I recently realized that I have way more in common with Playboy Playmates than previously thought.
For instance, I too live with my 199 year old boyfriend in a giant mansion with two other carbon copies of myself and frolick in the master bedroom wearing a bikini made of locally grown citrus rinds while Yanni plays mood music via pan flute in the background.
Oh. Wait a minute That’s not right.
Um. Let me try that again.
Much like a centerfold, I also have giant fake boobies you could bounce office furniture off of and a closetful of size 2 designer jeans for when I’m feeling fat and frumpy.
Oops! That’s not it either!
Hmmmm. Let’s see.
Well, I do have some bunny ears laying around somewhere, though they’re probably still coverd in leftover dried macoroni and cheese from the time Superman refused to take them off and wore them to the dinner table then fell asleep, ears first, in his food bowl.
But that counts, right?
Clearly, I am making a point here. And that is that it is difficult to wash dried mac and cheese out of bunny ear headbands.
So maybe there are a few slight differences between a Playmate and me, but nothing too noticeable.
I especially feel in tune with Kendra, the ex-girlfriend of Hugh Hefner turned-NFL-Wife-and-Mommy. She has her own show and though I never thought I would hear myself say this about a woman who posed nude in magazines and did all sorts of icky stuff with a geriatric pervert, I totally get her.
Because once Kendra left the Playboy mansion, got pregnant and married (clearly we share the same misunderstanding of the whole “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage) and gave birth to her son, this wild party girl stopped being a blonde bimbo with a shiny stripper pole in her living room and became a bloated, sniffling, emotional, madly-in-love, protective, confused, hungry, exhausted mommy.
Just like me.
So despite having an assistant, living in a mini-mansion, gracing the cover of OK magazine each week, and having a Target budget I can only dream of and disgustingly drool over (i’m talking large quantities of spit here), when this woman coos at her son, blows rasberry kisses on his belly, and promises him the world as he lays sleeping in her arms, I am perfectly in synch with what she is going through.
Because brazillian wax or not, a mother’s crazy love for her child and the subsequent emotional roller coaster of parenting, is pretty darn universal.
Plus, it sort of makes me happy to think that underneath those giant size two jeans, there may be a stretch mark or two. You know, as a sign of unity.
So let me know Kendra, if you need someone to talk to about postpartum depression, playground bullies, and how to sneak veggies into dessert.
And if I’m ever in the market for a uh, lesson on the proper techniques of dating an
corpse older man and flashing girlie parts at a stranger’s camera, I’ll know who to call.