Famous Yet

I wasn’t trying to get all feminist-y label-y discussion-y yesterday, as I’m really not that critical of a thinker on things that don’t matter much, but boy howdy, I love talking about them, apparently. It was really just Momversation that set me off, because, as Sundry put it: HORK.

Momversation. Please say it out loud three times and see if you can prevent the bile from rising in your throat.

At any rate, I watched 27 Dresses the other day, and it flicked across the screen this evening (ah, free HBO — a bonus of a recession) and I was struck, yet again at how RIDICULOUSLY AWFUL IT WAS, oh my stars. I’m wondering, seriously, when the last time anyone was at a public event where someone stood up and declared, completely out of context, “So, Jim/Helen/Bob/Name, I guess what I’m trying to say is … I think I’m in love with you.” Not that 27 Dresses was a particularly stellar piece of filmmaking up to that point, but it moved from being tolerable to utterly groan-worthy at its climax (ew, did I just say that?), and I don’t think I’m ruining it for you when I mention that the public “I love you” moment was indeed there.

At any rate, I would be woefully remiss if I didn’t mention the latest symptom of my pregnancy, which is perhaps the most shocking of all. I … I have an urge to craft. Or sew. Or, I don’t know, hunker down in some sort of pioneer-type land and use a SPINNING WHEEL. I want to spin my own yarn! Weave my own clothes! Find out the many uses for lanolin! GET BACK TO THE SIMPLE LIFE. MILK COWS.

I mean, not really. But my hormones do. And as Lawyerish told me when I mentioned this the other day, my God, someone should just throw me a bunch of popsicle sticks and let me work through this before I do some real damage and buy us a farm even farther out in the country in a horribly realistic rendition of Baby Boom, but without the applesauce and a whole lot of sheep.

I mean, seriously, I asked my mom for one of her (many MANY) sewing machines she keeps saying is for me. (She refurbishes them for fun and profit and has about 25, no kidding.)

And finally, a drama unfolding in real-time: You know how some people have horrible, gut-wrenching memories of high school? And how I really … don’t, because high school was spectacularly awesome and full of fun, if dorky, memories? College was my high school. My horrible Mean Girl experience didn’t come to fruition until my sophomore/junior year of college and wow, it was a doozy the likes of which I’d never previously imagined. There was inadequacy! Full-blown depression! A wretched sorority experience! (Hint: it involved excessive use of the word DELTA) Class warfare! Rich girls driving Mercedes with leather interiors with $5,000 monthly clothing allowances! And I, the work-study kid trying with depression trying to figure out how to navigate it all, resulting in EPIC LEVELS OF FAILURE.

Also, there were the four (4) girls I sat in the hospital with who either a) drank themselves to near-death; b) starved themselves to near-death; c) OD’d on a lethal cocktail of cocaine, alcohol and I don’t even know what else; or c) in one case, HAD A HEART ATTACK AT THE AGE OF 21 from starving herself to near-death through the age-old game of binging and purging.

College was one of the worst times of my entire life, no kidding. The worst. And the really worst part? I have been found out by The Facebook. The Facebook, which has previously been a happy little benign tool to reunite me with long lost sisters and friends has now become A Bane.

I’m being pummeled with e-mails from a rather miserable LA-type crowd packed with self-important messages about how they’re in [insert high-profile city here]! And they LURVE IT THERE OMG! And they have famous friends! And an AMAZING LIFE! And oh, they see I’m in Vermont, and I’m a … writer, they see. And pregnant! How QUAINT! They pat me on the head. How LOVELY for you, they add as they remind me that they’re a high-profile blargity blargh and married to Very Rich Important Man in XX field and oh God, I’m trying not to take a knife to my own forehead just thinking about it.

I do not miss that competitiveness. Imagine, if you will, The Real Housewives of Long Island. That was my college experience, except I was the poor kid who couldn’t keep up and secretly didn’t want to, hence the depression. I was Atlanta Kim’s lame-ass frumpy best friend who knew better than to compete, but couldn’t see a decent way out. Oh GOD.

There are headshots being e-mailed to me in some cases. Headshots! Braggy headshots of rail-thin models with five-carat diamonds and frosted hair! Frankly, I’m ignoring the majority of the requests, and only responding to the (very few) good ones, because I am small and also easily annoyed and no no, do not want to relive it, NO THANK YOU.

Jesus, I really did need to be medicated to deal with that shit, yo.

In other words, I’m reacting a bit violently. I had no idea I still had it in me, but apparently it was a rather traumatic time. Huh. PTSD indeed.

College. My college experience was the only reason I was ever afraid to have a girl, because it was when I discovered that girls can be mean. Late bloomer, I know! I can tell you one thing: it is going to be very, very hard for her to ever convince me that she should join a sorority.

Happy Wednesday! Top Chef premieres!

!!!!

*Ryan Star. Oh, Rockstar. I miss you.

35 comments November 11th, 2008