Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Okay Tori Spelling, We Get It. Your Uterus is in Fine Working Condition

Okay Tori. For reals. We get it. Your uterus is in fine working condition, and you have enough money to happily raise 500 babies in luxury, much less five. 

But i'ts time for some real talk about Donna Martin's fifth mini-me.

I've noticed a curious trend lately among you one-percenters. One that has not yet fully caught on with the rest of us plebes. And that's the fact that social capital apparently now increases in direct proportion to the number of babies you incubate in your easy-bake-oven and squeeze out into a never-before-lived-in, professionally-decorated nursery. 

No more are litters of children just for Michelle Duggar or farmers in rural India without routine access to birth control. Quite the opposite, treating your vagina like a clown car is on par with having a house on Martha's Vineyard or a Tesla, carbon footprint be damned. (See also, Donald Trump, Jr.). It's like they almost don't even let you buy property in Westchester or Marin County with fewer than three kids anymore.

You know what they say. Five is the new infinity pool! Amirite?!

I'm not sure that I believe your "sTori" that this was "a total surprise" though. Did a penis go in your vagina? Yes? Well, it's not really a "surprise" then, is it? I mean, if you're 43 years-old and already have four kids, you probably know Where Babies Come From and that it's not the stork. So it really shouldn't be a "surprise" at all, much less "a total surprise" that peen + vajay = baby. That's some pretty basic sex-ed type shit right there, so maybe lay off the throttle a little on the whole "surprise" thing.

Maybe, just maybe it was time to experience the miracle of life again because nothing sells magazine covers and reality TV show deals like baby bumps, and you're not getting any younger and neither are the people who remember Donna from 90210. All of which is fully understandable. 

Like I said, I get it. Stunters gonna stunt.

So you do you, by being very rich and perpetually pregnant on television. And I'll do me by writing to/about you out of petty boredom and self-loathing. But I don't mean to hate on you, seriously. Your kids are adorable, and Lena Dunham is SOOOO much more odious than you could ever be.

Oh and FYI, because I know you're dying to know: I asked my own two kids, hypothetically, hypothetically--what they would think of a third child in our family. Isaac said "Yay!" and Paige, ever practical, was like "um, how about no," pointing out that she and her brother would be forced to get their own drinks of water for once in their fucking lives as their parents would be occupied with a new mouth to feed. 

Then I added that both of them could shit into (if not flush) a toilet, read, and sleep for more than 8 hours at a time, and that having a new baby would be like Mommy getting all the way to the candy castle in Candy Land and drawing that gingerbread man card that makes you go back to the beginning of the board just when you think you won't have to play that punishing game for one more minute. Not to mention another five years of literal (as opposed to metaphorical) Candy Land. It would also require them to give their parents five minutes alone in a bedroom without interruption, something they've been incapable of doing in nine years.

So that's a hard pass on Kid #3. Decision tree over. 


I did promise, though, that if I ever did bring another life into this world, it would not be a "surprise" (total or otherwise), to me or anyone, unless of course I end up shitting a baby out in the bathroom of a Target on an episode of "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant," which if you know me (and you don't) is not as far-fetched as it might sound.

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