I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m never going to rise to any Doocian levels of fame.

I just toil quietly here in my little corner of the blogosphere, riding the coattails of the boss, and simply hoping to brighten someone’s day, somewhere.

But then I found out that Kourtney Kardashian has a mommy blog.

Granted it’s a video blog, but it launched only a few days ago and already almost 3,000 people have fanned it on Facebook.

I’m not bitter or anything.

But I think I’ll retreat into the kitchen and drown myself in some spiked eggnog now.

No, not because her infant’s sunglasses probably cost more than my own.

It’s because she was able to actually PUT sunglasses on her offspring without him instantaneously trying to fling them off. Putting sunglasses on my toddlers is (or was, in the case of the Munchkin) like trying to put a bandanna on a cat. Nice in theory, but horrible in practice.  The clawing and yowling effects caused by said accessories are pretty much the same across species.  In my family, anyway.

Because it’s been a crapper of a week and I just don’t have it in me today.  But, I needed to give you something to get over the hump. And that something would be the adorable chubby cheeks of Laila Ali’s new baby, Sydney.  They just beg for someone to nom on them!

I’ve always thought that Cindy Crawford was flat-out gorgeous, and knew that there was probably no way that she could have unattractive offspring.
But my goodness.

That is some fabulous DNA going on in this picture, is there not?

I’ve got family-picture envy. 

I often get the “oh, your daughter looks JUST like you” but it is almost scary how much Cindy’s daughter looks like her.

I was born, raised, and still live in Southern California.  Yeah, I’m one of those people, wanna make something of it? I have never lived further than a half hour from the beach.  In high school, my friends and I practically lived at the beach during the summer.

And do you know what I’ve never seen in my life until today?

People in heels on the damn beach.

Leave it to Katie Holmes to blaze that trail.

I’ve kept my mouth shut on all the things that have kept her and Suri in the press, from midnight dinners to clutching X-rated candies.  Not a word from me. 

Let Suri take her shoes off, for the love of all that is holy.  She is at the BEACH.  It was not at all hot in Southern California this weekend, so there will be no theorizing that the sand was too hot to go shoeless.  That and all the other people in the picture have no shoes. 

One of the pleasures of going to the beach is the tactile feeling of walking on sand.  Feeling it beneath and between your toes, noting how it changes texture and temperature as you get closer to the water. 

I don’t care if they were at a party in a house prior to walking down the steps onto the beach.  That is where the parent is supposed to say, “Hey honey, let’s go walk on the beach!  Take off your shoes and let’s go!” Not “Yes, let us keep our fancy schmancy shoes on in the sand where the heels will sink in and we will get sand in our shoes, which is actually pretty uncomfortable and not much fun at all.”

Sheesh.

Or maybe crazily rich people don’t allow their, or their children’s, feet to touch something as common as sand.

I cannot believe that in the four years I have been here, that I have never posted this.  Erma Bombeck was the original, and the best.

My Favorite Child

Oh Posh.

When I heard that your next baby is going to be a girl, I rolled my eyes. Not because I am unhappy that you are finally adding some of that good old double X into the family, but because I thought, great, now I’m going to have to sit there and compare what my daughter is wearing against what your daughter is wearing.

And really, since you have about a gazillion more dollars than I do, I’m thinking your daughter is going to wind up in the winner’s column more often than not. Today I was just happy that she had an outfit that matched and was clean so that we could go to the park without me looking like I haven’t done the laundry in four days. Uhhh, that would be allegedly.

But I’ve always had a little something against you, and I’m certainly always ready to make fun of you and your naked public displays and your penchant for wearing high heels in what seem to be inappropriate situations.  I actually haven’t even scratched the surface with those posts, actually, but I’ve only got so much time in the day, you know?

To be honest, I’d sort of forgotten about you a little bit.  The news about your baby girl has put you back in the spotlight, to be sure. But how could I forget the face that portrays some of the most dour expressions I’ve ever seen?  Who could not love that face, even just a little bit?

You claim to really be a million laughs and just a regular gal, despite your cars worth a hundred grand or so with your husband’s jersey number monogrammed on the headrests and all of your designer duds and bling.

Listen, the only way you could convince me you are just a run of the mill soccer mom is if I were to open up the door of your family-toting vehicle and find that just like me, there are old water bottles, cheap prizes won at the local fair, and socks with no matches floating around on the floor.  Just like mine.

Until then, a woman like you, with a man like this, ain’t no regular gal.

*If you think Posh is just the bee’s knees, then consider this a royal “we.”

I have never watched her “reality” show, but I do know that she is a professional stylist (despite some questionable personal ensembles I’ve seen her in) to some big-name stars.

And now I know that I want her to go away.

You see, Rachel Zoe is pregnant, and whoopee for her. I mean that, truly, good for her.

However, her recent suggestions on how to dress to “pregnant per-fect-ion” are obviously from someone who has yet to experience their third trimester.

Responding to a reader-submitted question for style ideas while pregnant, Zoe replies:

As opposed to former generations, we are fortunate to live in a fashion-forward age that accommodates to style for every body, size and situation—pregnancy included. For example, both 1. 7 For All Mankind and 2. J Brand make maternity jeans (praise the denim gods!), which are a flawless starting point for a prego-chic look.

Other free form bottoms that are perfect for pregnancy are 3. leggings and 4. maxi skirts or full length dresses. Take your pick of the three styles and then you’re ready to tackle the waist up! For tops, I recommend 5. long tunics, 6. flowy blouses and 7. ponchos to flatter your mom-to-be figure.

Shifting focus to footwear—my fave!—you can stay stylish yet at ease in a pair of 8. wedges or 9. flats. Create any combination from each category—bottoms, tops and shoes—and you will be pregnant per-fec-tion! xoRZ

P.S. One last thing! Don’t forget to complete your modern maternity look by accessorizing with a big tote bag and a pair of do-not-disturb oversized sunnies to hide fatigue!

A poncho? Did I read that correctly? Has Ms. Zoe not read the Manolo’s “No Poncho Pledge?”  Not only does she recommend a friggin’ poncho, it just so happens to be a four hundred dollar poncho!  So you too can pay a fortune to look like a large, misshapen lump!  I mean, even more than you already do!

And the wedges she wants you to wear? Five inches on those suckers, at a cost of two hundred dollars.  So that everyone can admire your great taste in shoes as you fall on your ass and land with your feet in the air due to your center of gravity being completely off.

Then she wants us to wear sunglasses to “hide fatigue.” What? Does she not know that pregnant women should wear their fatigue proudly?  That the very fatigue she wants to so desperately hide is exactly what compels your guilty-feeling husband to give you back and foot massages every day?  Don’t hide the fatigue ladies, flaunt it!

The rest of her advice is very generic, and I can’t believe she gets paid to tell pregnant women they should wear tunics, flowy blouses, and maxi-dresses.  Like this is some sort of earth-shattering new fashion advice.

And listen, anyone who calls sunglasses “sunnies” is someone with whom I will never be friends.