We Must, We Must, We Must Improve...

You never know what runs through the Contessa's mind when she's working out on the fly machine at the gym.

Thirty years ago in junior high gym class, girls worked out and chanted this little ditty:

We must, we must, we must improve our bust.
The bigger the better, the tighter the sweater.
We must, we must, we must improve our bust.

These days it goes more like this:

We must, we must, we must improve our bust.
Less droopier the better, more attractive the sweater.
We must, we must, we must improve our bust.

Anna Nicole News Flash

Breaking News:

Anna Nicole's body is decaying faster than expected. Big deal. Mine's been doing that for years.

Hey, NASA Guy, Take a Look at Me

Dear NASA Head Honcho:

I hope you remember me - I applied for a job with NASA last year. You advertised the need for subjects in a space flight simulation study called Bed Rest Project , which called for spending 120 days in a sleep lab – most of that time in a “head down tilt.” I sent you an application and have not yet heard a response, which, quite frankly surprises me. I thought I spelled out my unique qualifications, including experiencing firsthand head-rushes after catching sight of my children’s closets.

In light of recent news coverage about the escapades of one of your current space mommas, it occurred to me you might be stepping up the job-review process. To that end, please consider my additional qualifications. I am:

Able to drive for hours like a rocket hurtling into orbit. Every afternoon, I throw a helmet on Cat, strap her into the back seat and have Pinot & Grigio handle pre-flight cross-check. Everyone in? Check. Buckled? Check. Mom’s been to the bathroom? Check. All systems go! Then we zip off on a flight where the kids beg for more. No more, that is.

In the running to be June Allyson’s replacement as Depends pitchwoman. Unfortunately, Vegas odds are against me getting the job because I’m not perky and I still have all my own teeth - without lipstick stains.



A master of disguise. When I walk into a room and tell my kids to pick up their stuff, they act like they don’t know me. You’d think I was wearing a trench-coat and wig. Maybe if I started carrying pepper spray, a mallet and rubber tubing the kids might at least pick up a sock or two.

Photogenic.




I, too, can look good in a mug-shot, complete with fly-away tresses, smeared eyeliner and bugged-out eyes. Just ask the neighbors jumping out of the way, er, waving to me, when I drive down the road.

I encourage you to review my application once more. It’s the one splotched with coffee stains sitting under a stack of invoices for $150 screwdrivers and a $3,000 donation to underprivileged girls working the Cheetah Lounge. If it smells like cat yerp, that’s the one. Don’t worry, I wiped it all off. Most of it.

Your Space-Momma-in-Training,

Contessa

May He Rest In Peace

The Big Guy is in mourning. Robert Adler, "Father of the TV remote control" just died. He invented the first remote control in 1956, not too many years after the introduction of the first frozen dinner. No-fault divorces were approved shortly thereafter.

What a difference a year can make

For my birthday last year, The Big Guy treated me to a Victoria Secret hot-pink sweatsuit complete with plunging neckline and the word "pink" pasted on my ass. So sweet - he still thought of me as that tiny thing he married.





Here's this year's gift.



The least he could have done was given me a Dwight Schute bobble-head.