I didn’t set out to become high-maintenance, really I didn’t. I was tripping along, clam-happy, unmanicured, and wash and go all through my twenties with nary a problem. Then I hit my thirties and the hair products, moisturizers, serums, scrubs, buffs, and anti-wrinkle creams hit the fan, or, more appropriately, my face. 

Granted, I’ve always been vain and completely silly about my hair.

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I’d like to personally thank Sharon Stone for making me feel like a better parent.  In her recently rejected attempt at changing the custody agreement of her 8-year old son, the judge cited Stone as an “overreacting mother” and used as an example the fact that Stone wanted to use Botox to treat her son’s smelly feet.

Just how smelly were his feet?  Were restaurants emptying out when Stone and her son entered?  Were the neighbors calling the police about possible dead bodies in the house next door?  I have a 7-year old son and had no idea that smelly feet were negotiable.  He removes his shoes and socks the minute he gets home from school and, while disgusting, it’s been a great help in my attempt to curb my snacking.  My 13-year old daughter’s skate bag smells like one of the cats died in it. 

What kind of world is Sharon Stone living in that has no bad odors?  Is there someone on her staff who fills out the Profession line on their tax return as Odor Removal Specialist?  She has two more sons, what the hell did she do with diapers?  I’m guessing a Diaper Genie wasn’t enough; was there someone waiting in a running car to take each and every diaper straight to the dump? 

Someone needs to tell Ms. Stone (and perhaps the judge just did) that once you have children you lose all rights to being Freakiest Person in the House.  You can try, but it’s pointless.  And if you’ve somehow created a career out of being a little bit freaky you will be given the child who dips barbecue chips in his chocolate milk, has a repertoire of crazy voices, and poses as a guitar-playing statue in the window at the Hard Rock Café.

Oh, and has super smelly feet.

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I was shopping at a very large outlet mall today with some girlfriends — ideal setting for people watching. Much, much better (and less psychologically damaging) than trying on swimsuits.
Shoppers were out in droves. We are having our first real taste of spring in my area, and people were responding by fervently purchasing sun dresses, shorts, tanks, and sandals.

I wasn’t surprised by the amount of people. I definitely wasn’t shocked by the frantic pace at which people were buying new wardrobes.

What did astound me was how similar many moms appeared in comparison to their teenage daughters. They were shopping at the same boutiques, buying very similar clothes, and looked closer in age than Mother Nature intended. These women had round, perky breasts. They were virtually cellulite and sag-free. Their foreheads suspiciously void of wrinkles. Their lips plump and without lines. Crows feet around the eyes? Not a chance! At 26, I felt haggard next to these gals.

Let’s face it, plastic surgery, cosmetic rejuvenation, botox parties, etc. are becoming the norm. Everywhere you look messages are screaming “be younger, be thinner, be prettier!” Undergoing the knife is a common discussion in my circle of friends — and I’m confident that if we could afford it, we’d all book consultations tomorrow! Some already have. I’m not exactly proud of this, but it is what it is.

I envy those that are fully comfortable in their own skin. I’ve heard women state that at a certain age you reach body-acceptance, even love. Others are vying to cover their bodies in purple ink and be wheeled to the surgical room.

So, what side of the plastic surgery debate are you on — aging gracefully (and surgery free), or getting by with a little, maybe a lot, of help?

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In an effort to set the feminist movement back a hundred years, a strange Botox triangle aims to destroy the spirit of MILFs (muthas I’d like to %$#@) which includes the tutor of Pierce Brosnan’s children, the television pilot for “The Hottest Mom in America” and the pharmaceutical company that sponsors the Botox competition. Apparently, the business of vanity and mammas = law suits. The former celebrity brat tutor is Jessica Denay, who has founded www.hotmomsclub.com (and here I thought she stole the idea from us!) and wrote the book, “The Hot Mom’s handbook: Mom’s Have more Fun!”. She’s whoring branching out from celebrity endorsements to radio and TV shows (who would have ever guessed!). She’s trying to trademark the term, “Hot Mom” and “Hot Moms Club” and feels the show cheapens her branding. (I don’t think it’s the show actually.)

How do you trademark “hot mom” anyway? Does that mean nobody can ever write that again? I never got that…

So, hot moms are suing each other. I hope that it all results in a bunch of bitch slapping, cat fights and girls and men running like girls. Man, MILFs have really sold out.

“Hottest Mom in America” Audition

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