circa 1997
For 29 years of my life, I always thought I was pretty awesome. Well, actually minus years 12-17. Those 5 I wore insanely padded bras, chokers and overplucked my eyebrows and was therefore, un-awesome. But this weekend kind of confirmed for me that I’m kind of lame still. What did make me awesome all of those years, was alcohol. Straight up booz. Yes, even at 5 years old. I’m pretty sure.
I’m not going to bore you with how haaard and annoooying and looong pregnancy is. You get it. But do you know what IS hard? Being at a wedding pregnant. It’s even worse than being on a cruise pregnant. See, I view being a wedding guest as accomplishing a few points:
1) I get to wear a pretty dress and try and out-hot my friends and see other friends and be all, See? I’m hot. It’s definitely not the superior power Spanx and 50 dollar spray tan.
2) I get to get a lot of free booz in all concoctions and colors and glasses.
3) I get to request Britney Spears 50 times to the DJ or band even if it’s a banjo playing square dance band. Yes that happened. Then I get to dance like I’m a paid performer for the Toxic video and not care because of reason #2.
4) Oh, I get to see my friends get married. That’s nice also.
But throw a baby in your bellly and this ALL goes out the window. My hotness no longer comes even close to the size 00 sorority girls who are all in strapless mini dresses in every color of the neiman marcus rainbow/rhoOC rainbow. I am now limited to dresses with a thick strap that can hide the industrial rope that now holds up my sinking boulder breasts and an “appropriate” hemline. People now tell you how “cute” you look. And say things like “wow you look good… for 6 months”. I miss, wow you look good. Period. This is no one’s fault. They are just being nice and nice is nice. But it’s a far cry from Megan Fox. Because I was totally that. I was.
As you may have deduced by now, I was at a wedding this past weekend. And what made it even harder was that it was a GOOD wedding. You know the one with like awesome food and great music, all of your cool friends and TONS of top shelf booz. Booz. Man. At one point I saw it flow straight from the clouds and sparkle in the sunlight down into 100 beautiful sparkle glasses, garnished with pink magic fruit and shaken with hugs. And that booz does so many magical things. LIKE ALLOW YOU TO BE A BACKUP DANCER FOR MS. SPEARS.
So the Britney song was on, the Britney song was on THE BRITNEY SONG WAS ON. And I stood there. Where were my hot moves? What do I do with this protruding belly? Do I shake it? That’s not hot. No one wants that. Do I put my hands on it and move it around? No that’s creepy. I can’t dance. I CAN’T DANCE. So I stand there and I am fired from the dance troupe. And everyone gives me the sad face. And I go back to the cookie table where I’m accepted. But not before this travesty occurs.
It's like watching Tom Cruise try to be tall. Sad and useless.
And there is the realization. I was never that awesome. I was always the girl at the cookie table. The booz was the true awesome. The booz put me in the Toxic video and made me think I was Megan Fox, when in reality I was probably more of a Mandy Moore….I know.
Also feel free to report B to those people who burn witches or something
But this is not a pity party. It’s a pity post. Ok no. What this really is, is a secret message to B to justify the gobs of money I now need to spend on the dress for the ONE more wedding that I have to attend pregnant. And the shoes and the jewelry and the spray tan that I’m GOING to get. And I can say this because he never gets to the end of the post. So it will be our secret, Double Hearts Club. Because in reality, you all know B by now. He’s a nice guy. And he was ok with my lameness. I however am not.
A new dress will make it all better. RIGHT? (agree with me)
Love, MODG
Oh…by the way, Single Guy says hi.
I know. You are ALSO amazed that he is still single.
Hi I’m MODG. But you can call me MODG. You say it like Modg, like a Grandma name. Not like M.O.D.G. That’s a lot of syllables and I don’t have that kind of time. 
