Archive for Nicole Ritchie

A baby is about as fashionable as tie dye

Posted in Mind Ramblings with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 10, 2008 by starstripe

I’m at a friend’s house, the friend who we sit with four people on his bed watching rugby on a Saturday. Now, I am not a rugby fan, in fact I am sitting writing this blog from the bed to avoid having to watch over exercised and grisly men fondling each others’ bottoms. I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.

I don’t know if my eardrums will survive this match though, seeing as one of my fellow bed sitters is screaming so loudly, my ears are hurting. I mean really, if it was say… Jacob Zuma being a judge on Miss South Africa Teen or Hershelle Gibbs participating in a marriage counselling course, sure, I would get fairly vocal. But to me, rugby is such a homo-erotic display of testosterone fuelled bum fisting. But I love company of my friends and their repressed need for masculine displays of dominance; I am willing to sit with sore ears.

Speaking of masculine dominance, it has become quite frightening to me how many of my friends are joining the fashionable habit of pro-creating. Some (actually many) are younger than me and I cannot grasp how punching out a kid is going to make their lives any better.

I am 25. That is not old. Definitely not old enough to be capable of raising sprogs. I haven’t reached levels of maturity to be ok with paying tax but who has to be honest. It feels like yesterday that I was seated in my school hall, singing the Lord’s prayer and letting religious ideals flow over my head whilst I thought about Ouija boards and how exactly one would go about selling their soul to the devil. Ok I wasn’t that apathetic, I was animated but strange in school.

I was in the group of girls who didn’t really fit into any of the regular cliques. I wasn’t a beauty queen, I wasn’t a super hockey player or athlete, I definitely wasn’t an academic, a comedian or a slut. Neither was I a party animal/drug user or a church going happy clapper. I was just a weirdo who listened to Beck and wished she was a ghost. I did change after going to Varsity though, but that’s a whole other story.

The first person who I was in school with who chose to go the route of motherhood was a girl in my school in the UK. She had her first at barely 16, but to be frank she was a Slough resident (pronounced “Slaaaah” by locals) which is in Berkshire and is mentioned in the Ali G movie where they build the Airport over Slough instead of Staines and is also the location where “The Office” is set. No more explanation needed.

After this, my friends’ level of procreation was extremely low.

And suddenly, a year ago, everyone started getting pregnant. These couples seemed to have forgotten how to use a bloody condom.

And I am not talking about settled, married couples. I am not talking about people with a relatively ok paying job, that have somewhere stable to live and more importantly, a stable partner. I am talking about waiters and waitresses with drug problems, office assistants and students who have partners that are being arrested for shop lifting. I know this might offend some people but tough shit, really.

It is utterly beyond me, how people find themselves in a relationship for a few years and get careless with contraception. More alarmingly, that when they find they have a bun in the oven, they think it is the answer to all their problems.

What is more frightening is that I have been there, I have felt that yearning to be a mum. And thank GOD it went away. I would have been tied to the person I hate the most in the world. For the rest of my life. And I was careless when I was younger… But after seeing friends’ lives and dreams disintegrate into nothing when the two strip result appears, I am perfectly happy to wait to have a kid when I am say… well, never actually.

I know this post is not the most humorous of posts, but what has brought this to my attention mostly is an ex housemate of mine, who recently published photos of himself holding his new baby boy. From my experience of living with him, he was about as far from being responsible parent material as Sarah Palin is from becoming a member of PETA.

It seems people today fall in love and whoops! Lets have a baby! Nicole Ritchie has done it! Ashlee Simson has done it! Jamie Lynn Spears has done it! So lets do it!!!

A baby is not a Nine West handbag unless you are Edward Gein. A baby is not a funky cell phone. A baby is not fashionable and a baby is definitely not the answer to people’s problems. A baby is a responsibility for 18 years at least. People seem to think that a baby is great and cute and they will be able to walk around din hippy clothes on Hollywood boulevard and get snapped by paparazzi.

Unfortunately, they don’t see toddler tantrums, sleepless nights and baby vomit as a deterrent, and they don’t see school fees, custody battles and maintenance bills as a deterrent. They seem to think that their kids will stay cute babies forever. I have bad news for them – unless they start their kids smoking cigarettes at a young age to stunt their growth, they have a hell of a wake up coming their way when that kid pops out.

I see these stars in magazines with their fashionable sprogs on their arms, who then get admitted to mental hospitals and custody of their children taken away. I have had three boyfriends who had no father figure in their lives and believe me, the toll on them (and everyone they take their abandonment issues out on) is unbelievable. But the celebs are different- they do have the ability to support a child, usually not emotionally and possibly contributing to the rising number of serial killers in the US, but the kid will never go without what it needs, just love and attention.

Another difference between famous people and ‘normal’ people pro-creating is that the celebs have personal assistants, nannies and massive bank accounts to help them along. Britney got strapped to a gurney and held in a padded cell for a bit? No problem – family, personal assistants and nannies had her covered. Britney was still able to go out and get plastered all the time with dodgy boyfriends whilst little Jayden and Sean were perfectly safe with child minders. Nicole Ritchie can still go to movie premieres looking skinny whilst little Harlow is at home sleeping under the watchful eye of an expensive babysitter. Jessica Alba is back to her svelte figure in about two days after giving birth and making movies again whilst little Honor Marie is guarded by an au pair. Real life? Nuh HUH!!!

Unless you are extremely well paid, your social life is going to take a dive for non existence. And the stars look fantastic and are yummy mummies? They have personal trainers who they gym with twice a day for four hours at a time because they have the money and the time to do so. Normal people have to do it like normal people – exercise when time and energy allows.

And let’s not kid ourselves – when you have a baby who needs feeding every two hours, screams when it feels happy, sad, angry, confused, jealous, depressed, ecstatic, pensive and any other emotion, pees and poos without restraint, sometimes even into your face and is just a general 24 hour a day job… You are not going to have much energy for anything other than sleeping, which is pretty much a treat when you are sitting with a three week old.

But those people who are under twenty five, unmarried, hardly able to support themselves and really want life to change; if you think that having offspring is going to make your life different you would be right. But perhaps not for the better.

Bag by Fendi, stomach by sad emo rocker who wears eyeliner

Bag by Fendi, stomach by sad emo rocker who wears eyeliner


Cockroaches and Gym

Posted in Random Randoms with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 4, 2008 by starstripe

I really am a danger to myself.

After getting home from chairing an NA meeting, I was pretty much buggered, but with a healthy eating plan being a part of my life and trying to shift my post rehab weight (not like Nicole Richie thanks), I endeavored to make some veggies and tuna to munch on whilst I got down to doing some writing. Having put some butternut and other veg on the stove, I retreated to my room to write. After spending an hour playing Mob Wars on Facebook, I realized a smell of burnt butternut was seeping into my room from my kitchen. I dashed to the stove and found the veggies in a state of charcoaling at the bottom of the pot. Scraping out what wasn’t burnt to eat for dinner, I remembered my mother’s clever advice for burnt pot cleaning – add some Handy Andy in hot water in the pot and boil it on a low setting for a little while. So I made my cleaning fluid concoction and put the burnt pot on the stove to boil slowly and went back to my room to do attempt some writing again.

After playing another hour of Mob Wars, once again, I was alerted by a burning smell as before. But this burning smell was worse than vegetables. It was burnt Handy Andy. The pot was even more black, but this time, it stank. If you have ever burnt soap, you will know what this smells like but unless you are either a soap maker or as stupid as I am, you will not have experienced this pungent aroma. Like bad soap. Evil soap. Disgusting soap. The fumes were so strong I had to open all the doors in my house leading outside to try and get rid of the smell, hoping the toxic vapour would not kill me or make me high. It took a while, and a lot of toilet spray before I could breathe again without wanting to bring up my burnt dinner.

The pot is still sitting on my stove, I am hoping that if I ignore it, it will clean itself and put itself away in the cupboard without bothering anyone like a good pot.

So this evening, my new housemate came to visit. After many cups of coffee, cigarettes and talk about our messed up parents, I went to my computer to show him my prized and illegal copy of the Muse live at Wembley DVD. Now I love Muse. I love Matthew Bellamy and want to marry him. But then I found out he married some Italian wench called Gaia POLLONY, and it made me quite upset. Pollony?!!! Bitch. She ruined the song Starlight for me. She told English Cosmo it belongs to her and Matt. Seriously, she can have it. I had dreams of him dedicating it to me from a packed stage in London. Not any more, thanks to that ungrateful skank.

So I was busy gushing over how talented he is and monitoring his incredible piano playing talent (Matthew Bellamy, not house mate, I don’t know if he can play piano) with my back to my bedroom wall.

“Oh look a cockroach” my new housemate alerted me.

Turning around I observed what is the one thing in the world that terrifies me though most – a roach. Ever since a bad experience in Durban with a nonexistent pendant on a necklace and a three inch cockroach, I have not been a fan. At all.

And this particular roach was about the length of my index finger and FAT. And whirring its feelers. On my wall.

In a panic, I lurched backwards, away from the wall but could not get far as my desk was in the way. Treading on my poor new housemate’s foot, I fled the room, taking a few speakers with me who’s cables were caught around my other foot.

Anyway, I doomed the roach, stood on it and doomed it again. And then stood on it again. Apologising profusely to my new roomie, I felt about as big as that roach. Well, maybe smaller. He said it was fine, but I don’t think his foot agreed.

I have to go to bed now, gym in the morning.

Ah I love the gym. And detest it at the same time. It amazes me how some ladies can pull off full make up and a workout without breaking a sweat. Thing is, the men at the gym are hardly “modest”. The ones that are modest are modest for a reason. If I was to think of anywhere worse to pick a man up than a gym, it would have to be Cmax prison. But the gym is pretty bad.

A while ago, what must have been an ex rugby star who got thrown out of the sport for steroids was next to me on a treadmill. Literally this guy put the damn machine on so fast he couldn’t keep up with it. Seeing a man with a 100kg frame running at 15km/hr is quite something. And not something that lasts. After about ten seconds and almost coming off the back, he stopped the machine, did a kind of “yeah”-self affirmation-type-effort and hopped off.

Later I was on a rowing machine and he got onto the one next to me. I was beginning to get a complex – was he going on the same machines as me to make himself look better? Maybe it was in my head, but when he started pulling the rowing cord so hard that he could have powered New York with for a month from the machine (but only for about ten seconds), I began to wonder. And then… the girlfriend turned up.

Not particularly pretty, but one of the ‘in girls’ slaving to status came up. I wondered if it was his sister but no, definately his girlfriend. Now if this guy had been a gentle and nice person, I could have seen reason behind the couple. But this guy was far from it and a complete egotist. Who had been thrown out of rugby for steroids, remember?

Then I realized the mutual benefit of the Christina Storm/James small relationship –  the rugby man, model woman relationship strategy. She wants money and fame status, he wants prettier-lady-than-his-neighbour-status. Well they definitely had that. And not much else, maybe two brain cells between them. I see them at the gym often, him pushing weights far too heavy for him which he drops on occasion and she doing alluring stretches in front of the mirror. I wish them the best; it seems a mutually beneficial relationship. Maybe with their two brain cells added together they have a fighting chance of finding the car in the parking lot after their workout. I have names for them – steroid banned rugby man and pretty but brainless cling on.

There are other names for the regulars I see there: anorexic alcoholic woman, extremely hairy KGB man, ultra muscly coloured lady, fitness junkie grandma, insane Indian groaning man and crazy naked stretching woman (don’t ask – if you have been inside a gym changing room, you know what I am talking about)¸amongst others.

The changing rooms in the gym scare me. My first month at the gym I would leave the ladies room feeling rather violated and like crying. I don’t know if it is just me, but I pretty much shower in a towel. I don’t have a great figure but I think if I did, I would not take part in the naked acrobatics that those women seem to love.  When I was in high school, I had the art of getting my gym kit on under my school uniform before removing uniform technique down to a tee. But these ladies must have gone to a French school or something.

The things I have seen in that locker room… cannot be unseen. Really, I have come close to vomiting. Not from bad hygiene, just from attention seeking displays of ladies private parts that I really, really, really, really could do without seeing. Actually one incident was bad hygiene. A rather large lady in the steam room was not using a towel and had her, erm, nether regions spread across the tiles. When she got up, she made the most massive squelching sound from her private parts suctioning on the tiles that I nearly vomited on the spot. Apart from that, the general naked bitchiness is just a little too much to handle, but I am a little more used to it by now.

When it comes to the machines, I am the bitch, I always look at what everyone else is doing on their screens and if I am going at a harder rate than them, I feel like a better person. Fuck the lot of them 