SOMEONE'S FRIENDS LIED.

Oh Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. We need to talk. STAT!

Here’s the thing about Oprah (or O as Gail and Steadman call her.) Sure she’s gotten a bit full of herself, but I like that O is human. She's just a girl trying to get back into her high school jeans. But even with all that money and those connections, she still needs some help. She still needs someone to tell her the truth. That person is me.

First you should know that I’m not a daytime TV viewer. Daytime TV viewing should be reserved for 1) days spent sick in bed or B) bouts of the kind of depression that makes you gain ten pounds, live in sweat pants for weeks at a time, and Google your fifth grade boyfriend hoping you’ve still got a shot.

But today I’m watching Oprah because spending hours on end with a baby whose favorite toy is his penis can be, in a word, redundant. And since he's the distractible type who finds things like TV or a drop of water falling in another state a good reason not to eat, I have Oprah on mute.

So O is doing an Earth day show. Julia Roberts is the guest. Jules is a perfect celebrity to watch on MUTE because you always know what she's gonna say; everything is lovely, everyone's a genius. Undoubtedly, Jules is now saying how lovely it is to compost her food. I can’t help but wonder if she thought it was lovely to fly on her private jet from LA to Chicago to talk to Oprah about Earth day. Chances are she did because she’s a genius.

Since I’ve muted Jules and O, I’m only focused on what I can see. And what I can see is.... YELLOW, made of something akin to a hot air balloon and possibly contains some Pleather. Oprah is wearing a yellow boxy jacket made of an indiscernible but clearly man made fiber. Oprah is a fashion DON'T.

Here’s where the help comes in.

O talks about her B.F. Gail all the time. The two are inseparable. Like all B.F.’s they consult each other on everything and that’s got to include fashion. So when O was standing in her dressing room wearing a yellow jacket made out of what used to be a tarp, and said “Gail, does this wide yellow jacket make me look wide?” Gail undoubtedly said no. And unless Gail needs new glasses, she lied.

All across the country, there are women wearing Capri pants, Ugg boots, and midriff bearing tops whose Gail lied to them when they asked “Do those Ugg boots make my legs look thick?” And their Gail said, “No way. Shearling on the calf is very slimming.”

Undoubtedly right now, there are groups of women in dressing rooms at Bloomingdales’ and Macys’ across the country trying on things like denim mink skirts so short they're more like a vagina belt. Each friend saying to the other, “You have to get that. You totally look like Kate Hudson in that.” For the record, Kate Hudson is tall, skinny, and about 2 years old. She can rock a denim mini all she wants. The rest of us, not so much.

I love a girl that takes a fashion risk, I’m just not one of them. I’ve had the same version of the same haircut since Junior Prom and I stick to the same silhouettes to the point of nausea. I’m no monochromatic, glove wearing Diane Keaton, but I do like to stick to what works, the emphasis being on: IT WORKS. There are those who look amazing in something you or I would find in the pile of clothes the GOODWILL store wouldn’t take, but I’m not one of them either. Some girls look great in Ann Taylor, not me. I have a friend who makes the Boho look seem like haute couture and I salute her. And whether your look is Chico’s or Barney’s New York, your look is your look. Fat or thin, big or small, everybody’s got his or her look. So why do so many women ignore their look and wear things that look terrible on them? And why do we consult our friends and they lie to us?

Sure, there’s some competition involved. Some girls want their friend to buy the bedazzled tank knowing that friend will look worse than her trolling later that night at Carlos and Charlie's. And others just want their friends to be happy and sometimes telling our friends the truth will make our friends unhappy.

But really don't we want to be lied to? If we really wanted to hear the truth, we’d ask someone who’d tell it. Sometimes the fantasy of being able to wear something that we really shouldn’t, is more comforting than knowing that we really should go a size up or that we’re getting a little long in the tooth to wear a skirt so short on the knee.

It’s the fantasy we’re after, even if it means buying something we’ll wear once and look back at in photos and think, “I can’t believe I wore that.” The fantasy makes us feel like we’re still in the game.

So Oprah because I’m no Gail and I’m a true friend, I’m going to save you some humiliating moments on your yearly “Clip” show.

Here’s the deal. You know when you pull your hair all the way back and it gives you an extra forehead? Stop that. What you don’t need is MORE of anything. Foreheads should start at the front of your head, not the back.

And you know when you do an Earth day show and you decide to wear a yellow plastic jacket? Don’t. While yellow is a great color for darker skin, it’s not a great color for bigger skin.

And the next time you ask Gail, “Do these Cargo pants make me look fat?” and Gail says, “No way. You totally look like Kate Hudson in those cargo pants.” Just remember, Gail lied.

And if you’re wondering if me watching an Earth Day show and coming away with a fashion report is superficial; think again. Superficial is having an Earth Day show and Julia Roberts is your expert. I’m just a Mom trying to get my kid to eat.

THE FUCK DIET

They say it all slows down once you have a baby. You might do it once or twice, but not that often. And hopefully, you never get caught by your kid and have that awkward moment when you have to explain what Mommy and Daddy are doing.

For my husband and I the opposite happened after the birth of our son. We didn’t slow down at all. In fact, we’re at it a few times a day, sometimes even in front of the baby. We can’t help ourselves. We just can’t stop saying the word FUCK.

Curse words may not be polite and certainly should be used sparingly but oh how good it feels to belt one out. Your car gets hit, you scream “FUUUUUCK” and magically you feel better. A friend tells you she caught her guy cheating, you offer an empathetic, “FUCKKKKK.” Your boss passes you over for a promotion. You think, “What an asshole”, but it feels even better to call him “A FUCKING Asshole." Fuck is to language what Garlic is to pasta. It adds flavor and spice and makes life a whole lot more fun.

Except when you’re a parent.

I have about ten thousand new parent books. They cover the gamut of subjects related to child rearing. Sleep books tell you that if your kid doesn’t sleep, he’ll likely become a serial killer. Nutrition books suggest that if you’re not giving your kid completely organic food, he’ll be unable to get past the third grade . And discipline books say if you haven’t taught your kid the word “gentle” by the time he’s three hours old, there’s a good chance your kid will be taking the short bus from school directly to ‘juvi’.

I’m now reading a book about how to increase your baby’s intelligence, which states that babies can understand language long before they can verbally respond. If you were to spend time with my husband Justin, you’d know that this presents a problem; a big fucking problem to be exact.

You see, the word FUCK is an important part of Justin’s vernacular. When he’s angry, he channels his inner Larry David and proudly exclaims, “Go Fuck Yourself Larry.” A martini might be described as, “So fucking good.” And a bad day on the stock market might be explained with, “We’re fucked.” For him fuck is an ever present friend whom he relies on to add color and express his truest emotions.

But we’re parents now. He’s got to clean up his act. He’s got to change his ways. It’s time for him to go on the FUCK DIET.

I present the idea to him one evening after the baby goes to bed. “So I was thinking…” I begin. Immediately he knows bad news is coming. Good things never follow “I was thinking.’ In this case I tell him, “You should stop saying FUCK”.

His reaction is classic addict. First, he denies the problem. “I don’t need any fucking diet. Verbal or otherwise,” he says. Stage 2: Anger. “Fuck you for thinking I’ve got some sort of problem.” And then finally, the apology. “Babe,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I’ll never say it front of the baby again. Whatever you want me to do, I’ll fucking do it” And then he pauses, replays the conversation in his head, and realizes that yes, he might be a Fuckaholic. And so I tell him that he should go on a fuck binge tonight, because tomorrow, it’s cold turkey.

The next day he’s armed, he’s ready, he’s determined to be curse free. He’s even got a thesaurus downloaded to his Blackberry should he be jonesing for a fuck and need a stand in. It’s all going so well. He’s made it past a fender bender in the morning, bad directions on the way to a meeting and a leaky roof discovered that afternoon.

As the day comes to close I tell Justin how proud I am of him. But then, the phone rings. It’s family; his family. A pushy bunch who think opinions and criticism are meant to be given not asked for. I suggest he let the call go to voicemail, knowing he might be vulnerable, but Justin assures me he can handle speaking to someone he’s related to without cursing. I’m suspect but encouraging.

Justin silently listens while his Mother speaks. He says a few things, then hangs up the phone. His face is flush and clammy. “For my Dad’s birthday, he wants to take the whole family away. He’s renting a house in the mountains. Two weeks,” he says matter of factly. He waits for my response.

I ask for clarification, just to make sure I’ve heard correctly, “Two weeks with your parents?” He nods.

“Well then we’re fucked” I tell him. He pauses, smiles, and then replies, “No, we’re not….We’re totally fucked.”

And then a light bulb goes off in my head. No matter how hard we try as parents we'll never be perfect. We can only try our best to be good role models for our children. So if my son gets his sleep, eats healthy, plays ‘gentle’ and cursing is the worst thing he learns from us, I can live with that. And if our son’s first words at his pre-school interview are, “Mommy, I’m fucked” then at least he’ll be in good FUCKING company.

THERE'S NO WE IN BREASTFEEDING...

Since I became a Mom, I have been encouraging myself to be less judgmental. But then….

A couple from my yoga class just had a baby. These two are aspiring Amish and decided to have a home birth. An odd choice being that they live down the street from Cedar’s Sinai, one of the world’s best hospitals. Labor always seemed to me a weird time for “roughing it” but then again, I’d hire a nanny and a housekeeper even if I didn’t have a child or a house.

After 12 hours of pushing, the two decided they only thing missing was the baby and a doctor, so they made their way down the street to the hospital where they found both.

Days later, comes the mandatory “Welcoming Baby (Fill in the Name)” email. The husband describes in great detail, their labor. Interesting. Having gone through labor myself, I can assure you that there’s only one set of legs spread open on that table and it isn’t the husband’s. But okay, he’s into it, embracing his new role as Dad and he’s forgotten that it didn’t actually happen to him.

He then goes on to describe how much he enjoys the baby waking at night to feed. “She wakes up every couple hours to feed and while she’s nursing, I meditate.” At this moment, I lose my desire to be a Gandhi Mommy and return to my comfortable state of Judgmental.

Having a newborn is exhausting, even under the best of circumstances. Every couple finds their way through it and divvies up the duties the best way for themselves. In my case, I got up with the baby in the night because 1) I’m the only one that could feed him and 2) Justin had to work in the morning and couldn’t function totally exhausted.

Would it have been nice if I got more than 4 non-consecutive hours of sleep, absolutely. But since I'm the only one in the house with breasts, ours seemed liked the logical way to go. But meditating? Really. You have a newborn, you have an exhausted wife, yet you have time to sit by yourself breathing deeply? How about make a bottle for the baby and feed her yourself. Better yet, how bout do something nice for your wife like clean the house or make her s sandwich since she’s probably still recovering from the labor you two went through. But meditating? Probably not that helpful.

The last line of his email is the one that sent me over. He goes on to describe how “we’re breastfeeding and it’s going very well.” He may have missed this because he was busy in labor or meditating, but there’s no WE in breastfeeding. There’s only a SHE in breastfeeding.

I love a guy that embraces his new role as a Dad. I admire a guy who gets in the trenches, changing diapers, making bottles, and rocking a crying baby. But just cause you do that, doesn’t make it equal. You can love your baby as much as his Mom but you don’t have to carry it for 9 months and feed it for another 12. You can meditate and call that parenting and you can go to yoga class while your wife is still recovering from the home birth gone awry. You get to be parent when you want as opposed to the Mom who is the default parent constantly faced with the question “who’s with the baby?” when she steps out for a baby free moment.

So unless you’re willing to give up your meditating and your yoga, don’t say “WE”. And unless your dick has milk in it, shut up.

Om.