Dear Vincent D’Onofrio,
I fell for you when I was a crazy pregnant loon, and I learned that plugging myself into the television ensured that I wouldn’t pick a fight with anyone over the ugly light fixtures in the kitchen or my inability to move without waddling.
I endured many criticisms over our love, darling Vincent, mainly from my friends who couldn’t possibly understand what I saw in a slightly round actor almost as old as my father. They showed me pictures of you as Sgt. Pyle (which was a terrible name. Did you know that the Brits call hemorrhoids “piles”? You should have negotiated for a better name when you took that role. I’m just saying.) and as the bug from Men In Black, and I let it roll off my back like so many drops of water into the ocean of our love.
As an avid People reader, I was shocked to learn that not only are you married, but your wife is having a baby. YOU ARE HAVING A BABY WITHOUT ME, and I don’t appreciate that one teeny bit, Vincent. Sure, we’ve never actually ‘met,’ but that shouldn’t have stopped you from pining for some anonymous, but fabulous, Midwestern girl (with bonus kicky hair!), AND NOT KNOCKING SOME OTHER LADY UP!
How COULD YOU?
I mourned our lost love for a couple of weeks, in between arranging my socks and shaving my cats, before I made the acquaintance of a new television boyfriend: Anthony Bourdain.
Okay, okay, so I am not a cook. Maybe I’m even an “anti-cook,” I can hear you laugh, my favorite recipe being “shamelessly order takeout.” In fact, 99% of the things my new boyfriend eats with gusto, I wouldn’t be in the same room with.
You might even say to me, “Now Aunt Becky, you don’t even CARE about food,” and you would be correct, I don’t. But I do care very much that he can work the phrase “Oh look, there’s a pube in my drink,” ONTO MY TELEVISION. I care about that very much.
As you should know, Vincent, “pube” and “moist” are two of my favorite unintentionally hilarious words, and to hear him use one of those appropriately made me swoon with love. For him. Not you.
Because the best that you can give me is acting like more of a lunatic and forgetting to shave your face, WITHOUT using either of those words, the words that are the key to my heart (like hot dogs!)(and bacon!).
I’m sorry, Vincent, but it’s over between us, and I hope that you’ll agree that it’s for the best.
With Former Love (but less than I have for my new boyfriend. A lot less.),
Aunt Becky
PS. I hope that your baby cries. A lot.
PPS. A quick internet search has led me to realize that many other people shared my love for you, and they make me feel quite gooshy (in a bad way) inside. They’re creepier than me, right?
PPPS. Hope that you’re not getting any sleep with that new baby.
…Go see my friend C. She needs all the love The Internet can offer.
Time to dust one off from the vaults. Too busy sitting on my ass and pretending to be important. What? I’M VERY IMPORTANT, YOU SEE.
Now you may have heard people whine about it before, but I promise that NOTHING humbles you like maternity shopping once did. Thankfully for us now, being pregnant is so ‘œHollywood’ that it’s almost fun to buy the clothes. Gone are the tent-like mumus and the belly panels that go up to your chin. Gone are the denim-free faux-jeans that I wore while last gestating (whimpers: HOW can jeans be DENIM FREE and still called JEANS? I give up).
Hell, if you wanted to, you could easily shop in the maternity stores without being pregnant. Aside from the ‘œBaby on Board’ shirts you’d be good to go. A little roomy (perfect for the bar) but damn comfy.
This afternoon, I dragged my loving husband out to get new pants for me. Sounds cruel, I know, but I promise that he had the checkbook in mind when he took me today. I grabbed the pair of pants in my size, he picked me out a shirt, and away we went.
I got home and gleefully pulled my pants on (in the privacy of my own bathroom, of course. I happen to look quite like a hippo these days) and was immediately vexed. WHY was I having a hard time pulling my pants on?
The waist fit.
The hips fit.
The calves fit.
Holy shit, these pants are caught up on my ANKLES?
Yes, faithful readers, I had inadvertently bought Skinny Legged maternity jeans.
What nimrod decided that what pregnant women REALLY NEEDED is to wear pants that make them look fatter and more oddly shaped? Sure, they can look good on SOME people, but really? Most pregnant women would look gawky and uncomfortable (not to mention shaped like a hippo in toe shoes) in these.
So now I have to go back to the trendy maternity store and carefully inspect the leg of each and every pair of jeans I can find. Hopefully, they’ve left some jeans with some flair in them. Otherwise, it’s off to the tailor I go.
So tell me, fair reader, what’s the biggest fashionable thing that you abhor? What makes you want to gouge out your eyeballs when you see it on someone else or yourself?
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