Lady Midlife Crisis (Strong enough for a man. Made for a woman.)

I accidentally went shopping today. Well, I meant to go grocery shopping, but the fancypants HEB is surrounded by boutiques, just like impulse items at the register—the gum and trashy magazines of stripmalls.

Suddenly, I’m thinking, “Why, yes, I do need some expensive paper” and “I should probably just look at the sale dresses” and “Holy shit, there’s an Origins here? TWO free samples with a purchase of $55 or more!? Yes, please.”

Actually, I made that last one up. I mean, they really had a sign that said that, but I am a total cheapskate when it comes to beauty products. I am more of an N.Y.C. section of Walgreens kinda girl. If any one item costs more than $10, I’m splurging.

Intellectually, I know that this is one area where I should not skimp. Aside from the cocktail of chemicals in most brand-name makeup, they still rub mascara in rabbits’ eyes and shit, don’t they?

(Just writing that makes me never want to give those fuckers one more cent.)

Which brings me to my point: I don’t want cheap things anymore. I want sturdy, well-built things. I want to grow herbs in little pots. I want to go to dinner parties. I want to eat, pray, and love.

But I don’t want to read that book. I tried, but I couldn’t get into it. Maybe because I don’t have a buttload of money and all the time in the world. If I did, I would have been reading that thing like the fucking bible. I saw the movie. James Franco looked a little bloaty. Javier Bardem? Rawr. And who should play the protagonist? Why, Julia Roberts, of course.

Which reminds me of this exchange that took place once among my BFFs:

S: “I don’t like anything Benjamin Bratt has been in.”

H: “You mean like Julia Roberts?”

You probably had to have been an avid reader of People magazine in 2001 to get that joke. You would have to know that Benjamin Bratt and Julia Roberts were a couple for a while. And that there was once a guy who was kinda famous named Benjamin Bratt.

You might further remember that Julia Roberts was kind of a whore. She married Lyle Lovett and almost married Keifer Sutherland, whom she left for his friend, Jason “hottest guy to ever have a mullet” Patric.

(Not in this picture, where they appear to have gone to the same stylist.)

The point is, I think I’m growing up. Just as Julia finally settled down with a cameraman, stopped playing trashy sluts with hearts of gold and started playing plain old rich white ladies (with hearts of gold), I am entering a new phase of my life.

That’s right. I’m getting my groove back.

Just hopefully not with a gay dude.

re: my Vanity Fair photo shoot

Dear Annie Leibovitz, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job.

Am I a world-renowned photographer with major gallery retrospectives, books, and a Clio award, who has taken pictures of every major celebrity in the past 30 years? No. You are.

Did I shoot the iconic last photograph of John Lennon curled up naked around Yoko Ono just five hours before he was shot? No. You did.

So these are JUST suggestions.

Option 1: Girl, Interrupted

“Oh, hey. Haha. I didn’t hear you come in… ”

Sure, it’s been done before, but it’s a classic. All we will need is a blow-out and some kind of very expensive evening wear that looks like one of Donald Trump’s bedsheets. I’m thinking maybe Vera Wang? I suppose we could also use an actual sheet, but I don’t want to look whorey. I want to look like I am just getting up off the floor after having hot animal sex with my baby-daddy. And my hair is still perfect.

Option 2: Pocahotness

I recently started working out. Nothing crazy, but you know, free weights, cycling, hitting the Precor. I’m thinking maybe a full-body action shot (tastefully done, of course) to nonchalantely emphasize my muscle tone under the guise of an historical or literary theme? Laura Ingalls Wilder running down the hill like in the opening of Little House on the Prairie, but in some kind of super-thin cotton dress? A slutty Sacagewea standing on a canoe, pointing toward the horizon? I don’t know, I’m just spit-balling here. Cleopatra didn’t wear a lot of clothes, right?

Option 3: Ice me up

I’m assuming you can probably borrow whatever you want from Harry Winston and shit.

I’m not really a jewelry person, but you know, this isn’t about me. This is about giving the people what they want. And people love the bling, yo. I’m just saying. I know I’m not super famous or anything, but shit, they lend jewels to like tertiary characters on Glee for the People’s Choice Awards. And this will just be one little studio photo shoot, and far less chance that one of the earrings will end up at the bottom of Wilmer Valderrama’s pool.

Option 4: Two words: Sexy. Clown.

So, I guess I’ll just wait to hear back from you, then. Take care.