Did you just say "vaginal tear"?

Remember my pregnant friend- the one who’s pretty much been MIA since she got married and who had the Baby Couple’s Shower? Well, a week before I went to Alaska and found my true calling (to hug whales, of course!), there came a flurry of texts from her husband announcing she was having The Baby.

I sent a card and flowers, then waited a few days after an initial “Congrats/ love you” text message to her before I called. I didn’t want to impose and didn’t want to take time away from The Baby, but I still wanted to personally tell her how happy I was for her and see how she was feeling. Alas, but unsurprisingly, I had to leave a message.

Later that night, the phone rang and her number came up…except it turned out it wasn’t her at all. It was her husband. Calling from her phone. To tell me all about The Baby and The Birth and the current state of my friend’s HOO-HA. Yeah. I’m completely serious right now. He told me about what happened down there and bodily functions and how big “it” got and how many stitches and how sore and…and just…fuck no.

Here’s the thing, I think it’s great that my friend’s husband is so “present” for her and I’m really glad that they found each other and got married and now have The Baby and all that “American Dream” stuff. Really. But, I don’t need him to be so “present” in my friendship with her. I don’t need him to be my friend too. I have nothing in common with him and have little interest in knowing him better. The way I see it, the only thing I need to know is that he treats her well and makes her happy. Other than that, I can like him well enough as her husband without having to also like him as a friend to me.

So, no matter how he or anyone else wants to wrap it up and say he’s just being “nice” or “helpful” or whatever, I don’t want him returning my phone call on her behalf, especially without her knowledge of him doing so, let alone that I called in the first place. I don’t want him to receive instead the very heartfelt and personal message that I left for her on her phone. And I don’t want him telling me the details of her going into labor and what The Birth was like. That’s the kind of thing I want (well, as much as I can want to hear about childbirth- honestly it gives me the heebie-jeebies) to hear from her, not him.

The whole conversation and the context in which it played out made me feel uncomfortable, icky, and apprehensive about calling again. Rather than her husband, he’s beginning to come across as her gatekeeper and it’s just….weird. Yes? No? Sort of?

Call me selfish or an asshole. Accuse me of refusing to embrace change. But, as far as I’m concerned, no matter how much I may or may not like a friend’s significant other, that person is not a replacement for them.

There is of course the typical and to be expected mourning that the “trip of a lifetime,” which went smashingly, is now over. And there is of course the realization that I actually miss my boyfriend now that we’re back in our 12-16 hour workday routines, wherein we’re often too worn out at the end of the day to do anything except retreat to our separate couches in our subsequent separate residences. Who knew that spending eight days in the “snug” (although we were upgraded!) quarters of a cruise ship stateroom would go so well or would in fact prove (though I can only speak for myself here) to be a catalyst for a greater sense of companionship- even if (comically) one breakfast conversation turned to the theoretical merits of one form of melon over another? Sigh…

While those reasons are each valid and currently coursing through my reflective mind each day, I am instead writing today to admit that one picture (out of over, holy Nikon, a whopping 1000) has given me pause and disappointment. It’s a bit embarrassing to admit, and I only do so in an admission to you now because I feel too ashamed to admit it to those who know me offline. But, before I admit what about this picture has me feeling this way, I want to assure you- especially you kind and thoughtful readers who do in fact know me- that there is absolutely no need for you to argue against or try to soothe my poopy feelings. Please, sincerely please, feel no necessity to try to make me feel better or tell me I’m mistaken.

So, with all that said, the picture in question is one of my boyfriend and I on my birthday. That night was also a formal night, which means I was one happy birthday girl to be wearing a fancy dress. But, because the cruise et. al wound up costing double the amount of the bonus check that was intended to fund it, I opted not to buy a new dress. Instead, I wore the white and black BCBG dress that I’ve only been able to wear once before and years ago at that. Before we left for our vacation, I tried it on and found that it still- though barely- fit and that (hooray!) the strapless top actually fit even better (I would still classify them as “booblets” however). Unwittingly, I packed the dress in anticipation of the perfect trip and birthday.

When the time came to don the dress, I did so without any concern for how it would photograph. I wore the dress all night through an impeccable five course dinner ending in chocolate soufflé, through a champagne toast with the ship’s captain, through after dinner drinks while listening to the (Titanic-like) string quartet. I didn’t want to take my fancy dress off. I didn’t want my special day to end. We took a picture to capture the memory.

Looking at that picture now, the only one it turns out in which the two of us appear in full view in our formal night fanciness, it would appear as though taken (it wasn’t) with a wide angle lens. I’ve NEVER been someone who says “I look fat” or asks the like. In fact, I feel guilty saying anything negative about my body because it gets thrown back at me by people who weigh more. Notwithstanding all of that, it cannot be helped that the picture is…not good. So while I may refuse to say I’m fat even after gaining 12 pounds in the last year, I can’t deny that the picture and the dress I’m wearing in it do me no favors. I may not be fat, but I certainly look fat. And my heart sinks with the admission. There, I’ve said it.

The picture is embarrassing and I don’t want to share it with anyone. But I fully anticipate friends and family asking, “Where’s The Birthday picture? Where’s formal night?” Do I shrug and pretend it never existed? The truth is, I wanted my “30th Birthday Picture” to be the one I could always point to and say, “There…that’s me on my 30th and it was absolutely special.” Instead, The Picture nearly brings me to tears.

I realize that I sound ridiculous, I do. And I realize that after the picture was taken I went on to spend the next seven days taking many other pictures that turned out spectacularly. But the thing is, even though I wasn’t bothered at all by turning 30, I’m bothered by the picture that very clearly shows the decline of my figure since I was formerly photographed in the same dress at the same angle when I was 27. Three years: who knew that three years without change in eating patterns or lifestyle would produce such an effect? I’ve simply gotten older…and more “filled out” (I write with a scrunched nose).

Ultimately, I know I can’t let myself focus on this picture or how it makes me feel inside. I hope to expel all my yucky feelings here and have done with it. I know in all the other pictures I look happy and healthy and older but not fatter or uglier. And I know that none of my friends or family would, if I showed them, look at that picture and think, let alone say, “She’s really let herself go.”

So, the lesson here? Get a new dress and/or a new camera, but most importantly, a new perspective. Because what matters most is not the picture that didn’t turn out so well, but the fortunate memories created that it unfortunately neglected to capture.

The reality I’m facing is that I’m now 30 and I weigh more than I did when I was 27. I’m one dress size and pant size bigger. I guess you could say I’m more “womanly.” And, whereas I’ve managed to grow into and even celebrate my age, the time has come for me to grow into accepting my new shape as well.

Once I arrived, however, I realized just how naïve that ambition was. Most of the items on my friend’s registry were nowhere to be found, and not just because baby stuff is merchandised in a way that makes zero sense. Towels and washcloths are in one place and the baby bath mat thingamajig and accessories are in another.

After going back and forth between the two aisles and finding only the powder and lotion from her registry, I figured I had three options. It was too late to buy online and have anything shipped, so I could: a) Give up, go home, and deal with it tomorrow, b) Gift card, or c) In the words of Tim Gunn, make it work.

So, I punted. I got as close as I could to what she registered for. I’d equate it to eating a Boca burger and telling yourself it’s still meat. Rather than the yellow towel set with yellow fish that she registered for; she’s getting a yellow towel set with a yellow turtle on it instead. In my head I reasoned that, Turtles swim too so that still counts, right? Of course, next to the pseudo fish- turtle towel there was an ample stock of blue and pink towel sets of what I was supposed to be buying. It mocked me. Damn blue and pink fish. Also, damn people and their refusal to find out if it’s a boy or a girl! Jerks.

Anyway, after a few more similar efforts, I managed to load up on baby lotions, powders, washcloths, towels, a duckie faucet cover, bath mat, water temperature gauge, and some contraption that keeps water out of your baby’s eyes. My arms were full, and that’s when I knew I’d made a crucial mistake. A cart! I didn’t get a cart. Shuffling about, bent backward and peering over my stash, I managed to drop every single item while on the hunt. As it turns out, not only should I not be trusted to hold babies, I should also not be trusted to hold baby accoutrements.

Eventually, I found an empty adrift cart and dropped the items down, which is precisely when some 16 and Pregnant episode contestant came out of the woodwork and yelled at me like I was stealing her car or her monies or something. Embarrassed, I feigned cart loss…. “Oh, you mean this one isn’t mine? Hmmmm….silly me. It must have wandered away. Ah ha ha ha ha…” Abort, abort, abort!

Undeterred by my failed cart ganking, I set out to find a better option and was much more successful and stealthlike the second time around. With both hands now free and flipping through the registry one last time, I steered my not-stolen-but-found cart over to the greeting card/ gift wrapping section.

Facing a wall of shiny papers and ribbons and bows and buttons and bags and just everything that a person apparently has to have in order to give a gift, I reached for the largest bag in hopes that it could hold all that I had somehow pieced together. The bag was decorated brightly with a colorful animal…a dinosaur or buffalo or something- I don’t know, it could have been a caterpillar even, I didn’t really look. The thing is, the bag refused to refold once I nixed it. And that’s when all manner of clusterfuckery happened.

Apparently, the gift bag aisle is also an up and coming thoroughfare because as I struggled with the bag, a lady rolled her overstuffed cart- bursting with storage bins- into my ankle. Before I could react or shrivel in pain, a family of four shoved past yelling in Spanish what I can only assume was, “Quick, there’s a run on baby gifts! Get the last yellow towel set, kids! Fish or turtles, doesn’t matter! I’ll corner the gift bag market!”

And then, some hipster dude sporting the saddest facial hair since Mariah Carey’s crustache in Precious, pulled up thisclose to me. I can only assume that the pastel polk-a-dot tissue paper made him thoughtful, as he gazed with a fierceness that not even my blatant stare of disgust could tear him away. I scrunched up my forehead, crinkled my nose, raised an eye brow. Still nothing. Incredulously, I threw the bag on the floor. He walked away. Meh.

I don’t know what I hoped to accomplish by eliciting a response, but in a matter of only 30 minutes I had gone from confident, prepared, unfettered career woman supporting her friend’s life choices to befuddled, butterfingered, stupid, single girl without a clue. I was frustrated and fuming and nothing would just WORK! Baby gift shopping had broken me and I’d *maturely* decided to take it out on a colorful gift bag, which I didn’t even buy.

Admittedly, I had botched the whole thing horribly, comically even. Not only did I not go to my friend’s Baby Couples Shower, but now I couldn’t even get her a proper gift. I was weak with hunger and failure, my bangs were plastered mercilessly to my forehead, and a blister had formed on my right heel. It was then that I looked down at the forlorn, deflated dinosaur-buffalo-caterpillar-mystery animal gift bag and thought; This…this is what my life has come to.

A gift bag was never so symbolic.

There we sat, discussing a friend of a friend and the outlandish lengths she’s gone to in order to meet “someone,” expanding her geographic dating region rather than expanding her “requirements.” Apparently, she’s hit the jackpot because she found “someone,” has met him twice, and is set to move in with and marry him by year end. This is pretty much where my self-righteousness comes in. In fact, it made me go all Katie-Couric-Interviewing-Sarah-Palin up on my friend’s ass.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit ridiculous- literally expanding her Match demographic to include men ANYWHERE in the US?” I responded after noting the obvious safety risks of hasty decisions like hers.

“Well, that’s what you have to do when you’re in your 30’s and still unmarried. It gets really hard to find the kind of guy that my friends and I would marry,” she adamantly reminded me while conveniently forgetting that I am also unmarried and turning 30. GASP!

“Really? Why?” I asked with feigned confusion.

“Because. You know,” she sheepishly shrugged with a shake of her head and widening eyes.

“No, not really. Why is that? And what do you mean by ‘kind of guy’?” I pursued.

 ”You know. Another [insert race],” she whispered almost apologetically.

My friend and Ms. Friend-of-a-Friend have told me over the years that it’s important to them to date men of their own race because he’d “understand our culture better, our customs and holidays, food and religion.” I guess I can see the point of their argument, however, does their statement mean no other race is capable of or considerate enough to gain familiarity with their customs? Is “true love” based solely on one’s inherent knowledge of another’s cultural background? And if a girl limits her dating pool based upon race, doesn’t that fundamentally make her a racist?

Here’s the thing: maybe their take on the necessity of cultural similarities in dating doesn’t technically make them racists. Maybe there’s some loophole of cultural integrity that I’m not party to. But I simply cannot relate, and neither can Emo who reports to me that he personally “loves all colors of God’s sexy rainbow.”  

The truth is, I’m white bread through and through. I grew up in a racist and anti-Semitic household, embarrassed by the comments and attitudes I was surrounded by and couldn’t control. Now as an adult, I find it shocking to see a form of my family’s thinking perpetuated and paraded about in social circles of my own choosing. It makes me feel icky in the worst way. And hearing their complaints about how difficult it is to meet someone only exacerbates what I see as a racial affront.

I understand that we all have our dating requirements, our “demographic,” our “have-to-haves” and “won’t settles” and what have you, and hold certain traits to be more attractive than others. I have my own ideas with which I contend, but over the years those ideas have changed. I’ve matured. I’ve realized that what matters most in a healthy relationship is sharing common values, an instinctual attraction, and a mutual respect. Everything else can flourish from there.

So even though I view these women as friends, I also view them as in the wrong and refuse to show sympathy for their dating difficulties anymore. I cannot and will not agree with someone who dates a race and not a person. And ultimately, I can’t help but wonder if they intend to apply the (if not antiquated, heavily frowned upon) Caste system in their potential spousal evaluations as well.

Kill me now.

Can someone please explain to me what the hell a “Couples Shower” is? Because I just don’t even know anymore.

My friend Mara, the same one who got married in all kinds of annoying ways, who went AWOL after ascending to the state of wifedom, and who is now in the family way; has sent me a preemptive “baby” shower invitation via email. While I anticipated this invite, I am completely thrown by her version of it. She’s turned the requisite 3-4 hour baby shower experience into a day long/ overnight extravaganza complete with BYOM (Bring Your Own Meat for grilling- nevermind that it’ll be March and only 30 degrees outside if we’re lucky).

The whole concept of this event annoys me. I simply cannot understand why she has to turn a typical celebration like a wedding or a freaking baby shower into a major production. Why can’t she just do what is expected in these situations? What the hell is her deal?

As for inviting spouses/significant others, maybe I’m missing the point here, but what exactly are the invited men (all husbands/fathers except for my boyfriend) going to do at this “Couples Shower”? Eat pink and blue frosted cupcakes? Play pin-the-diaper on the baby? Commend the diaper cake bringer for her craftiness? Fake smile as the soon-to-be-mom unwraps breast pumps and the like? Really? Why would I EVER want to expose my boyfriend to that kind of nonsense?

I cannot fathom how or why it would be appropriate, let alone expected, that men participate in such antics. I don’t even want to participate. I’d rather just send a fancy gift; spend a little extra to compensate for my absence. Especially since it’s a six hour drive round trip and the shower is scheduled for the first weekend of March Madness. Salt in the wound, people. SALT.

Regardless of my utter confusion and subsequent scheduling crisis, I feel obligated to attend. I feel obligated to smile and ask questions pertaining to Baby, to act like I give a shit. Maybe it makes me a bad friend to admit this (and there’s no way in hell I’d ever say this to her because you just don’t do that sort of thing), but I don’t give a shit and with good reason.  

She’s always told me she never wanted kids, even on “her” wedding day she said “maybe in a few years” she’d think about it, and then swiftly capitulated to her husband who was adamant about having kids immediately. Sure, it’s her choice, but why should I also have to capitulate and support a decision I think is wrong and unfair to both her and the unborn? Does my friendship mean I’m required to be complicit, to condone what I view as a mistake?

I have to wonder though at my apparent inability to feel genuine happiness for her. I wonder why I can’t just be a good friend and be more supportive. It’s her life, her marriage, her choice to have a baby if she wants and it has nothing to do with me. In spite of all that, the truth is she can knock herself out calling this “Baby Couples Shower” whatever she likes. I’ll still be wishing I was watching the college basketball tournament instead of participating in what I feel is nothing short of a train wreck.

I go to Victoria’s Secret. I get fitted for a bra (don’t get too excited boys- no nudity or boob fondling is involved), which is generally a sad experiment because each attempt seems to yield a different result. 32B. 34A. 34B. Triumph! They’re getting bigger! 32A. What the fuck!? Then, I proceed to try on the box of bras they stuff you in the fitting room with. Also, a sad experiment. I hate, loathe, want to find the original designer of said bras and ask him what the hell he was thinking by making a bra that requires a BOOKLET with step-by-step DIAGRAMS to put it on properly.

Of the 6 or 7 bras left in the bra box, I seem to always end up picking the most sedate and comfortable. This bra is an everyday bra. It goes to work and goes grocery shopping. It folds laundry and watches the Barefoot Contessa (Why is that by the way? She is neither “barefoot,” nor a “contessa.” Hmmm…). This is not a sex bra. This bra does not know how to flirt or blow kisses or blow anything for that matter. If you’re lucky, this bra will order online for delivery make you dinner.

This is the same bra I was wearing one day, as I sat at work complacently talking to GDF and Emo, when something happened. There was movement. The right strap didn’t slide downward, no, this time it simply GAVE UP. It popped off its latch and became ”untethered.” Which is precisely when the front of my bra and the little booblet in it began to keel forward. I’m free! I’m free! Moo-ha-ha-ha. I imagined her saying. The strap had failed, and as my chest subsequently ran amok, I ran to the Ladies to latch that shit back down.

Which is why I have to ask; how is it that after everything I’ve been through to find this “practical” bra- when I’ve forgone any hint of sexiness for comfort and have shelled out $45 or more- that (at best) the bitchass thing goes on holiday down the sides of each shoulder? Is it afraid of heights? Is it secretly rebellious and wants me to think it’s a sex bra after all dammit? Are my shoulders abnormally “slopey”? Is that even a word?

We may never know the answers to any of those questions. We may never know. But what we do know is that you can’t return a bra like that because “it’s been worn” and yes, that would be gross and/or wasteful and the very opposite of green-friendly. This bra is thus still in the rotation, and wouldn’t you know I’m wearing it today!

Which means I sit here typing and every few lines finds me digging at my raging under boob and surly straps. Apparently, they seem to think Today Is The Day they’re going to make it to my hitherto illusive elbows. And at this point, I’m apt to say fuck it and let them.

Rob Pattinson Turkey, the Second

Who knew GDF could one-up herself from last year’s Rob Pattinson Turkey? Once again, it’s a plethora, a veritable smorgasbord of R. Patt goodness. Nom nom nom. And then there’s my feeble attempt (just ignore the misspelled “your” please…we were mid-craft hour when we were let out of work early).

Bless-ed jewel....Braditude.....debatable womanhood...it's a Rachel Zoe Project Thanksgiving!

For those of you who haven’t seen The Rachel Zoe Project and cannot fully appreciate the blurbs, here’s a little parody to bring you in the loop…

P.S. US Weekly, you are neither an officer nor a gentleman for trying to scoop us with your paltry un-handcrafted celeb turkeys. For shame!