Over and over again my, “You’re Not Alone,” theory is proven!!  I’m a genius I tell you, sheer genius!! You may have an embarrassing moment, but someone out there is eating a gallon of ice cream with their eyes closed because of a kindred pain. I eat a gallon of ice cream simply because I know someone is feeling pain over embarrassment and I want to be supportive. So…. my cottage cheese ass is all your faults… but, apology accepted… I’m just a good person.

Most of us, feel embarrassment from an encumbering moment almost immediately…. we find ourselves running to the computer, going to THIS website, searching through the archives for a similar incident to laugh and find instant solace. OKAY - I made up the last part, but I’m trying to brainwash you to come to this website everytime you’re embarrassed!! 

However, some of us have a delayed reaction by, let’s say, I don’t know…. 5 to 10 years…. but the rest of the world sees it and winces for the victim of denial.

CASE IN POINT: the different varieties of  “The Real Housewives.”  For some reason, a few of them believe being featured on reality TV magically gives them the ability to sing and dance. I have no doubt, well….. I do have doubt, but I also have hope…. that one day in the future they will look back, see these videos,  then lock themselves in a closet for a week.  WHEN this day happens… they can rest assured… Reality Star That Made an Ass of Yourself, YOU ARE NOT ALONE!! You have each other!! I propose a reunion where you get together, burn your singles and hug it out while sipping champagne because you’re born-again classy.  Please refer to the below Exhibits for evidence…

Exhibit A: Kim Zolciak from “Real Housewives of Atlanta”

 

Exhibit B: Countess LuAnn from “Real Housewives of New York”

Exhibit C: Danielle Staub “Real Housewives of New Jersey”

Girl, you’re not alone if having a bitch moment isn’t just an attitude… it’s a freakin result!!  A result of all the things, as women, we juggle everyday with more items on our TO DO list than minutes in a day.  I’m single with no children.  I struggle with just my sole commitments.  I faint at the thought of throwing a husband and children into that mix………………… okay, sorry, I just did it…. I fainted. I’m still on the floor… I’m typing from the floor with one hand because I can’t get up from the thought of adding other people to my plate…. wait… I fainted again. Please call 911 and send a hot EMT with a bottle of vodka.

I don’t know how you mothers do it!!  Red boots and invisible planes for all of you Wonder Women!! I actually have a Lasso of Truth and gold bracelets in transit to a fellow GYNA gal, Johanna. After a 15-hour day of hell, she sent the below post. I love the phrase she used, “Bitch Holiday.” Hang in there, Johanna and by all means, get your bitch on… but make sure you’re wearing stilettos!

Why is it that when you’re in a bad mood, people ask, “whats’ wrong?” or “is everything okay?” I mean, if you are in a bad mood, doesn’t that tell you that “something” is wrong or that “No, everything is not okay?”  Why can’t I just be in a bad mood, just to be in a bad mood? Maybe, I just want to be cranky and bitchy, or maybe, I just woke up not wanting to put up with shit.

Let’s see, got up at 6am, I rush take a shower and wake up the baby. I then feed, change him and go straight to daycare. I rush again, try to beat traffic on the I-495 only to inch my way to work.  While I’m inching my way to work, my company cell phone rings, one of my staff called out last minute.  Phone rings again, my boss looking for paperwork I submitted 5 days ago. 10am - walk into my office and rush to grab a cup of coffee, only to find there is no coffee. Why couldn’t the last person that made coffee, get some more coffee!!

11:30am - reviewing reports while answering calls when, I pull out my pen from my bag only to find a liquidity jelly-like substance on my hand and oh, now on my shirt. The pen exploded. WTF! Whatever! I then go for a break with my left-eye twitching from coffee withdrawals. I drive up to 7-11 to grab some coffee and a sandwich, “15 minutes miss, coffee coming fresh” My first thought, “give me a shot of whiskey instead, please.”  After I finally grab coffee, my husband, Lou, calls to ask about my day…… he really wanted to know if I was making something for dinner.  Since I am a good dutiful wife, I always have last minute dinners for those hectic days. Tonight, ham and cheese sandwiches, potato chips and  kool-aid.

Back to work, my boss calling again for paperwork, which again, I submitted a week ago.  “Please fax them again” he says.  “Sure”, I respond.  Fax machine “Out of Order.”  Okay, thats’ it!! UGH!! I’m back in my car, driving him another copy of the report I already submitted.   I get there, and he says, “Oh, thanks, but I found them.”  WTF? “Is everything okay?” he asks, I’m sure I appeared a little agitated. I leave, back in my car and into traffic.

My phone rings, daycare is calling. Tired and hungry, as I still didn’t eat the chicken sandwich snuggled in my bag, I’m now rushing to pick up Franco from daycare as he is not feeling well. I pick him up, he is crying. I put him in his car seat and I call Lou and his doctor. Finally, I see Lou waiting for me as I pull up to his pediatrician’s office. He takes the baby out the car, he is still crying, and hands him over to me so he can get his diaper bag. I hear gurgling sounds and feel some hot liquid on my breasts.  Okay, where is the liquor store!!!! I now have vomit in between my breast and I smell like a rotting mouse. I go into the my pediatrician’s office when I see eyes of disgust on me. Like these people have never had vomit on them before!  I try to clean myself up with little resources then wait in the waiting area. “What’s wrong?” Lou whispers.  I just take a deep breath and blankly stare at him. 6:30pm - Franco is fine, just a stomach bug. Give him liquids, liquids and oh, more liquids.

Finally, home and I see the mess, boxes and crap everywhere. We are moving next week.  I shower and pop a bottle of apple juice in Franco’s mouth. Next, Sandwiches and potato chips for Lou. I now begin to pack boxes. Lou helps but, takes a lot of breaks in between. 9pm - exhausted. I finish the last of the boxes only to find, that I need more boxes. I go into the bedroom to see if Lou is finished but, find him and Franco are asleep.

So, now I sit here writing this post, wondering why people question our mood, our “bitchiness,” as if they didn’t know!  Most likely we are bitchy because we are tired, sleep deprived and overwhelmed. We get up, and as women, mothers, wives, run around all day to make sure everything and everyone is taken care of.  Are we not allowed to have a bitch fest here and there? Are we not allowed to roll our eyes, grunt, yell, scream or take a stiff drink when the situation calls for it?

Tonight, right now, I embrace my bitchy side. So, on those days I don’t feel like enduring all of this, well, that is my Bitch Holiday.  I’m entitled to be a “bitch” when I want to!

As a side job, I’m a freelance makeup artist. I’m currently doing makeup for an artsy fashion show. Last night, I met with the team designing the garment and we started discussing the makeup they wanted to achieve. The model wasn’t able to come to the meeting so they were concerned I wouldn’t capture their vision. Here’s how the conversation went:

Heidi -  So are you good with what we’re wanting on the makeup?

Me - No problem. I’ll play around with some ideas before the show.

Heidi - Well, how will you do that if the model isn’t around?

Me - Oh, I really don’t need the model initially, I’ll just play with myself… I do it all the time.

silence..

CENTRAL NERVOUS SYSTEM, SOME HELP….PLEASE!!!! For the love of no filter! What I meant was, “I’ll experiment with the makeup on my own face before I do a run-through with the model.”  Because I blab before braining, I communicated that I would just masturbate until I met the model. I guess every artist has their own way of  procreating brilliance.

I  have no doubt she knew what I really meant, but it’s just embarrassing that I couldn’t mold my thought into an intelligent reply. My slips are always sexual implications to strangers or clients, rarely to friends or family that would dismiss it as a Lauren Moment. Ahh…. Freud.. I am the poster child of your life’s work.

Some ladies want extensions in their hair. I want extensions on my bills. Maternity leave. Vacation. Credit limits. Leases. The amount of time the hot guy at the gym helps adjust weight on the arm machine with his rock hard chest pressed against our back… ahh…so many things we want extended with no control. BUT…. today, I do have control over an extension…. the “Age She’s Such a Beotch” Story Contest!!

I’ve gotten emails asking for stories to be accepted after August 18th, which was the original due date.  Ask and you shall receive,  ladies!! Wish granted! The new deadline to get those stories in is September 1st! Please click the image below for all the details.

The best part of submitting your embarrassing stories about aging is the chance to win one of  THREE copies of A “My Formerly Hot Life,” by Stephanie Dolgoff which launched TODAY!!!  It’s already getting love from the media - Stephanie was on the Today Show, this morning. Click on the video below to view.

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Breasts…. we have them… we buy them….. we hate them…. we envy them….. we flash them….  There’s a lot of emotion when it comes to breasts. The worst is when they take over.  They’re not just two rolling hills of flesh and fat, oh no, there is a little brain in each one. A brain that sometimes can be rebellious and make the girls just BUST OUT of their little fabric-button-secured homes when they’re grounded. Otherwise, we wouldn’t put them in a fabric/button jail… we would free them and flaunt them. Those little devils!! My fellow blogger friend of Dating Experiences of a Woman in Hollywood  recently had a motorcycle adventure with a hottie, and the girls came along….uninvited!! Let’s read about her breasts together, shall we?

Whenever Julian works out at the Hollywood YMCA, every guy at the gym turns to look at him because he has perfectly shaped, muscular arms. He’s probably in his late 30s, has thick dark hair, baby blue eyes, a straight nose and full lips. I’ve often sat on the leg machine and lost count of my reps, watching Julian pump iron, fantasizing about dating a man with arms like his and what it would feel like to have them wrapped around me.

One day after spin class, I was in the weight room, when Julian approached and offered to show me the proper way to do tricep curls.  “If people knew the proper way of lifting weights, they would be in much better shape,” he said. “See this muscle line here in your arm…” His voice trailed off.  I had no idea what he was saying after I stood up and noticed how handsome he is.  His eyelashes are unfairly long, his olive skin is flawless and just the slightest bit of hair was visible on his hard chest, beneath his v-neck t-shirt. 

“You’re not interested at all in what I’m saying, are you?” he laughed.  I snapped back to attention.  “I’m sorry.  My mind traveled somewhere else for a second.”   “I used to live around the corner from you,” he said.  “About ten years ago.  I remember you because you rode a motorcycle.”  “I sold that bike after I wiped out in Laurel Canyon,” I told him.  “I haven’t been on one since.  “I have my Harley parked out front,” Julian said. “Do you want to go for a ride and get a coffee?”  He was asking me out?! “Ok, let me take a shower and I’ll meet you in 15 minutes.”

After I finished showering, I slid on my jeans, pulled on my sleeveless, cotton shirt that buttoned up the front, and hoped it wasn’t too obvious I wasn’t wearing a bra.  When I met Julian out front, he handed me the keys to his bike.  “Why don’t you drive?” he said.  I had not been on a bike since my spill and didn’t want to any chances wrecking his pristine Harley.  “Don’t worry, I’ll totally help you.”  He handed me a helmet and I took the keys, tucked in my shirt and climbed on. Julian eased in behind me.  I anticipated his arms wrapping around me, but he just placed his hands on my hips.  I started up the engine, took a deep breath and pulled away from the curb.

It was 75 degrees outside, sunny and I was making every green light.  The hair that spilled out from under the helmet whipped around in the wind and my clothes flapped against my skin.  As we continued along, I noticed the pedestrians on the street turning their heads and pointing at us.  I leaned back and shouted to Julian, “Why is everyone pointing?” I asked.  “Because it’s a chick on a bike,” he said.  I have seen plenty of women riding bikes and never saw heads turning and fingers pointing like they did that day.  But I ignored it.  I was too happy! I had finally gotten over my fear of riding again, thanks to Julian.  I made it through three more green lights before hitting a stop sign and downshifting.  I put my feet on the ground and turned back toward Julian, “I’m so glad we did this!”  But Julian said nothing.  His face was bright red, his mouth agape, and he was staring at my chest.  “What’s the matter?” I asked, glancing down, following his line of sight.  My shirt had blown wide open and I had just driven down Franklin Avenue for approximately three miles on a motorcycle with my breasts completely exposed!!!!

I haven’t seen Julian since that day.