Tag Archives: celebrities

If loving Pitbull is wrong, then I don’t wanna be right

That is not me on the left.

I’m kind of in love with Pitbull. I think. I’m pretty sure.  Admittedly, I don’t know much about the guy since my infatuation is based almost completely on the single time I saw him perform, which was at the most recent MTV VMA show. The weird thing is, I felt this way in spite of the fact he was wearing a white blazer and red pants. Am I going into menopause or something?

I was able to totally get past his  pimp suit and bald head and his penchant for wearing sunglasses indoors and love him anyway.  Maybe I was listening to Ne-Yo’s sweet voice when they were showing him or something, so that swayed me,  but I was all, “Damn, Pitbull. I think I loooove you.” (The way little Michael Jackson says it in ‘ABC’) Really, Love? Really?

Really.

His voice is kind of low and gravelly and…I don’t know, this thirty-something, suburban working mom of three found herself oddly and mercilessly attracted to the guy.  For very good reasons, I try not to think about mojo because the world cannot afford to have me become a mother again, but as I watched the VMAs I thought I might consider having Pitbull’s love child.   I thought this was odd, and so I felt the logical next step was to inform my husband of my new attraction to this Pitbull character.

Now, you should be aware before we go further that a full 90% of the things I say to my husband on any given day get exactly the same response.  Statements like,  “I think I have a brain tumor”, “Our neighbor’s kid stole our ladder”, “For a second today I thought I had misplaced my Josh Groban Noel CD”, and “Do you think that brown thing in the kid’s shower is poop, or a candy bar?”  all garner the exact same, very quiet….noise.  It kind of sounds like “ugh” but without the negative emotion most of us say it with.  It’s a totally neutral response devoid of any emotion or judgment – just enough to acknowledge I said something, but not enough for me to gauge any sort of meaningful response to the statement.  I’d wager the other 9% of the stuff I say does not even warrant the noise –that is met with silence — and then the last 1% of my musings  may get a full sentence response, but he saves that for emergencies, mostly to tell me what he wants me to pick up for lunch or (I suppose) if one of our children suddenly began to seize.  I think my husband conserves words because I have such a high propensity of wasting them.  And we get along fabulously this way.

So I expected that when I announced to BD  one afternoon that  “I  really like that Pitbull guy” it would be met with the customary “ugh” or perhaps silence. I mean, like most things I tell him, there was a 99% chance I would get one of these two reactions, so no biggie.

It was not to be.

To my utter amazement, when I made the announcement my husband actually turned his eyes away from ESPN,  looked at me, and proceeded to freak out.  “Are you kidding me?! You’re kidding, right? Pitbull?!”  Whoa. WHOA. I haven’t seen an emotional outburst of such magnitude from him since 2005, the year he found out that I had thrown away the hair gel he bought in 1997 that was sitting in our shared medicine cabinet, untouched for 5 years.

“Um….yeah, I think.” I stammered, the shock and awe of his response only beginning to sink in. A millisecond later, when I noticed he did not turn back to ESPN, my fight or flight response was triggered. My senses became sharp and keenly aware.  Time slowed down. My husband had somehow just become emotionally invested in my statement about Pitbull and he was engaging me in a conversation about it.

My brain went into overdrive: “Wait? Whaaa? Is this really happening?  BD knows who Pitbull is? I didn’t even know who he was until I saw the VMAs a week ago.  Oh my god! Maybe my husband is the one with the brain tumor! Oh my god! He may have only weeks to live!”

“You do not like Pitbull.” he tried to say with certainty, trying to regain his composure. “What on earth could you possibly find attractive about that guy?”

“I don’t know. He’s just…cool. Maybe I’m suddenly interested in younger men who don’t appear to be very intelligent, may have an accent, dress like pimps, say “Hey Baby” a lot and surround themselves with scantily clad cokeheads.  What is so weird about that?”

“Who are you?” he demanded. I’m pretty sure he wanted to follow up with “and where have you taken my wife?” but he was a little flustered.  At that moment I realized that he was also in fight or flight mode and his brain was saying: “Oh my god. She actually does have that brain tumor she’s been talking about since our first date. Oh my god! And she is going to die and leave me with all of these damn kids.  This is the worst day of my life!”  Simultaneously, we were both thinking the other had gone all Charlie Sheen and that we’re about to lose each other forever.  All because of Pitbull’s irresistible sex appeal.

We probably should have hugged and kissed and been supportive of the other person’s brain tumor, but instead I said, “Whatever. You liked Christina Aguilera when she was at her skankiest! I married you in spite of that! That should count for something.”

“I was young then. That was years ago!”

Fortunately, before things got way out of control and my husband missed more than five minutes of the game, our seven year old son, aware for the first time in his life that his parents were engaging in an emotional conversation with each other that wasn’t about the true nutritional value of frozen pizza or the absurdity of this year’s college football uniforms, stepped in to end the madness.

“Pitbull sucks, Mom.”

And that was that.  BD nodded solemnly. I reminded our son that “sucks” is not an appropriate word to use in our house, and then I left the scene, devastated.

Not only because one or both of us clearly has a brain tumor, but now my chances of getting tickets to the Pitbull show for Christmas are pretty much nil.  Damn.

If my boobs were any smaller, I’d look like a taller version of Jonathan Lipnicki circa 1996

I thought I was totally over the fact that my boobs are too small and lopsided.  I mean, boobs are supposed to look like “jugs” or “melons” — ask any male over the age of 6.  If a writer were trying to use a metaphor to describe the sad sacs on my chest, likening them to ping pong balls would be being extremely gracious.  I’d be so honored.  I certainly wouldn’t be like Kate Winslet or Kelly Clarkson when they tell the whole world that they’ve been airbrushed to look skinny and hot. I’d be like “Holla holla. ping pong!” Not sure is saying Holla holla is even situationally appropriate, but I like sounding urban even though I’m well aware that misshapen peanut M&Ms would provide a much more fitting metaphor.

Normally I’m okay with this. I mean somebody married me after all (but he does have large hands, so that wasn’t very smart on my part (or his)). But I digress. So my baby sister posted a picture of herself in Facebook to show off her new hair, but really it just shows off what a nice rack she has, and all it did was remind me that I must have been a total asshole in a former life to have deserved this.  Oh, and did I mention her hips are like 30% the size of mine as well?  I just don’t know how I got the big hips, tiny sad boobs genes and she got the big orbs, small ass genes.  Not that I’m not gushing with happiness for her. I mean, she was clearly someone who befriended lepers in a former life, so I’m sure she totally deserves to have that body even though she exercises twice annually.  I work hard at toning my body and being healthy – I go to the gym at least five times annually, and drink wine every night and you don’t see me running around in size 2 jeans.  Its just really unfair and I’m so pissed off at my past life asshole self for creating this whole issue in the first place.

Really, the only thing that could cheer me up at this point is if Oprah came back on with a whole new season and Whitney Houston was her first guest, and they talked about how cruel this world is to flat chicks or at some point one of them said “Bitch, pleeze!”. But see, this is where I’m going to go out on a limb and maybe give Oprah some constructive criticism.  Oprah only cares about stuff that happens to her.  She cares about thyroid problem people, and fat people, celebrities, intelligent black girls, menopausal women who can’t orgasm with their husbands, dogs that are homeless, sexual molesters and finding your passion.  And I care about all that stuff too – except maybe the thyroid people.  But Oprah has never struggled with having a concave chest and frankly, I don’t think she even cares because it didn’t happen to her. She is sitting pretty with her bouncing Buddhas while me and my sad little lopsided M&Ms are crying out for help.  Don’t get me wrong, Whitney’s implants could use some work, but at least you can get a good grip on them.  I just think Oprah might do well to think about someone else for a change.

So right now you’re saying, “Love, stop bitching and go get yourself some silicone” and I would except up until this week, I only had one good reason, which was “I just need some semblance of boobage” which BD wasn’t buying because he’s an ass man (or so he claims) but I’m not stupid – if I had sweater stretchers, he’d be a boob man.  But now I have a second reason which is really more compelling: “If I get killed and somebody removes my teeth and fingers, you will be able to identify me by the serial numbers in my breast implants and collect the life insurance money….that is, assuming you didn’t do it.”  Providing he’s not offended by the second half of the statement, I think this argument is a game changer.

Don’t get me wrong – I totally feel bad that Jasmine Fiore married a psycho after knowing him for like 2 days and then he wound up killing her and stuffing her in a suitcase. That blows for her, no doubt.  I mean, just because you look really slutty and marry people you don’t know in Vegas, does not mean the psycho you marry should kill you.  I just want to have that on the record.

But on the bright side,  I know Jasmine is looking down from heaven right now because this was probably her first “teaching moment” ever — I’m sure I’m not the only person who learned from her that breast implants are an ingenious form of dead body identification insurance.  Its something every woman ought to consider for her family’s well-being, and when it comes down to it, that’s really what I’m about.  Frankly it’s how I roll.  Now if only Oprah would think of others beside herself and my sister would take the damn picture off Facebook. I mean, FUCK.