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.

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

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.

ANYWHO..to my point… At 25, we all start freaking out about age. At 33, I like it’s ridiculous that someone at the age of 25 doesn’t realize how young they are, then again, my girlfriends at 43 keep telling me I don’t realize how young I am… and so on…. and so on. Regardless of the decade  inhabited, we have an embarrassing story with age involved.  Whether someone got our age terribly wrong, we wore something too old or too young or we wet our pants from sneezing … most of us have a funny, embarrassing story attributed to age.

Tell us your story! I’ll sweeten the deal. With the help of  Stephanie Dolgoff, blogger and author of  “My Formerly Hot Life,”  I’m able to offer THREE lucky winners a copy of her book! It launches on August 17th which means.. the winners will be lucky owners of the book as it hits book stores!

Here’s the deal:

1) Submit your story here by August 18th or email your story to lauren@girlyourenotalone.com.  In the “title” or “subject” line please put “Contest - INSERT YOUR STORY TITLE.” **

2)Please keep entries to 700 words max!

3) Please make sure to add your full name, email address and home address at the end of your story to ensure winners receive their books!

4) Winners will be announced Sunday, August 22nd!

5) Share with as many of your friends as possible! Encourage anyone you know with a perplexing age story to SUBMIT! Regardless if your submission makes the Top Three, it is likely to be used for future posts and related GYNA publications.

6) What are you waiting for? Pour yourself a little vino, make a litte ice cream sandwich and start writing your experience! Get it in by August 18th! Don’t worry about grammer/misspellings! It’s the content we care about!

** By sending entry via email, you submit your story to girlyourenotalone.com, and it is understood that your story may be posted on girlyourenotalone.com or any future GYNA publication with no monetary compensation.

Oh…. my… lordy. I read this story from a fellow GYNA Gal, Holly, and busted my button laughing… well, the Big Mac for lunch could have helped with that bursting button…. but let’s just fault laughter by request from my gut and ass. This little story brought me back to the days when I first moved to Chicago and I was so poor, I had to cut and color my own hair. When I finally had the money to go to a professional, she blasted me for two hours about how my last stylist was so bad, they shouldn’t have a job. I kept saying .” I know, she was awful, that’s why I came to you.” That statement was not a lie…. the fact I went to a professional was, but, whatever, I didn’t want to do hair anyway!!

For those of you, and I know there are a ton of you out there, including my mom AND my sister, that have tried to cut your child’s hair, you will love Holly’s little hiccup:

I was recently laid off because of the down economy. My husband and I have been cutting costs in every area possible trying to soften the blow of my salary loss. When I realized my four year-old needed a  haircut, I thought, how hard could it be, I’ll do it myself and save $20. It was a disaster. I kept trying to even out his bangs and I ended up cutting them to his scalp!! He has a huge forward like my husband so he looked like Herman Munster, but with much shorter bangs!! I thought about shaving it, but once I spiked his hair, I THOUGHT it looked okay, until, I dropped him off at preschool and his teacher asked if he had gotten hold of my scissors and cut it himself. I was so embarrassed, I just said, “yes.” 

About a week later, my son brought home a gift certificate to a local salon. I called his teacher to ask where it came from, she said Zach (my son) had told one of the mom’s that we didn’t have money for a haircut so I had to do it myself  and messed up his hair.  The mom felt so bad, she went and got a gift certificate so he could get a good haircut!!! I was mortified, especially because I had let the teacher believe my son had done it and I was caught in a lie! I took my son to my hairdresser, had his head shaved and returned the gift certificate with a “thank you,” and an explanation. If I have to give up cable, I will never skip on a haircut for my kids again!

After drinking two bottles, it landed this woman on a street curb and in the slammer. Lindsay Lohan, if you’re reading this, stay away from the extract, you crazy little jail monkey.  Girl, you’re not alone if you’ve received a DUI from a substance your sweet Grandma uses to make cupcakes.

these kind of pics are not hard to get off the internet...

I’ve heard oodles and oodles of stories where someone sent a text message or email from their phone to the wrong person. Whether it was the next name down or a subliminal selection, it’s not uncommon to do a quick press of “send” then freak out while trying to channel a technical genius to retrieve the message. I’ve done it MANY times. I’ve sent a flirt email that was meant for one guy to an entire distribution list. The embarrassing part is I’m the most terrible flirt on the face of any existing planet, which was broadcasted to about 25 people. I actually digress to an insecure tween when I flirt, saying things like “I’m completely open right now… just waiting for someone to ask me to do something…. what are you doing?” or “bad ass” or “if I were an animal I’d want to a bunny rabbit,”  or “I was the captain of my dance team… in 1995.”

 You’re about to read Kimberly’s story below. This instance is a little heavier than just sending a flirt email to the wrong person.  Poor girl was just trying to bring a little zing back to her marriage… I’m sure she did… just not her marriage. Girl, you’re not alone if you accidentally send a nude photo to your neighbor’s husband.

My husband and I had been going to couple’s counseling. In our last session, our counselor told me I needed to make an extra effort to be spontaneous when it came to our love life. One week, my husband went out of town and I thought I would take that opportunity to be spontaneous. I had recently hired a personal trainer and was feeling great physically so I decided to take a little picture on my phone and send it to my husband. I don’t want to be graphic, but the picture did not include clothing. I took a picture, reviewed it, wrote a sexy message, then selected his name from my address book and pressed “send.” In the midst of pressing the send button, I realized something. I wasn’t sending the nude picture to my husband Dan, I was sending it to my neighbor Dan. In my state of horror, I pressed every button imaginable to cancel the picture and even ripped out the battery hoping to kill the message. It didn’t. I immediately called my husband to tell him what happened and before I could get off the phone, Dan’s wife called. I didn’t give her the chance to speak.  I blurted the story and offered to conference in my husband to confirm my story. I even told her our marriage issues and how I was taking our counselor’s advice. Worse, I told her how long it had been since we had sex. I kept talking nonstop to soften the issue. I’d never been so petrified in my life. The story was eventually straightened out, but it was still awkward at the end of the call.

After a few weeks of dodging our neighbors, my husband invited them over for dinner. It was so uncomfortable at first with ridiculous small talk. My husband finally proposed a toast to break the ice, “Here’s to everyone at this table seeing a hot naked picture of my wife ……except me.”  We all laughed and made jokes, but I’ll never take another nude picture again to save my life… or my marriage.

Stephanie Dolgoff, blogger and author of  “My Formerly Hot Life,”  posted my story on her blog last Friday about a business associate that guessed my age a WHOLE YEAR older than I am. C’mon, ladies, we all know, especially when we get into our 30’s and older, that we want to look younger. I was convinced that I looked 27. Hell, when I’m glossed up rocki’ a cute headband, I would swear up and down I should be on “Gossip Girl.” That is, until this unnamed associate had me sprinting to the bathroom mirror and realizing all the sun damage on my forehead. At the end of my 15 minute session of finding every flaw on my face, I was convinced I was Courtney Love’s twin when she emerged from rehab last year.  

Anywho… the moral of this story is… when you’re over the age of 27, don’t let anyone guess your age.  Click here to read the rest of the story!