We’re Just Like You, Only Prettier

by Celia Rivenbark

  As her time drew near, I felt I had to tell Amy the truth about unrealistic birth plans.

  My own, highly realistic birth plan worked splendidly. The unwritten part was that I had purposely fattened my baby up like a Christmas turkey so I’d have to have a C-section (so much more civilized than all that screaming and carrying on).

  The plan worked to perfection. On the appointed day, I waddled to the hospital and settled into my pillows, a fabulous epidural coursing through my spine, and (natch) Days of Our Lives on the overhead TV. It was positively magical.

  I knew that my baby was going to be big. This much had been assured by twice-daily trips to Hardee’s for chocolate twist-T cones and double cheeseburgers. What I didn’t expect was that everybody in the hospital, including, I suspect, some of the janitorial staff and grounds crew, would step into the room, put on a rubber glove, root around in my naughty bits, and announce, “Whew! That’s a big baby!”

  I just shooed them all away because Stefano was right in the midst of unveiling an evil plan to clone John Black’s baby and plant a love-inducing microchip in the brain of Salem’s most esteemed Dr. Marlena Evans to win her back.

  After a while, I was flapping my knees open for the frikkin’ florist. I didn’t care. Just let me watch my soaps. “Right,” I’d mumble. “Big baby. Got it.” (Delivery guy: “Whoa, lady, put that away. It’s just a trailing philodendron.”)

  I don’t know why everyone seemed so surprised at the size of my baby. That’s why they call it a birth plan, right?

  And, baby, everything was going according to plan. As planned, the Bulls clinched their third championship just after midnight and the doc turned to me and my hubby. “Ready?”

  “Well, Jordan’s gonna say some stuff in the post-game I’d like to hear,” said my husband.

  To tell the truth, we all wanted to hear what Mike had to say. I mean, it was a three-peat.

  A half hour later, we were in the operating room and the doc was asking my hubby if he’d like to “come on down” like he was on The Price Is Right or something. Hubby blanched, then looked at me to be the heavy. Which was easy since I was in the final moments of weighing the rough equivalent of a PT Cruiser.

  Come on down? The drugs were so good almost nothing could bother me. Except for the thought that my husband would see my intestines sitting around like a wriggling plate of pasta while the doc dived in for baby.

  So, no. Hubby sat beside my head, where he belonged and where we could turn to one another in utter disbelief when we first heard a weird and wonderful “Waaaaahhhh” and a nurse was handing us a nearly ten-pound bundle of baby girl type person. Name of Sophie.

  For the next three days, I thought I was in heaven. Every meal came with a strawberry milkshake, for reasons I never understood. I had the horrible feeling that I might have been getting the wrong tray, the one that was supposed to go up to the Calista Flockhart ward.

  After we got home (there was a one-day delay owing to the hospital’s odd obsession with my inability to “pass gas,” which hubby uncharitably joked had “never been much of a problem before,” yuk, yuk, yuk) we settled into that whole baby-makes-three thing.

  We quickly discovered that everyone had the same question for us: “Is she a good baby?”

  This question, repeated for the entire first year of Soph’s life, never failed to puzzle me. A good baby? Hell, how would I know? After a while, I just settled on the smart-ass default: “Oh, she’s awful! We’re thinking of sending her back before the warranty expires. Honey! Check that expiration again so we don’t miss the deadline.”

  A good baby? What does that mean?

  The other dumber-than-a-box-of-rocks question was “Are you getting much sleep?”

  Sure, I am. I’ve always snored with my eyes wide open in the post office and worn my shorts inside out; why do you ask?

  In the end, we made it through that first year with the help of Nick at Nite nurse-a-thons. The plus side of breast-feeding was that it reunited me with my old crush, Chachi, still young and handsome in those 2:00

  A.M. reruns.

  Because my pregnancy coincided with that of beloved frontier doctor Jane Seymour’s, I felt we had a special bond when she, and her twin boys, became Gerber spokesmodels.

  There were the robust twins dutifully eating their mushy food from a jar and so was Sophie. We parted company, though, when I realized that Jane Seymour’s twins were still peddling Gerber graduates and Soph was already into T-bones. While Jane kept yammering about the importance of not rushing into, well, people food, Soph and I were pointing at the twins and hooting. What three-year-old eats jars of cold carrot cubes?

  It was as hard to swallow as those god-awful “meat fingers” the twins were supposed to be thriving on. Mercifully, Jane’s Gerber contract must’ve expired because the twins disappeared around age four, presumably mad as hell that they’d missed all those Happy Meals.

  Once you’re in the toddler years, there’s a new stupid question: “Is it potty-trained yet?” I say “it” because there’s no clinical evidence that a two-year-old is human, but rather has been temporarily possessed by demons that respond only to the siren song of the God of All Creation: Chuck E. Cheese.

  The playground moms began to compare notes on potty-training progress but I felt this was silly. I thought a child should progress at her own pace, not some so-called pediatrician’s.

  In other words, I didn’t have a clue.

  I rented potty-training videos and checked out library books including the classic, Everyone Poops, and others by Dr. William Sears and Dr. T. Berry Brazelton, who disagreed on everything.

  Dr. Sears thinks parents should get in there and get those kids pooping in a pot. Dr. Brazelton, the soft-spoken flower child of parenting, thinks that if your kid wants to wear diapers to his prom, no biggie. This man is so unflappable you could draw on his office walls with a set of Sharpies and he’d just smile, and say, “Aren’t kids creative?” Makes me want to slap him upside his head.

  Some of my mom-friends gave reward stickers for each time their kid went potty but I don’t think a kid should be taught that the simple act of peeing deserves a prize. What’s next? A new bike for agreeing to breathe all day?

  I told Amy all this and she looked a bit pale.

  Her birth plan fluttered to the floor and she didn’t even notice.

  “Remember,” I said in my most comforting and motherly Sharon Osbourne tone, “that which does not kill us merely maims us.”

  Or something like that.

  Part 4:

  THE SOUTHERN

  Woman

  The Truth? We’re Just Like You, Only Prettier

  1

  SCIENTISTS DISCOVER

  Fat Virus!

  How I Went from Diet, Exercise, and Giving a Shit to Gnawing 99¢ Turkey Legs at the Stop-n-Go

  I can’t put it off any longer, this search for the Perfect Swimsuit. Vacation is looming and there’s just no way I’m going to wear gym shorts in the pool again this year. Children can be so cruel.

  So, here’s the dilemma: Do I want the basic maillot, the “tankini” (a bikini for tanks), a high-neck, or low-neck? An ombre bubble or a batik with side panel slenderizers? A ribbed faille two-piece or a zipper tank in color block?

  Experts say that the key to successful swimsuit shopping—aside from laying off the Coronas during the winter months—is to determine your correct body shape.

  Are you a “triangle,” “circle,” “rectangle,” or “inverted triangle,” for instance? They say you are what you eat, so I believe I’m more of a “lasagne.”

  Once you’ve established that, you can immediately proceed to the swimsuit department of your favorite store, where you will discover that they only sell suits for “straight lines” on account of most swimsuit manufacturers are designing strictly for Courteney Cox Arquette after a busy morning of bingeing and purging.

  And while we’re on the subject, why don’t any of the big stars have a butt
anymore? Have they been surgically removed? Meg Ryan used to have a butt; now she just sits on a couple of sticks. Same with Jennifer Aniston. Did they just wake up one morning and go, “Holy shit! Where’s my butt?” Call the butt police and put out an APB (all pointy-butted).

  This year they’ve tossed those of us shaped more like Camryn Manheim a bone in the form of the ultra-trendy “pareo,” a color-coordinated scarf thingy that you wear over your swimsuit to disguise figure flaws and dress up a bit for poolside parties.

  The pareo looks terrific until you decide to go in the water. That’s when you sheepishly peel it off, drape it over your chaise, and hear the audible gasps from your friends. (“Pssst! Fat Woman Walking!”)

  Once you’ve selected a few swimsuit possibilities, you can go to the dressing room where you will, no doubt, find that the only available cubicle is right beside two giggling fifteen-year-old Brit-nees who weigh approximately ninety-seven pounds apiece. Sooner or later, they will take off their little Barbie clothes and squeal things like: “Ohmigod! Can you believe these thunder thighs?” to each other. I’d like to kill ’em in their sleep.

  All this has the effect of keeping you from ever leaving the dressing room to make that long walk of shame toward the larger, actually useful three-way mirror down the hall.

  Swimsuit shopping this year has been particularly crappy because, well, I’ve gained a few el-bees. I was getting pretty pissed about it all until I read about a study reported in the International Journal of Obesity (circulation 55,000, but it seems like more) that found a “fat virus.”

  Turns out, the Adenovirus 36, a fairly common human virus, was injected into lab rats “just for kicks” and, almost immediately, the rats’ body fat actually doubled.

  I’m imagining the rats were plenty cheesed about this, forced to cancel summer plans to loll about in little ratkinis while looking happily bored at some hotel’s lazy river.

  I know I’ve got the fat virus and I can even tell you when I got it. I distinctly remember standing in front of the Ben & Jerry’s section at the grocery store last March when a very large man sneezed on me. It was one of those big, fat-guy sneezes where he goes “Yeaaah boy!” when he’s done.

  And speaking of overweight men, have y’all noticed how more men are whining about weight loss?

  My husband, who is not overweight but thinks he is, recently spent most of our couples’ night out discussing the fat gram contents of various breakfast cereals with his buddy.

  Buddy’s wife and I sat there and talked about the Panthers’ chances this season. No, what I meant to say was we sat there in amazement. Is this what we have sounded like all these years and, if so, why didn’t y’all tell us to shut up?

  Men have discovered dieting and, trust me, it’s not a good thing. Lately, my husband has taken to asking me if “these pants make my ass look too big.” Coming from a man who has never worn a single item of clothing that wasn’t bought for him by his mother, sisters, or me, this is scarier than spray-on hair.

  When his college chum called my hubby from his new job in Australia the other night, there was a cursory discussion of college football followed by a long and obsessive counseling session about muscle-to-fat ratios, the perfect workout, and, yes, the fat content of salad dressings, which, my husband pointed out from a world away, could torpedo a perfectly nutritious salad.

  Pod person, release my husband. He has morphed into a fifteen-year-old girl in an afterschool special, the one where you know her bulimic best friend’s going to croak and she’ll survive, barely, only to be beat up by her boyfriend over on Lifetime—Television for Women someday.

  Men, if they’re determined to keep up this diet talk, have a lot of catching up to do. When I hear a bunch of ’em sitting in a sports bar discussing the miracle cabbage soup diet, then I’ll accept that, yes, men are the new women.

  (The only miracle in that diet, by the way, is that your intestines don’t technically explode; they just toy with the notion.)

  We are thiiiiss close to hearing men elbow each other, and hiss, “Ever since Bob and Susie got married, he has just let himself go!”

  It all makes me rather nostalgic for the men who used to strut the beach, nekkid Buddha belly spilling over their trunks, and not a care in the world.

  “Uh!” I can imagine hubby saying. “Can you believe he walked out of the house wearing that?”

  The fat virus theory should appeal to men dieters, too. Face it: It’s far more desirable to think your weight gain is caused by a virus than a distressing tendency to order the Tex-Mex Tower o’ Appetizers at Friday’s and eat it all by yourself. (“Hmm? The rest of my party? Oh, they should be here any minute.” Gnaw, crunch, burp.)

  The way I see it, this fat virus gives me carte blanche (French for “white car”) to eat anything and everything. Even a white car.

  No more embarrassment about paying for a gym membership and never showing up. Why bother? People, I am ill. No more need for creative excuses for not exercising (bad armpit hair day, allergy to hair “scrunchies” favored by perky aerobics instructors, etc.).

  As I pondered this in my new pareo, I resolved to call my friend Pam, who is obsessed with fad diets, and let her in on the great news. Lately she’s been drinking a powdered batwing extract she mixes with diet Coke. She hasn’t lost an ounce but her night vision is terrific.

  The fat virus study found that up to 30 percent of overweight people are suffering from the virus. Oh, Lordy, give us a telethon! We can all waddle to the center court at the mall, eat butter-drenched pretzels, and beg for bucks.

  Researchers are saying now that they need more study before they can decide whether it will be possible to develop a vaccine against the fat virus.

  I hope they don’t. I got a lot of skinny, great-looking friends I plan to sneeze on.

  Once the vaccine kicks in, it will end the careers of some famous former fatties. Remember Monica Lewinsky as spokesman for Jenny Craig? (“I used to seduce world leaders in inappropriate places but ever since I lost thirty-one pounds with Jenny Craig, I date nice, normal boys my own age, drink sugar-free hot cocoa, and watch old movies for fun!”)

  Face it, the retooled, svelte Monica is so damned wholesome she could land a spot on The Waltons if it was still on TV. (Possible TV Guide synopsis: “A reformed D.C. strumpet visits Walton’s Mountain, causing Ma and Pa to fret that John Boy will become John Man.”)

  And let’s not forget Fergie. One minute the Duchess of York was splashed across the tabloids in grainy photos showing her cavorting topless with some creepy Austin Powers–looking rich dude and, next thing you know, she’s discovered Weight Watchers and busies herself visiting war orphans and writing sweet children’s books about talking helicopters.

  The message seems clear: lose twenty pounds and say good-bye forever to ho-dom!

  Don’t get me wrong. Bravo for anybody trying to rebuild their ruined little life, but must they do it so publicly, as though the rest of us need to remake ourselves in their image? Listen. We got fat-making meat loaf for our families, not getting our toes sucked in exotic ports o’ call, or giving hummers in high places, am I right?

  As if the fat virus wasn’t enough great news, Pam told me (while hanging upside down in her living room) that she just learned about a study that proves that people can increase muscle power by simply “visualizing themselves doing exercise.”

  After she told me this, I practically burned rubber driving to the “Why” to cancel my membership. When they pointed out that I’d have to pay a couple of hundred bucks if I ever rejoined, I just laughed at them, pressed my fingertips to my temples, and visualized about seven and a half pounds off my jigglypuff thighs.

  Adios batwing arms and a lower stomach that hasn’t recovered since pregnancy. What is with that, anyway? You do those stupid crunches all morning and your lower stomach just laughs at you and slides on down the hall toward the showers. Gravity has hit your stomach so bad since pregnancy that small children ask if they can sit
on a burlap sack and slide down to your feet.

  But with the new visualization technique, swimsuit shopping and exercise will be fun again. Farewell elliptical trainer, kickboxing class, and “fitness ball.” I’m going to have a very large and very foamy full-fat double belly-busting latte while I close my eyes and visualize an entire Pilates class.

  Whoa. Imaginary sweat is falling from my brow already. This is fabulous!

  Pam called me later to tell me that she’d read a follow-up in which the researcher insisted that the visualization technique wasn’t “just an excuse for every fitness-loathing barnacle seeking to justify a movement-free lifestyle.”

  Well, ouch, dude.

  You opened the Pandora’s box of possibilities, my friend, and I’m buying. Do you imagine that the inventor of the toothbrush ever wanted us to go back to scraping our gums with tree bark?

  Enough said. It’s nearly time for my imaginary Tae Bo class. I really must lie down.

  2

  I DRUM ’EM ON MY DESK

  and They Click Like a Poodle on Pergo

  The Dirty Little Secret of Manicure Addiction and Other American Beauty Rituals

  We women are always looking for the one product or process that will transform us into the beautiful creatures we are ’sposed to be. And that, hons, is how I got addicted to manicures.

  It started innocently enough as a special-occasion set of acrylic nails for my first book signing. Knowing I would be on TV later that day, I was nervous as a hen on a hot griddle, desperate for a confidence booster.

  The truth was, I wasn’t used to being out in the working world. Marketing? Promotions? Book signings and talking to grown-ups? I’d given up my job at the newspaper where I’d worked for twelve years to stay home with my kid. I was used to hanging around the house talking to toddlers. Would I be able to bluff my way through acting like a grown-up again after so many years of watching, hell, enjoying the Tellytubbies?