theclumsyredhead.com

Why are all these celebrity-type women posing nude for fashion magazines with their giant pregnant bellies? There is only one pose they can do – hand over boob, hand over crotchal region. Yes, carrying a child is an amazing thing – a beautiful thing. And a gazillion women have done it. Most people know how it works. Most. (I think some teenage girls think Mike’s Hard Lemonade is a contraceptive device, but really, it’s a conception enhancer.)

But why must these celebrities show us their giant belly? WHY? I know you’re air-brushed.  I know you’ve had your hair and make-up done professionally. Unless you want to pose showing the real you – the real pregnancy look – dry, chapped lips, dark circles under your eyes, hairy legs because you can’t bend over to shave them, hair slapped back in a ponytail, wearing your husband’s sweat pants and an XXXL shirt from Wal-Mart – then keep your damn belly to yourself. You are not like the rest of us women who’ve had babies. We didn’t schedule a c-section so we could still make it to the Oscars after-parties. We aren’t rolling our babies around town in a $1,000 stroller. You are not like us, so stop. Please. We’ve seen the pregnant belly. Up close. With no airbrushing. Have you?

And P.S.: You  should also know that you will have stretch marks, no matter how much Palmer’s Coca Butter lotion you use.

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So, an extra day for us. An extra day to drop off the kid at school. An extra day to clean and do laundry. An extra day to think about all the other extra days I’ve had and wasted. An extra day to wander around my house, wondering what I’m supposed to do with my life.  I don’t need this kind of pressure. Instead, let’s see what some Leap Day traditions include:

1. According to an old Irish legend, St Bridget struck a deal with St Patrick to allow women to propose to men every 4 years. Yay? Just like Sadie Hawkins Day – the character that was created by Al Capp and was the “homeliest gal in all them hills.” So, another day dedicated  to rejecting ugly girls. Let’s move on.

2. In Greece, it’s bad luck to marry during a Leap Year. Greece has been having a lot of bad luck lately. I think getting married there during  a Leap Year might not be too unlucky, unless of course you paid for the wedding in advance.

3. In Scotland, it’s considered bad luck to be born on Leap Day. I can see where they’re going with that. Getting presents only every four years? A Spongebob cake when you’re actually four is cool. However, since the body continues to age regardless of the calendar date of your birth, you might be made fun of for having that cake at your Sweet 16 party.

So, I think the real moral of Leap Day, if there were actually a moral to be had,  is to just be yourself.

I’m back, baby!

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I love this time of year. Everyone capitalizes on the season. For instance:

Febreeze has a “Limited Edition” collection. Really? Your job is to cover up stink. That’s it. It makes no difference if my bathroom smells like “Winter Evening” or “Winterberry” or “Original.” I just don’t want it to smell like wet towels and dirty socks. I’m not going to buy your stupid new scent in the hope that 25 years from now, I can sell it on ebay for $200 because it was a limited edition. Unless it’s signed by Mr. Febreeze and there were only 100 cans made, don’t call it a limited edition.

Coffee Mate: Peppermint Mocha. I heart you, I really do. Eggnog? Nope. You can’t mix Eggnog with coffee. Again, just because Christmas is coming up doesn’t mean you need to cram Christmasy-themed flavors into CREAMER. Salami and cheese trays are big around Christmas time too, maybe that could be your next flavor. Or glazed ham. Simmer down, coffeemates.

Coca Cola: Limited edition Coke cans. You put Santa on your can. I see where you’re going with it, but I think you need to expand on that. Maybe the Hanukkah Armadillo (Friends? Anyone?). It doesn’t matter, because I’m going to jam it into my recycling bin anyway. I’m not going to put it in an air-tight container and display it next to my Grandma’s Hummel figurines.

Ritz crackers: see above. 

Please, stop calling your overpriced goods “Limited Editions.” If I can’t cash you in to pay for my daughter’s college tuition, you’re just another non-perishable item I will donate in the spring to her school’s food drive.

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Fall is here! It’s my favorite time of year – the smell, the changing leaves, signs that all the good holidays are approaching (not that Flag Day isn’t a great holiday, but there’s no special food or gift getting involved).  

First up, Halloween. Now, I went to a Catholic school, so we could call it Halloween and we could dress up. Some schools around here call it ”Autumn Festival” or some stupid PC name and the kiddies aren’t allowed to dress up anymore. Because Spiderman and Cinderella are offensive and apparently, they were also characters in the Bible, so those atheists want NOTHING to do with St. Spiderman and his web of lies.  

My brother wore this one. Yours probably did, too.

But I digress. I was either a clown or hobo every year, because it was better to make your own costume than pay for a crappy plastic mask that scratched the hell out of your face and had no breathing holes and an elastic string that would inevitably break by the second house you visited. I was a “punk rocker” once in the 80s, which was just basically an excuse to spray paint an old t-shirt and wear two socks that didn’t match. I had no idea what punk rock was back then, but I very often found myself wearing mismatched socks anyway, so at least I had an excuse for it one day of the year.  

Wilford has not changed since Cocoon! Well, except now he has diabetes, I guess.

So all the channels are playing every horror movie they can find. And, I must say, those edited for t.v. versions of Friday the 13th are actually frightening when you see the scene fade and then Gus Witherspoon is telling you about his diabetes. I was never a fan of horror movies, and it’s not because I was too scared to watch them, it just didn’t make sense to be scared of slow moving monster-people. I was scared of talking to real people, so I didn’t have time to even think about monster-people.   

Maybe I didn’t get it. Teens making out in the woods, okay, eventually I got that. Some 10 year-old boy drowns, his mom decides to kill a bunch of teenagers who had nothing to do with her son’s death and all of a sudden, the dead kid is in his thirties with a receding hairline with no ambition to actually chase people down, but plod quietly behind them with a really heavy tool and wait for one of them to fall down. That isn’t scary to me. That just seems lazy.  

Bugs out trick-or-treating by himself seemed so cool to me.

I preferred the special Halloween episodes of my favorite t.v. shows (I still do, actually). Remember The Facts of Life episode where the gals get killed off one by one, and Tootie is left on her own to face the killer? Or how about the M*A*S*H episode where Fr. Mulcahy brings that “dead” soldier back to life?  And why do I remember Judd Hirsch dressed up as Dracula talking to the wolfman? But my favorite was when they’d show the Bugs Bunny Halloween special – it all revolved around “Witch Hazel” – the one who lost bobby pins whenever she took off from the room. Maybe that’s why Halloween really isn’t scary to me. I was desensitized by cartoons and fictional t.v. characters. Don’t get me wrong – dark, quiet streets and creaking floors give me the chills every now and then, but it’s not like it’s scarier because it’s Halloween. Plus, I kinda have to keep it together on account of the kiddos.

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I got my first magazine subscription when I was about 6 or 7. It was to Highlights. I remember reading the “Goofus & Gallant” section and thinking, even at that young age, that Goofus was a total douche. If you’re not familiar with it, it went a little something like this: Goofus would do something you are obviously not supposed to do, like hold the door shut on a wheelchair-bound person and make faces at them through the glass. Then, they’d show Gallant in the same situation, only he was carrying the person on his back, up the stairs and through the door and then performing some kind of miraculous surgery that allowed the paraplegic to walk. THAT is what you’re supposed to do – not be a Goofus. Life lessons, shown through crudely drawn black and white illustrations.

Best. Magazine. Ever.

That’s when my love affair with magazines began. From Highlights I moved on to “Sassy” magazine, and if you’re a woman my age, you totally know what I’m talking about. It was the quintessential teen magazine. It had amazing articles that talked about real issues, like how to wash your face properly (a big deal, believe me), how to dress and where to shop, it talked about boys and all the stuff a 13 year old girl cared about. But it was different from the other teen magazines – it was beautifully photographed and written in a way that you didn’t feel like you were inadequate because of your age or how you looked. It also had great interviews - I remember one with Robert Downey Jr.- he was my crush back then. I kept every issue and reread them constantly. And then it went bye-bye. 

Before I had kids, I read all the fancy fashion magazines, even though I could never afford any of the fashion they wrote about, nor would I ever look like any of those women, and eventually found myself not really enjoying magazines all that much. There was no substance; I was just doing it because I could afford the $5 magazines and also I wanted to appear as though I knew what was hip and cool. And then I shopped at The Gap and felt bad about myself again.

Mother May I Sleep With Cookie Magazine?

And then the babies came. I had no time for frivolity. Or so I thought. I don’t remember where I found it, but I came across the greatest magazine for mommies. It was called “Cookie” and it was glorious. I immediately sent my check and waited for what seemed like years for my first issue. When it finally came, I tossed the kids a bag of sugar, told my husband where they were and locked myself in my bedroom. I devoured that magazine – read it cover to cover. It had great articles on where to shop for your kids, yourself and strangers if you wanted to. Articles on what it’s like to be a real mom – not a super rich or super hero mom, just stories about every day women and the amazing things we can do. It also had ideas for family vacations, both affordable and fantasy. It had super fancy and expensive stuff and stuff that I could actually buy.  But it also had articles that weren’t mommy-centric. It was just a magazine about women who also happened to have kids. It wasn’t pretentious. It was real. It was Sassy for grownups!

As I waited for my December issue, which was about a month late, I became concerned. Where could it be? I paid for a whole year. I couldn’t take it anymore. I called the customer service number, fully prepared with my “I paid for this magazine, where the hell’s my latest issue?” speech, but there was no need for it. I was informed that the magazine was no more. I was also told I should’ve gotten notice in the mail (I got it 3 days later) and that they had planned on sending another magazine in its place and I would receive that first issue in April. April? It was freakin’ November! And, the magazine would be “Lucky.” Because that’s the equivalent of Cookie? A twenty-something shopper’s bible is the same as a true to life mommy magazine? And so it goes.

I flip through my Lucky magazine begrudgingly now. Cursing at the fancy fashion I can’t afford. Wondering why the hell I need to know about super mini pendant necklaces (they’re hot this season!) when I can’t wear them because Jack will just try to rip it off my neck and shove it up his nose or down his pants. Why do I need to look super chic for the weekend, when my big getaway is to the grocery store 2 blocks away? Whatever. Up yours Lucky. You’re no Sassy.

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You've either eaten one or made one and you know it.

Every year, that trick question they asked in grade school always comes to mind: “Do they have a 4th of July in England?” While you’re pondering that and eating your blueberry/strawberry/Cool Whip (that’s pronounced Cool hhhWhip) flag cake this weekend and engaging in the reenactment of our country’s war for independence by throwing firecrackers at your neighbor, it’s important to remember a few things.

1) Don’t let your children light their fireworks with your Bic.  I remember burning my fingers with the hot metal piece on the lighter every year. Man that was great. Sometimes my dad would light our sparklers and assorted fireworks with his cigarette. That was fine for the 70s and 80s, but now, since smoking is the equivalant of injecting babies with heroin, that practice has gone by the wayside. May I suggest purchasing a few punks to light the little ones’ “improved” sparklers? Which by the way, totally suck in my book. They don’t shoot sparks like they used to so there’s no sense of danger of them landing on your red, white & blue dress and they don’t burn long enough to write your name in the air. Where’s the fun in that?

2) Keep your dog indoors. Several years ago, my sister’s Shih Tzu got spooked and ran away during their Fourth of July celebration. She was gone for several months. Someone eventually found her – she had been living off the land and let me tell you, she came back a hard woman. She looked like Courtney Love circa 1996 and stomped around like Beth Chapman. She hasn’t been the same since that fateful Fourth. Save yourself the heartache and avoid future barroom brawls with your canine companion by making sure he or she is safely tucked away inside this year.

This guy could be your doctor. Realistically, he'll probably be the next President of the United States.

3) Do not let your friends and family have a Roman Candle fight. It’ll really put a damper on your party when Cousin Tito loses an ear or a toe in a drunken attempt to shoot down your neighbor’s birdhouse with one of those things. Yes, it’s funny to watch drunks try to maneuver around patio furniture or people who aren’t there, but it’s not worth the risk of having the cops or an ambulance show up and try to tend to an injured inebriate. “Dude, I’m fine. DU-WHO-DE. I’M FFFIIIIII-NAH. See? I taped my finger back on. Good as new.” Chances are, he’s duct taped his thumb to the palm of his hand and probably ruined the chance of you having a party next year, what with your homeowner’s insurance rates raised and bloodstains and all.

So, there you go, a few tips from the Redhead. Be sure to hang out your flags, people and remember to turn on your boom boxes to hear that patriotic music that’s synced up to your local bank’s fireworks celebration.

Answer: Yes, they have a 4th of July in England. They also have a 5th and 6th like everybody else. They do not celebrate our Independance Day, however. Although, with the way the rest of the world feels about us, they just might start.

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