An Open Letter to Britney

Dear Britney Spears-

I know that you don't know who the hell I am and that's okay, hon. Most people don't, but that's why I thought you needed to hear from me. See, the people that you do know are either too nice, too busy or just too scared to tell you what you need to hear. Me? I'm not one for keeping my mouth shut. So here goes.

You're not a little girl anymore, Brit. You're a mommy now. Mommies don't go around looking as if they are wearing their bath towels as a dress or as if they are in danger of having their oobies bursting out of their tank tops. Now, I know. You live out there where there is a little bit of a skewing on what is in good taste for maternity wear, but let me just assure you--terry cloth? Never a good choice. Denim cut offs on national television when you are over 16 and pregnant? I know you have a mother. Please. And tank tops--just stop that. Now. Embrace the fact that you can now wear the cute maternity tops that cover your body and appreciate the fact that you are getting older. With age comes wisdom and, I hope a full length mirror or two because you need to start checking out the whole package before you leave the homestead. Carring a baby makes the clothes, um, shift, shall we say? And that isn't a good thing when your skirt was only belt-long to begin with.

And, I might add, with age also comes good skin and hair care. Who ever is bleaching your hair is not doing you justice, so you might want to ask him to lighten up on the peroxide and consider a little more honey-tones. Oh, and that cute short cut you had was just adorable. If you're not going to feel like, you know, brushing/washing/styling your hair when you go out, then don't keep it so long. It's going to be even more difficult to deal with when Baby 2 comes along. IIf your hair was a shorter and maybe a little darker..okay, a lot darker...you won't need to keep punishing your skin with the tanning because trust me, you're going to be paying for that one before you know it. Oh, and, dare I say...the eyeliner? Well, I do love me some eyeliner about as much as anyone, but less can actually be more. At least when dealing with black kohl rings. Check out taupe or brown or plum. They're fun, too!

Those things, though, are really not what I wanted to talk to you about, so I hope you're not too made to stay with me. What we really need to focus on is the train wreck that you've become and what the hell you can do about it because honey, I hate to say it, but when I see you, your facial expressions and gestures have the appearance of some weird morph of of Courtney Love and Andrea Yates with a little twist of Michael Jackson thrown in about right now and that's just not good no matter how you factor it.

I hope you've got a good therapist, but if you don't--go get one. Today. Not one of those freaky Tom Cruise or Kabballah-like new religion ones. I mean an honest-to-God Dr. Therapist. Call UCLA or Stanford and get the best one they have on staff, dammit. I'm sure your medical will cover it. Prayer is lovely, but you need more than prayer right now--post-partum depression isn't fun for anyone, but out in public and while pregnant again? Hell, every mother in the world is screaming at you to go.

Then, once you've made that appointment, B, you need to find some friends who are real people. That's going to be the tough part because I have a sneaking suspicision that everyone you are friends with is either famous, rich, related to you or works for you. They won't count. They're all "poisoned" in one way or another for you right now--you need to be "normal" and see what "normal" people talk about and do for a bit (you won't think it's so much fun to clean toilets, I assure you). You need someone to tell you that you look like hell, you need sleep, you need to straighten the hell up and get your act in gear. You also need someone to tell you that you're not the worst person in the world and have some objectivity when they say that. You need someone to take those frigging socks off your husband when he's wearing sandals, too, btw, but I guess that's probably pushing it. You need someone to sit around and have the babies play in the backyard and then worry about making dinner. You need to have someone to talk about puke and poop with..the baby kind, of course.

Naturally, it's easy for me to say this from where I sit because no one took a picture of me when I tripped in New York in April (I wasn't even carrying a baby or a glass, but I damn near wiped out right in the middle of the street--thank God there wasn't a picture). I had plenty of people to talk to when I was pregnant all three times, but you know what? I still had a rip-roaring case of PPD after the third kid and I nearly went to the looney bin. In fact, I think I even asked my husband to take me there at one point. To say I was a wreck would be putting it mildly--but it's one of those things you don't realize until you're in the crosshairs and then it's too late. So, get out of the line of fire while you can. Go immerse yourself in normalcy--if you can't find "real" people, go make up a name and be MommytobeinCali06 on some parenting board. You can talk about housecleaning, diapers, and baby clothes all day long. I just wouldn't mention the whole carseat thing if I were you--carseat mommies can get REALLY ugly on those boards. Oh, and whatever you do, don't bring up spanking or vaccinations--there's never a good outcome there. Unless, of course, you like to see the fur fly. If you do, then you can have a lot of fun. If you REALLY want to mix it up, casually mention that you sometimes use duct tape to hold the kiddo's paci in at night--you wouldn't believe how limited some people's sense of humor is, but I digress.

Straighten up, chick. You're a mess and the whole world can see it. I'm not saying that to be mean, I'm saying it because it's true. Get your head out of your boobs, put on some shoes and get some help. Then worry about dealing with all the other shit--it's not important in the end if you're in a psych ward somewhere licking batteries and finger painting with pudding. Go. Now.

Your friend that you've never met before--

Kimmah

P.S.--If ever see you with a big wad of chaw in your mouth again in an interview, I reserve the right to come slap it out of your more-expensive-than-my-car-teeth myself. Sweet Jesus, girl, can't you hear that racket?