "tabloid timeless"]
Arnold Schwarzenager, Governor of California (now there’s something you never thought you’d ever say together in one sentence) has refused to pardon Paris Hilton for her sentenced prison term. I, for one, can’t wait to see the daily life of Paris in Prison. I’m hoping it comes out as a really good Butch/Femme porn. How many bulldykes does it take to make Paris their bitch? Will she trade cigarettes to avoid mopping the floors? Will she actually eat the food or is she planning to have the Zone deliver to her cell every day? Will she turn her prison blues into a miniskirt and wear it commando for the attention of the press that is sure to flock outside the exercise yard? Or will she take the Martha Stewart approach and redesign her cell with pink silk, pratesi sheets, and a good flokati rug? I’m betting she lasts about two weeks and is let out for good behavior. Or sucking off the warden. That’s Hot!
Britney. How long does it take hair to grow out to a length that is presentable in pubic, er…I mean public…before you can ditch those hideous Sally Beauty Supply wigs? This ho’s got money -she can’t afford to have her stylist get her some decent hair? Go the G.I. Jane route and show off that stubble, girl! It worked for Demi! I mean, really, REALLY worked. Ahem…I digress.
The tabloids are touting the “thin to healthy” craze that Hollowwood is embracing now. Let’s see – pin thin Nicole Richie (former bff of aforementioned Paris Hilton’s dog Tinkerbell) has gained a whopping ten pounds and is now volunteering at a local La La Land foodbank charity. Evidently by giving the food right out of her mouth. Blue Crush star and former gf of the lovely and more than healthy Orlando Bloom, Kate Bosworth has ballooned up to 105 lbs. She’s 5′5 people. I’m 5′4 and at my lowest weight (yeah, until I hit that 30 year milestone that signals the attack of your metabolism or lack thereof) was 103. People said my head looked like it would fall off from the stick that was my neck. Healthy, my left ass cheek.
Brangelina are having an affair with a 23 year old model. Where do I sign up to watch? Okay – leave Brad out of it – I just want to see Angelina return to her coots…I mean roots. Bring Jenny Shimizu back and let her round out the Domination of World Culture that is Angie’s family.
Can we just touch on (ahem) the far too revealing trend of leaving one’s panties behind when you go to a club in an ultra mini? You KNOW the papparazzi is going to be shooting every angle when you part your legs and haul ass out of your limo. Basic Instinct is one thing, Basic Poonani is something better left to those who really want to see it up close and personal. Paris, Britney and friends – let me introduce you to my friend Victoria.
And speaking of Victorias…Vickie “Posh Spice” Beckham is moving to the States. She’s now bff with the miserable Katie Holmes, Tom Cruise’s beard. Bad enough that he had to marry her and use a sperm donor as a ruse to cover up his affinity for peeeeenis, but does he have to carry the scientology bit so far that he’s assigned his poor wife her own personal alien? Look at the girl (closely – or not – it doesn’t matter) the eyes? The skin texture? The hair? Area 51 reopened and she escaped. The government has yet to come up with a plausible excuse as to why she’s on the loose so they signed her husband, BenditlikeBeckham, to a U.S. team so that they could get her closer to the chain link fence.
Stop, Drop, and Roll
[Written in May '07]
Yesterday I got to meet Don’s mom for the first time. She lives in New Hampshire but spends her winter months with her hubby (who I haven’t met and have been told that’s a blessing) in South Carolina. So we all pile in the car and head up to her condo complex which is actually a seasonal “resort” of sorts. Everyone has golf carts to tool around in and there are signs posted that state you can’t go over 5 mph. Granted a golf cart doesn’t exactly do 180 but I’m here to tell you that they can damn sure do better than 5 mph, particularly on a hill.
Don’s mom has two golf carts and we “kids” had a wee bit too much fun with the pizza, beer, and yes, I even participated with a *gasp* Mike’s hard lemonade. I was definitely tipsy when we started out on our joy ride. I pile in the front seat with his younger sister Rose who can’t drive a car much less a golf cart. Don and his nephew Bobby decided to bumper surf on the back. His older sister Chris and her boyfriend Tommy (who contributed to my already stunted mental condition with a good contact high whenever we were downwind) took the second one. Let the games begin!
We spent a good 20 minutes playing tag with the golf carts, then Tom tried to run us off the road and I ended up eating a good chunk of pine needles. They disappeared and now we had a little game of Hide ‘n’ Seek going on until they ambushed us. We were off and running. Rose had that little son of a bitch pushing a good 15 when we hit the hill heading for the beach which is entered by a pretty good gravel decline. She whips the corner almost on two wheels and the next thing I know a body is flying off the back of our cart and hits the ground with a really ungodly sound. I don’t know who screamed louder – me or Rose. All i know is my only thought was “I just found the love of my life and now he’s dead”. The entire rest of my lonely existence played out in my brain in a matter of seconds.
Don rolled about four times. He must have practiced this because he had his arms up and saved his face. Now he swears he was just trying to save his beer. Which he did. He got up, albeit a little woozy, but fuck if that Bud wasn’t still firmly gripped and nearly crushed and he’s still drinking from the damn thing. His elbows were a mass of blood and gravel and his forearms looked like road kill. I was completely speechless. And pissed. I couldn’t even talk to him for the tears I was choking back for scaring the living shit out of me. Rose was a wreck and I was in total shock. He swears I will look back on this and laugh but when i got up this morning and saw his bloody bandages and purple bruises I thought there is no way I’ll ever laugh about this.
I have two fears in life: losing my son and losing Don. Throw whatever else you have my way but don’t take away what’s dearest to me. Even on a joyride. What a buzzkill that was.
Fair Ground
[written in May of '07]
There is something really magical about a traveling carnival. It’s not Disney World glamor. It’s not high society. It’s sticky and noisy and generally mosquito ridden and I love it. Yesterday I took Lucas the minute it opened at 6 p.m. We got our wristbands for unlimited rides (note to self: self, if your son wants to stick to the kiddie rides that your fat ass doesn’t fit on and you only end up riding the tilt-a-whirl twice, stick to the 12 tickets for a lot less money) and I followed my literally skipping son into a whole different realm.
The first day of the carnival feels so new. There’s no trash strewn about, the port-o-johns are still fresh, the air doesn’t smell stale. The carnies at the game stalls start barking right away with their come-on lines and we buy them hook and sinker included. $5 for three basketballs – it’s early and the crowd is thin. My son is cute and I don’t mind the attention so we make three trips back and forth to the car with armloads of stuffed animals, silly hats, bag bombs, and plastic bows and arrows. Our money dwindling, I start joking off the persistence of the old guys working the booths. No, I don’t need a cheap framed picture of KISS or John Cena. No, I really can’t hit three balloons in a row with your worn down darts. No. No. No thanks. Moving on…
Unlimited rides work really well when all your kid really wants to do is walk the funhouse time after time after time. I got to know the carnie running that one pretty well. When I finally drew him away to ride the carousel with me, he gazed longingly back at it and I promised we’d return for more. Dusk falling, the round bulbs lit up the food wagons enticing us with fried dough sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, cotton candy spun on cardboard cones, glistening apples red with hard candy, greasy popcorn, and the sizzle of sausage and peppers. Twinkling lights dashed around the perimeter of each ride and speakers blared the latest in top 40. The air was warm and felt clean and together we were happy.
My son is one of those kids that other kids are just naturally attracted to. Maybe it’s the mohawk or his casual way of dress. Maybe it’s his outgoing smile and easy nature. He and another boy were climbing into the dragon coaster – a real thrill ride at 20 miles an hour tops around a 50 yard circle – and the boy climbed into the seat with Lucas although the ride was completely empty. Lucas just shrugged at me and pretty soon they were fast friends. The boy’s father and I stood and chatted (yes, I even start up conversations in grocery store lines) and pretty soon found that we lived very near each other and both boys were the same age and in need of playdates nearby. By the end of the evening we’d exchanged numbers and the promise of meeting in the park in the not too distant future.
The rest of the evening was spent following the boys around from ride to ride. I took some pictures and even remembered to save some. I’m sure I lost a few good ones. But the highlight of the night for me was the swings. They look like oversized baby seats with a bar that slides down and a chain between your legs (I’m sure you can see the attraction here). They revolve around a circle and the momentum takes you higher and higher until you can see the entire park whizzing past your feet. Eventually I gave up looking down and looked up. Wow! The sky was periwinkle and there was a half moon hanging over me 3/4 of every revolution. I reached my arms up as high as they would go, tilted my head back and just breathed. It was a single, solitary moment of pure unadulterated joy – every care let go, the whole universe above me and it felt within reach. Dizzy and stumbling upon our return to terra firma I made my way to the exit as the boys continued on another journey. Even with the incessant mosquito infestation I felt entirely at peace. Life was good. Life was really, really good.
“Goodnight, Mush”
[This is a repost of something I wrote in the summer of '04 before my son sprouted up to my chest and moved into bunk beds and we stopped reading baby books in favor of Harry Potter every night. I repost this to remind myself that he's still a little boy of eight and although willful, he never asked to be an only child of a stressed out single mom and the next time I have the urge to fling his unwanted pasta across the kitchen I need to go sit in that big red chair and just breathe and remember that I love him no matter what.]
We sit on the aging back porch together, my son and I. Curled in our fading red chairs that envelope us like padded cereal bowls. I, with my I-pod, singing softly to Sarah McLachlan and Lucas listening to Schoolhouse Rocks on my old discman with the headphones on backwards — reliving the music I grew up with and swinging his feet to and fro, trying to sing along with words unfamiliar to him.
The thick July air is warm and the gurgling noises from the air conditioner in his bedroom window next to the porch prompts him to announce it must be raining even though he can’t see it. I have to explain twice the source of the noise until he investigates for himself. Satisfied he replaces his headphones and resumes his singing.
The day turns into the gloaming, that hazy period just before dusk settles on our little porch and it is time for my little man to go to bed. He doesn’t put up a fight. His breathing is labored as it has been all day and I try not to betray my concern. He takes his medicine like a trooper, so accustomed to the struggle to breathe. I think about the air today and wonder if the pollen count was high or if the air conditioning was too much for him or if, God forbid, he’s coming down with pneumonia again.
His choice of bedtime movies surprises me as he picks out “Goodnight Moon”, knowing I’ve read the book to him but haven’t seen the DVD. I like it. Faith Ringgold reads a story about “Tar Beach” and I sing along to Twinkle, Twinkle and Brahm’s Lullaby. We hold hands and I listen to his wheezing chest.
When the movie is over I turn off the television and turn to him. He kisses me on the mouth and says “Goodnight mush”. I answer the same and we go on naming all the objects the bunny says goodnight to and rubbing noses and kissing each others’ faces. I ask him if he wants to snuggle and he rolls over, throwing his tan leg across the mesh safety railing. He pulls my arm around him and his breathing calms quickly. I lie there in perfect stillness. All of the tiny irritations of the day erased by this one perfect moment in time. Eventually I get up and know that I must write it down for the next time I step on an errant toy or find that the dog has eaten his forgotten plate of food.
Celebrity Death Match II
[obviously outdated as it was written in June of '07, but some funny stuff nonetheless]
I’ve been keeping “In Touch” and felt the overwhelming need to revisit the lifestyles of the bitch and infamous. Hey, it keeps me amused and without the help of stylists, personal trainers, a personal chef, and an entourage of assistants – I have to keep a sense of humor somehow. I mean truly, how do these people live if they don’t have someone around to wipe their asses lest their perfect manicures get marred? Volunteers? Anyone? Anyone?
Okay…on with the show.
Let’s talk about the magic of the celebrity “post baby body”. Get a good look at Brooke Burke lately? Yeah, I’m not sure who the hell she is or why she’s famous either but Holy Bounce Back, Batman! She’s got a 5 month old and the body of an 18 year old. Nary a stretch mark or lump of cellulite in sight. I have developed a theory that all celebrity mommies who look like this after anywhere from 6 weeks to 6 months have actually used a surrogate and are all wearing expandable, attachable “bumps” for the paparazzi. You know I’m convinced that Katie Holmes did it!
And while we’re at it…latest look at Katie Holmes reveals that she’s turned into a clone of her BFF and fellow Scientologist, Scary Spice! Oh, wait…Posh Spice. Riiiight. Scary Spice was the good looking one. Anyhoo – feed that girl a Porterhouse and let her off the chain already! And Tom…go find a good boyfriend, will you? Maybe you and John Travolta could hook up – he looks amazing in drag. And you thought only Divine could pull off Edna Turnblad!
I’m still amazed at the number of dishrags that are flaunting cover stories of the stick thin and nearly dead. Who doesn’t already get it that these Hollowood starlets and wannabes KNOW they are starving themselves and all it does is get them more publicity? Mary Kate Olsen now looks like a combination of Jack Skellington and Morticia Adams! And pregnancy rumors surround Nicole Richie because of her “bump”! Can we all say…”malnutrition”? She looks like (pardon the comparison as oh so inappropo) a Biafra baby! Hey, stop throwing tomatoes, I know what I just said.
And this I love…celebrities caught without makeup. Q’uelle horreur! The American public didn’t KNOW that it takes a half gallon of greasepaint and spackle to look that good? Even I use a garden trowel in the morning just to be nearly presentable and I’m not being followed around by a bunch of ogling tourists or paparazzi hounds. Okay, so Madonna was caught looking her age – she’s almost 50 for Heaven’s sake! Cut the woman some slack already – she can dance circles around some of those younger bimbettes (such as my favorite target – Britney Smears).
Moving on…
Rosie O’Donnell left The View. Surprised? There was some funny shit going on between Rosie and The Donald (gotta love her schtick with the comb over) but who thought she could sit quietly with ultra conservative and seriously mousy Elizabeth Hasntgotherback? Don’t dis your castmates if they are big enough and mean enough to sit on you and squash you like a bug. Run, Elizabeth, run! Now I hear that Rosie may be taking over for the finally retiring Bob Barker on The Price is Right. Can’t they just retire the show? How in the hell will she use her wit and sarcasm to revive that one? Hey, miracles happen…Bob DID retire, right?
And, finally…are Carmen Electra and Joan Jett an item or not? Photos show some heavy canoodling but her reps are denying any lesbian attachément. Regardless, it looks as though Carm’s ex, Dave Navarro has decided that if she’s going to do the nasty with an older woman then he’s getting into the game to bump some serious uglies with none other than Flavor Flav’s former flame, Brigitte Nielson.
Can we just end this with one big….ewwwwwwwwww?
