The Bloggers Anonymous blogspot dot com.
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! (deep breath) AH hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! (wiping tears). It’s like they love me. First, Kelle Hampton names her son “D’OH!”
Then someone comes up with the idea that “there is so much negativity” out “there” that we really need to tickle each other’s taints with some hollow words of praise.
Hampton writes she feels like she has to admit to imperfections in order to get the “thanks for keepin’ it real” comments from readers, a necessity to get acceptance from the masses. To admit to a messy house, rolls of loose skin under her size zero yoga pants, a cavernous post-birth vagina, kids wearing last season’s knitted sweaters to the beach would be to succumb to the “sad symphony” so many of us sing tunelessly. She too wishes that she could collapse into a pile of Zoloft and Cabernet like some other bloggers you may know. If only SHE had the luxury of melting down on Heidi.
But then she remembers that she isn’t some lame-ass, complaining mommy bitcher like ME, she’s The Dutchess of Enjoying the Small Things. And goddamnit, there will be JOY! She declines to apologize for being better than all of us! There will be no relatable story with a conflict and a point in order to make YOU feel better about YOUR shitty life!
I’m just one of those mean girls her commenters complain about. Me and all the other GOMI (http://getoffmyinternets.net) readers and commenters hiding behind our Lane Bryant mumus and our computers, dexterously filling the interwebz with negativity. If I could just get out from under my pile of cats and go for a jog, maybe I wouldn’t be so unhappy that I have to attempt to bring others down.
I think they’re probably referring to the people who write critical and/or nasty comments on KH’s blog or Instagram, which I don’t do. I talk behind people’s backs. That’s the #1 job requirement for Catty Bitch.
Is anyone else gobsmacked by the irony of a post promoting the sisterhood (excuse me, the “sistah” hood) of women followed by a few dozen comments about mean girls and how much they suck? Sure, the occasional person points out that a “mean girl” is just another human who is hurt/hurting/abused (or maybe just HILARIOUS), but mostly, whatever a “mean girl” is, she doesn’t get to be part of the “sistah-hood” of rah-rah-rah mani-pedi goodness.
As usual, she’s wrong. We don’t want to know that another woman has cellulite and a dirty house so we can relate. We want to know those things so we can win.
Part of the reason I hate all the “Let’s stick together AS WOMEN” bullshit is because we are genetically hard-wired to compete. Watch one of those corset-era dramas, and be reminded how dirty and underhanded the competition for a good husband was. Has it changed? The only thing that is different as far as I can see is now women have the option to work ourselves into an early grave trying to support our families while the men K-Fed or Eddie Cibrian around the pools.
Marriage was life and death. We are not that evolutionarily far away from a time where beating out other females for a good male provider and protector meant the difference between your babies living and dying. In my view, this also explains why one of the top 5 blog queries about KH is “Does Kelle Hampton’s husband work?” Women want to know if Brett lived up to the promise of that gigantic diamond engagement ring in the photographs. Did she land a big fish, or did she wind up with a K-Fed (which, according to Urbandictionary.com means a man who “[lives] off his famous, hugely monied wife to achieve even the tiniest status in life”). With regard to Poppa, one would need to look up “Michael Lohan” or “Joe Simpson” for a definition.
The Dooce Divorce disappoints me because it was so predictable. Heather was crazy for Jon when he was powerful in her eyes. I don’t remember the particulars, but maybe he was even in a BAND. Swoons, a rock star. Drool-worthy fantasy to many. I picture them like the Jennifer Garner/Jason Bateman coupling in “Juno.” Perhaps she started snarking that he didn’t “contribute” more as she went about her high-powered mogul life. He was a “The Guy” kind of guy. Do you know “The Guy” guy? He gets it done. He knows people. He can handle it. Just let him make a few calls. Next thing you know, he’s collecting unemployment after losing the job his dad had to lay someone off in order to give him (it’s worse if it’s HER dad). Considering that fierce, primal competition for husbands, hers starts to look like less of a prize and more like something you need to unload. I wanted the Dooces to defy the stereotype because I was charmed by their love story.
Feminist movement or not, women compete with each other through their husbands’ jobs. The doctor’s wife is still at the top of the hierarchy, except in Los Angeles where the Hollywood wife reigns over all with her frozen, surprised face.
The Bloggers Anonymous blog, the Dove Company, and Kelle Hampton all want us to stop tearing each other down and build each other up! Except the “mean girls.” Fuck them. They’re just jealous anyway. We should all stick together! “We’re on the same team.¨ What could be less empowering than suggesting that all women are exactly the same because we all have ovaries? Which we don’t all have by the way (transgender women in the house, holla!). That we all have the same goals and should therefore cheer each other on. I will root for the ones I like and make fun of the ones I don’t. The idea that there is this group of “mean girls” out there just waiting to pounce on your daughters at school is just another example of how people take the shadow self, which we ALL have, disown it and make it something “out there” and “other.” As the reverend in “Footloose” said, “Satan’s not in these books. He’s in here,” (points to his chest), “In our hearts.” Not that I believe in Satan, but I do believe in John Lithgow.
The mean girl isn’t in these blogs. She’s IN HERE. She’s in our hearts. So let’s go sit in judgment on ourselves, describe ourselves to a forensic artist, and drink some wine. It’s a celebration, bitches. Enjoy yourselves.