Okay, I have to admit that I am neither a reader of Playboy nor US Magazine and the extent of my sports knowledge is limited to what I can hear Randy the perfekt husband screaming at the downstairs TV while I’m upstairs trying to ignore him.

So it will come as no surprise to you that I have almost no idea who KENDRA WILKINSON is (apparently a former Playboy centerfold) nor that she recently had a baby with some guy named HANK BASSETT who plays some position on some pro football team (apparently the Indianapolis Colts) .  

Anyway, it has come to my attention thanks to MAMMAKAZE Erin (who curiously is uber-irritated by the same irritants as I)  that this former playmate and her pregnancy have been an ongoing source of news and cover stories for US Magazine.

And now that I have read their recent article, I have to say, I’m really annoyed with this surgically enhanced blow up doll’s woman’s comments about her post-pregnancy body and life:

“I had my friends over, and it was bad timing,” Kendra, 24, tells Us. “They were really hot and had really nice bodies,” she says of her visitors, which included former Girls Next Door costar Holly Madison and Playboy model Tiffany Fallon.

“I was just hoping Hank didn’t look at them! Having a different body was such a culture shock. I’m so used to being hot and fit.” Although “it wasn’t that extreme,” the reality star says, “I did go through some depression.”

Wow. I can’t even begin to tell you in how many ways I DON’T relate to this woman. First of all, I have never been featured naked before men with staples in my belly. Well, unless you include the time on the operating table right after my C-Section.

But is she kidding me?! Having a baby is a CULTURE SHOCK?!  A CULTURE SHOCK! Why? Post-partum did she become like that guy in District 9 who suddenly started turning into one of the aliens - so she found herself shedding her exoskeleton and craving cat food ?

Uh, Kendra. Newflash. According to Wikipedia:

Culture shock refers to the anxiety and feelings (of surprise, disorientation, uncertainty, confusion, etc.) felt when people have to operate within a different and unknown culture such as one may encounter in a foreign country. It grows out of the difficulties in assimilating the new culture, causing difficulty in knowing what is appropriate and what is not. This is often combined with a dislike for or even disgust (moral or aesthetical) with certain aspects of the new or different culture.

Oh wait.

Uh, now that I re-read that… Maybe Kendra isn’t so far off. Because really, when you think about it, being a new mom is well, like turning into an alien life form. Your body morphs and develops a mind of it’s own. I mean, your breasts shoot milk at the sound of a human cry! 

And truly, it’s a whole culture all unto itself, complete with its own language (binkie, plugged ducts, colostrum) and bizarro customs (hooking breasts up to machines, crying at toilet paper commercials, obessively poking sleeping infants to make sure they’re still breathing). 

And any new mom with an ounce of honesty will tell you that during those first few weeks… it’s not so fun. In fact, there is a lot of resentment. A lot of “what the heck did I do with my life and do I know any adoption attorneys?”

Of course it gets better… usually around the time that the baby starts sleeping through the night (which, admit it, they would do a whole LOT sooner if you didn’t keep poking them awake because they scare the bejeezus out of you with all those SIDS pamphlets at the hospital).

But even after a routine is established and the family resumes a regular sleep cycle. Things are still different. You’re a mom now and the world you knew is gone. But you’re in a new world. A new culture, one could even say.  Because everything is different and let’s face it you’re different too.

And like anyone who comes from a different culture, you seek out those people who are like you. In this case, lactating, hormone-driven, obsessive worriers with whom you can relate and can relate right back at you.  And I gotta say, my mommy friends, they’re a pretty cool bunch.

And while I’m still not convinced this Kendra woman knew what she was saying when she said she suffered “culture shock” after having her baby,  I think she may be on to something.  Albeit inadvertently.

Kendra, if you read this - which you likely won’t because you don’t know who the heck I am either - I predict that unless Holly and Tiffany and Bambi (or whatever those playmate’s names are) have babies soon, you will find those friendships fading away. Because suddenly tales of wild weekends at TAO in Vegas will hold less interest for you than the first time your baby rolled over or said “Mamma”.

Kendra. Welcome to my world culture.

CORRECTION: Thanks to my guy readers (Kevin and Ken) I have been informed that Kendra WAS NOT a centerfold but merely one of Hef’s many girlfriends. Turns out, while I never had the tight, hot bod, I DO have that whole “staples in my naked belly thing on her”. Take THAT, Kendra.

Okay. Technically, I can’t miss something I wasn’t alive for when it was at its fashion peak. But frankly, I didn’t need to be born in the 40s to know that deep down in my bones, I miss that little fashion item known as THE BED JACKET.  

What the heck’s a bed jacket, you ask? If you’ve ever seen a Rita Hayworth movie where she lounges in the boudoir or taken a gander at an episode of I LOVE LUCY…you’d be familiar with THE BED JACKET. It’s a lovely and practical little jacket a lady wears over her nightgown.     Ah, the 40s. That should have been my era. Big bands, bed jackets, peignors, decolletage.  Everything about it seemed so….glamorous.  Well, except that women only washed their hair once a week because it was such time consuming an ordeal. Good for getting out of social obligations, not so good in the hygiene department. But I digress.

ANYWAY….the REASON I miss the bed jacket is that, like a lot of women, my temperature does not radiate an even 98.7 degrees throughout my body. No, much like a tri tip, there are parts of me that get cooked first, or better, than other parts.

For example, pretty much from my belly through my ankles, I’m comfortable. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a metabolism thing or maybe it’s the  padding that seems to have settled in as a result of my weekly wine and appetizer habit. (Why is that? Why not the breasts where I need it? Damn you nature!).

Whatever. The point is, when I go to bed, the mid to lower half of my body is comfortable and longs to wear a silky nightie. However, my arms, shoulders, barely there breasts and feet… FREEZING COLD! Now, I can wear my silky nightie and throw on a pair of socks and have done with that part of it.

But my upper body?

I admit it.  I sometimes crawl into bed with my robe. But after a while it gets too hot and too cumbersome for comfort and I end up ripping it off. And then, you guessed it, my upper body plummets to arctic temps again.  

Not so much of a problem after I go to sleep, as I can pile on the blankets or siphon off Randy the Perfekt husband’s body heat (I had that written into the marriage vows).  But prior to that, while propped up on my pillow reading the blarney in FITNESS magazine which features only gravity-defying 20 year old butts on the cover or watching the latest episode of THE GOOD WIFE (how can she forgive him?! Has she NO self respect?!) I am just downright chilly.  

And there you have the reason behind my longing for the return of the bed jacket. Yeah, I know there are “versions” of it still around. But you have to hunt them down (they’re not in Target’s lingerie department) and they lack the class of the bed jackets of the past.

Okay. Okay. I admit it. If I’m really honest with myself, there might be a little of the longing for the glamour of a bygone era. When songs had lyrics like “When I want rain, I get sunny weather. I’m just as blue as the sky.” Or “You go to my head, like a sip of sparkling burgundy brew. And I find the very mention of you, like the kicker in a julep or two.”

Sigh. I guess I’ll have to settle for a Snuggie and a Starbucks.  

Rita Hayworth sans a bed jacket. But isn’t she just gorgeous?

Okay, first of all, I didn’t even know that you could go to rehab for anxiety. Second of all, uh, SIGN ME UP!

Seriously though. Rehab? For anxiety? How is that even a thing? Don’t we all have anxiety? Especially us women? Especially us women who are moms who are trying to do way too much and feeling way too guilty that we aren’t able to be super human and be every place all the time and may, therefore, be failing our children?  

Reality check. Anxiety comes with that little territory known as life. I know plenty of moms who suffer from it.  But you know what? We don’t go into rehab. Know why? We don’t have nannies and housekeepers to take care of our homes and kids and jobs while we’re finger painting and talking about our feelings to a person highly paid to listen.

Not like Chynna Phillips, she of Wilson Phillips fame. She who is married to actor Billy Baldwin. I’m not saying she can’t get stressed out like the rest of us. I’m sure she has her issues. I mean,  it couldn’t have been easy to hear that her dad was carrying on an incestuous relationship with her half sister MacKenzie Phillips for 10 years. Heck, maybe that news brought up all kinds of terrible memories from her own childhood in relation to her dad. In which case, get the help you need Chynna!

Then again, maybe Chynna’s just fed up with the other-focus of motherhood. I mean, when you’ve been a pop star and the center of attention for so long, it’s hard to then realize you’re over forty, your best bikini years behind you, and that you’ve spent the last few years of your life focusing on everyone else but yourself.  Also, she’s 42 so it’s likely that whole perimenopause thing has started rearing it’s ugly head. And there’s nothing like a two week period to make a gal really, really cranky.

The point is that most of us regular moms don’t have the luxury of checking out from our lives for a few weeks to deal with our anxiety.

No, we make due with our limited resources. Instead of finger painting and talking to paid professionals, we set up a table where our kids can fingerpaint while we talk about our feelings to our mommy friends who do listen for FREE. And I don’t know about you, but my girlfriends are some of the best listeners and therapists on the planet. They’ve gotten me through some pretty rough times.

Yep. There’s nothing like a good girlfriend to take the edge off the anxiety. Also, sometimes, margaritas and meds don’t hurt.  And the best part of it all, no deductibles.

Poor Chynna. Maybe she doesn’t have the kind of girlfriends I have.  Which just goes to show you that even people who seem to have everything, don’t always.

My girlfriend Terena gave me this for my B-Day. It says it all.

Available at www.TraylorPapers.com

Despite a suggestion from a MAMMAKAZE reader that I may be over-indulging my child and therefore creating a spoiled brat of a monster who will come to expect everything handed to her and may one day have a public breakdown, shave her hair in front of paparazzi and blame me for all her shortcomings… we continue our party prep.

In for a penny, in for a pound I say.

Today we showcase some of the crafts (handmade and otherwise) that we hope will add to the ambiance of Hogwarts (aka my garage).

As anyone can tell you, one cannot be a witch or a wizard worth their salt without, you guessed it, a wand. And therefore, we have handmade wands for everyone, courtesy of our friend Al E. (Al you rock!) who hand carved all 30 of them. Julia and I stained them and individualized them.

Handmade wands for all witches and wizards. No unforgivable curses please.

Julia staining wands. She was really good at it! And very determined and specific about having a variety of shades.

And since I refused to cough up the $25 bucks it costs to purchase the sign on Amazon, we made our own Platform 9 3/4 Hogwarts sign which was meant to hang in the courtyard, but probably will hang in the house since rain is in the forecast.

And while we couldn’t get life-sized Quidditch brooms for all attendees, we did get them little broom pens with the words “Hogwarts School of Magic” embossed on the side.  A fun keepsake AND amazingly cheap!

As Julia used to say when she was around 18 months, “How you think?” Cool, huh? Tomorrow, house flags, the Hogwarts banner and also the Ollivander sign (if it turns out okay). Have gold spray paint, will…uh, create signage.

Again, feel free to comment on my madness. It makes for controversy and controversy is good for traffic! Until tomorrow!

As usual Uma Thurman, that paragon of motherhood, is at it again. I mean, I can’t tell you how many times she has come to my rescue when I have felt confused as a mother. Doling out advice on how she handles the trials and tribulations of being a working mom. I so relate. It’s like she’s my mommy doppelganger (well, except for the long legs, the international fame and the billionaire boyfriend). But otherwise, we are one, Uma and me.

It’s gotten to the point I don’t even need to ask her for the advice (which is good since she’s apparently unlisted). It’s as if she reads my mind or something.

Like the other day, I was painting and cleaning when I realized I was out of food and dinner time was rapidly approaching. But my window of time before Julia got home from dance was very narrow. So I ran to Trader Joe’s in my full house cleaning regalia (paint stained ill-fitting overalls from 1997, ratty Keds and a white shirt that has come in contact with more of my Starbucks than I have). Naturally I was embarrassed to run into absolutely everyone I knew as I went up and down the aisles.

What a loser I am. What must they think of me, looking like I was just pulled from a dumpster? And then fellow Mammakaze ERIN sent me this picture.

  Erin said:

“This is how Uma does motherhood.  It’s like some weird homeless chic look. I knew I should have renewed my W Subscription. I’m so out of the fashion loop these days…”

And to further reinforce Erin’s point, here’s a photo of Patricia Arquette and her actor husband Thomas Jane that hit the internet that very same day! (I love the internet. The immediacy with which it feeds my need to scoff.)

Again, thank you Uma (and Patricia). Turns out I don’t need to feel crummy about my appearance in public. Turns out homeless chic is in.

And THANK YOU Erin. I can hit Target today without caring that anyone I know will see my wood stain stained fingernails (the result of staining Harry Potter wands for Julia’s upcoming birthday) and judge.  Cuz no matter how crappy and untended I look, I’m “in”, baby! Oops, gotta go. The phone’s ringing and it might be In Style calling.

So last night I had this dream. I was at the grocery store and I saw a register with no line. I know, only in a dream, right? Anyway, I smoothly and expertly drove my cart into it and began unloading my groceries. The CLERK looked at me and said,” You got here in the nick of time.” He indicated behind me and I looked. And there was a line of people at least 50 deep.  At which point I felt such an amazing sense of pride that I had been so efficient (although I don’t know how getting to a line first made me efficient. But it was a dream, so I went with it).  I continued unloading my groceries onto the belt and literally beamed with that overpowering sense of pride.

Then I woke up and as that feeling of  pride slowly dissipated, another feeling came over me. One of horror… mixed with a little bit of disgust. What the heck kind of dream was that?!

I mean, I used to have AMAZING DREAMS. Dreams with elaborate storylines and vivid imagery. In color even. Dreams about a post-apocalyptic Earth, still in the throes of turmoil. You know, A Boy and His Dog and Mad Max kind of place.  Danger lurking everywhere making survival tough. UNLESS you had the wit and wiles to survive it. Which, naturally, I did, it being MY dream and all.  And not only did I survive in a very Sarah Connor T2 sort of way, but I helped others survive, too. Along the way I would take time out to save what was left of the world and help bring it back to order. Because see, I could fight off the madmen (and let’s face it, there are ALWAYS madmen in such scenarios). Madmen with names like the Colonel and Little Psycho - drunk on the newfound lawlessness of a civilization thrown into chaos AND who, if it were a movie instead of my dream would be played by Dennis Hopper or that guy who played the crazy Nazi in Inglorious Basterds. So in my dreams, I would fight off these madmen while at the same time bringing the ragtag band of survivors together to start civilization anew. And better, of course.

I mean it was exciting and inspiring stuff. We’re talking the stuff of which Roland Emmerich would be in awe. And now my accomplishments in my dreams are getting in the grocery line first? WHAT THE HECK?!

I know. As Freud would say, “Sometimes a grocery line is just a grocery line.” But I’ve always been more in Jung’s camp. Because truthfully, don’t our dreams reflect our inner selves? And if so, does this mean that I have gone from a leader to… a housewife? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But really. THIS is what I find satisfaction in now? Getting in a grocery line first? Geez.

Then I think about it and I think, you know… some of the lines in the stores ARE really long. And aren’t we all thrilled whenever we can avoid them? Come on. Admit it. I will. I’M THRILLED WHEN I CAN AVOID THEM.

Okay,  so I’m no longer dreaming about saving the world. But maybe I’m getting satisfaction out of saving something equally as precious… TIME. Because as you get older and you have less of it to waste, you kind of realize the importance of it.  And you realize that every minute you save is a minute you can spend with your friends, your family, doing what you love.

So I guess instead of lamenting the loss of my grander dreams, I’ll celebrate the shifting of my priorities to the more realistic and, yes I’ll say it, more important ones.

And as I think about it, maybe June Cleaver didn’t become a beloved icon because she was the perfect mom and wore pearls while basting a pot roast. Maybe it was because she had her priorities straight.

That’s how I’m gonna rationalize the dream anyhow.