Just Another Blogger Writing About Britney

Do you see this woman? This is a woman who, in the last two years, has given birth twice, been to rehab, been through a divorce, had her love of Cheetos publicly documented, been investigated by Child Protective Services, broken a relationship with her mother, been through countless assistants/manny's/security folk, gobbed up her set of falsies while crying to Matt Lauer, and countless other things that you or I cannot even begin to imagine. Is it her fault? Partly yes. Is she a smart, talented, amazing person, worthy of fascination and adulation? No, not really. You can say lots of things about Britney Spears, but one thing you cannot say is that she is fat. Had I been through all that she has been through in the past two years, I would have to use a crane as my major mode of transport. Hell, I've just been through the "having two kids" part (and even that I've stretched out over 9 years) and I would love to have the body that Britney displayed at the VMA's. Yet when I logged on to my computer this afternoon, ready to read about the news of the world, I was confronted by an article in the San Francisco Chronicle detailing how fat Britney Spears has become, and how this giant, flabby beast has ruined her career, life, and the life of those who happened to see her performance just for being so darn chubby. (Ok, so that's a bit of an exaggeration, but that's the general feeling I get reading the countless articles on the internet written about Ms. Spears' love handles. )

Now, I'll be the first to agree that Britney's outfit was a bit...unforgiving. However, Britney has never been a bastion of class. This is the same girl who writhed around in a chiffon bikini with a snake around her neck. Not exactly Jackie O. So, really, nothing's changed. If you thought she was slutty before she had two children, well, newsflash, folks...she still is. However, if you thought she was hot before she had two children, here's the thing: she still is. I'll admit here for the first time ever: I would give my two eye teeth to look like her. Britney is just hot in a different way now: hot in a decidedly un-17-year-old, grown-up, I-just-had-two-kids-but-I-still-work-out-a-lot-and-have-genes-you-peons-only-dream-about way.

Normally, this kind of thing would not spur me to be angry and write long blog posts in which I defend people who really don't deserve my defense, but tonight I went to a Pizza in the Park event at my daughter's school. This is a yearly event where every kid brings their parents to the park where we sit like some kind of bizarre show and tell and watch our children play. It's excruciating. Perhaps because I am a good 10 years younger than most of the parents there (in some cases, it's more like 20-25), perhaps because I'm very set in my ways as far as how I like to look, work, and raise my children, whatever the reason, I very nearly despise having to sit on a cold blanket in the park, eating greasy pizza and trying to make conversation with some PTA denizen who just spent the workday ironing her son's name into the collar of his polo shirt. Perhaps that sounds cruel, but seriously people, you haven't spent any time with the parents at my daughter's school. Ick. Anyway, tonight, however, I took a good look at the women around me. I was one of the very few working mother's in attendance (we live in a very WASP-y, domestic neighborhood--especially for Norcal). I was also one of the few who had brushed her hair in the last week. Women sat around me wearing misshapen khaki capris (the piece of clothing I'm sure Satan's wife wears in Hell), sweatpants, and Keds (and not the kind you see Mischa Barton modeling--the white canvas ones that God forgot). Normally I would come home and make snide comments about these women to my husband whilst thumbing through Glamour, secretly wishing I had their kind of time, their lack of worries. Tonight, I'm just not in the mood.

And mostly because of Britney. I sat there looking at those women, thinking that their husbands were maybe still in the city, screwing the secretary, and wishing that they didn't have to come home to their white bread life of khaki capris and minivans. Maybe their husbands want someone sexier to return home to. Maybe these wives want to be sexy too, to go to the mall and buy something that fits and model it while feeding their children transfats and throwing caution to the wind. But why would they? Someone who is thinner than them, younger than them, richer than them was on TV last night in a sexy get-up, and everyone calls her fat now. Why would they (why would any of us) want to suffer a similar fate? Through Britney, our society has reminded all the mothers, all the girls, all of us that we're never really going to be good enough. No matter how rich you are, no matter how much weight you lose, no matter how many bags of Cheetos you eschew for rice cakes--you may still be that girl, teetering in her high heels, looking for love and getting a facefull of fat jokes in return.

That sucks. I have no solution to offer, no witty life lesson to share. Our society is telling women horrible things about our bodies, about ourselves, about our fellow women. And it sucks. I hope you think it sucks too.

Reasons to Hate Teenagers

Those of you who know me know that I spend a lot of my time with teenagers. I'm an SAT tutor, so I'm constantly inundated with teenage stress, teenage angst and teenage love. And to tell you the truth, I get along well with teenagers. They seem to like me, they laugh at my jokes, and I understand (perhaps more than their tyrannical parents) how hard it can be to have the whole of your life stretching in front of you, waiting on you to begin.


The one thing I have against teenagers, however, is the way they dress. In my opinion, a lot of teenagers don't understand just how blessed they are. As a teenager, you are at the time of your life where everything is exactly where it should be, and things are clean because your mother wills it so: you haven't yet eaten yourself through freshman year, you haven't yet been forced to forego washing your hair or clothes for a day or three in order to better understand the works of John Milton. As a teenager, it is your duty to dress in a way that celebrates your body, because, well, bitches, it ain't gonna be that way for long. Velour sweatsuits just don't cut it when you look lovely with little to no effort. And no, that doesn't mean I advocate forced mini-skirts for every girl (although, if I was instantly granted the body I had when I was about 14, I would wear nothing but a bathing suit for the rest of my life). There is a tasteful way to show things off.


And my young little nubile ladies, it's name is Abercrombie and Fitch:

See these guys? They want you to pony up the $40 for the Abercrombie logo-ed sweatshirt. And you should. Because when you get to be my age, you're going to want to go to Abercrombie so bad that it freaking hurts, but you won't be able to because you're old, chubby, and your ears smart at the loud music they play. You'll be scared of the manicured, bronzed employees with their artfully torn jeans and gelled hair. But when you're a teenager, you don't have to be scared. You're their bread and butter--you can step into the softcore porn covered walls and smile at the employees and they will help you and not give you the stink eye because you're a size 10, and thus, the fattest thing in the world.

My love of Abercrombie reaches back into my own teenagerdom when I forced my mother to drive me three hours to the West Town Mall in Knoxville, TN to do my back to school shopping because no other mall had my special store. There I would spend child support check after child support check, all on things that had the word "Abercrombie" tatooed over my chest. My mother hated the catalogs and the pornish pictures, but she would stand back and let me spend the money anyway, comforting herself with a Cinnabon and Origins face cream. I remember her buying me a pair of the jeans for Christmas, and how I wore them to various high school sporting events, and felt they were my "lucky jeans" for reasons that went beyond high school sports.

And that is probably why I want this little $60 shirt so freaking much.

And I can't buy it. Because I'm not 16 any more. I'm an old fattie. Sigh.

Damn teenagers. I hope you all get 400's on the SAT.