Rehab for Interior Decorator

Lucky day for you, I'm the Blogger Queen du jour. I know you probably have a lot of friends and you're a big deal and everything (most of us are like that). But here is an important life lesson for you to ponder today.

You see, I'm a celebrity blogger now that I've been asked to contribute to Petunia Face. This has completely gone to my head and I'm making unreasonable demands upon my personal assistants today. Not really, I don't have any, but I'm thinking about calling desperately unemployed people and telling them that I'm interviewing for a new intern and see if they'll bite.

I'm sick of these unemployed people all around me. They're really bringing me down. When people ask me what I "do" and simply say "I'm a blogger" and then I watch them swirl it around in their mouth as if I've just told them "Oh, you liked my rat casserole?" [sweetly smiling]

Then they ask the question always thinly threaded with disapproval "Can you make money at that?" for which my answer is "Yes, but mostly I just do it for the free sex."

Let me tell you about my last career that I NEVER EVER talk about ... Interior Decorator. I owned my own little company for seven years. I learned a lot about people and money. My favorite clients were "normal" families who did their best to get by. I'd come in with some salvaged paint from Kelly Moore and some fabric and by the end of the day their lives had changed. It was just like those makeover shows on T.V. They were so happy and grateful and proud. They couldn't wait to have the neighbors and family come over and see the transformation. It was like being a midwife.

Then there were the ridiculously wealthy people. I would spend months and months doing presentations, sampling, resourcing, computer layouts, and placating. I kissed so much ass that my lips looked like Angelina Jolie in anaphylactic shock. Right and left I'd have to give them a credit, return this pillow, discount a service and I'd get nickled and dimed to death. At the very end, when I'd given them everything they wanted, and sometimes against my suggestions, they never had the enthusiasm and happiness of the "normal" people. They never said "I can't wait to have my family over for Christmas!"

I've been rich and miserable. I've been poor and happy and let me tell you something important my friend: Rich really is much better.

Turn this mother out.

Hi PFG readers. Bee here. Recently I announced to the blogging world that I am with child and so, in the spirit of our sweet Susannah, I thought I'd take this opportunity to be brutally honest about what (very little) I know, what scares me senseless, and a little something called colostrum. Here goes...

Myth: "I never felt better than when I was pregnant!"

Bee's reality: Pregnancy is like the worst hangover of your life, minus the alcohol. I was sick for the first 14 weeks. The smell of garlic made me hurl. My allergies were in overdrive, my uterus was pulling and twisting and pushing my organs and muscles and bones into knots, and I had constant nosebleeds. Thankfully, now that I'm at the halfway mark, many of these side effects have passed. Others are just now settling in. Like...

• Back Fat. Often accompanied by Fourboobiosis, Back Fat occurs when your bra has been stretched to capacity and can no longer accommodate your elephantiasis-afflicted melons.
• Farts. Yours will smell like hard boiled eggs mixed with gasoline mixed with bacon bits. Cobb salad, anyone?
  
• Colostrum. It hasn't happened to me (yet), and I pray that this joy passes me by altogether. Still, if you need a primer on leaky teats, look no further. Sus's got you covered.
  
• Chub Rub. Heard of it? When you're pregnant, your thighs join together in a show of unity and become one. A distant cousin to Swamp Ass, Chub Rub will render your once taut thighs a red, rashy, friction-filled mess. My solution: stock up on capri pants and maternity jeans. Which leads me to this:
  

See this image of a pregnant woman in WHITE Slim Leg Maternity Jeans? She is a fallacy. She does not exist. The name of this particular style jean is in and of itself an oxymoron. Now, if anyone hears of a maternity jean called Dark-as-Night Wide Load Heifer Denim, please let me know. I'm still searching for that perfect fit.

But, fa(r)t jokes aside, there's also a really wonderful part about being pregnant. The part that Susannah captures so beautifully. The part I can only imagine and have yet to discover.

When I close my eyes and picture the baby, I picture giggles and smiles and (s)he looks like me...no, wait, wait, that's your smile! I picture belly laughs and impromptu hip-hop dance parties in our living room, family walks with the dogs and a mini Weeble-Wobble, all diapered-up and off-balance and smelling fresh and soft and new. I catch future glimpses of my husband and the little bean cuddled on the couch, napping together all peaceful and perfect and one. I think of our daughter the artist, our son the gentleman, our family the loving and happy unit.

And I think of the scary stuff. Like, just how large and Weeble-Wobble-ish I'll become, that my body might not bounce back to its pre-pregnancy state, that I'll be a horrible mother, that something will be wrong, that I won't be able to fix it, or her, or him, and that I'll be 1,000% in over my head. I think of soft heads and unstable necks and the cutting of those itty bitty fingernails and screams that won't stop. I'm scared of not knowing what to do.


Then I think, if Octopussy can handle 14 children, surely I can manage one child, right? Right? Here's hoping. And here's to you for letting me sit in while the mother of all mothers, our sweet Susannah, is living la pura vida. Thanks, Mrs. Petunia Face, for keepin' it real and for showing me what kind of mom I want to be.

Hugs and kisses,
Bee

one big sweaty fan and a few good garden parties

When Susannah asked me last week, to be a guest blogger I immediately got all perky and responded, "of course! yes! wow, absolutely! I'm so honored!!" and while I am, quite honored, I think my knee jerk delusion was that somehow through osmosis, like a sweaty sycophantic, concert goer in the audience of a kick-ass show, singing to a favorite set, for a moment, I would become a petunia faced blogger.

You know, just by proximity, I would gain the lyrical quality to jam with the audience, and speak their very deepest thoughts, through poignantly executed prose. But here I sit, slack. bent over. cheek to key board, arms slack at my sides. having a bit of performance anxiety.

You see my blog is a bit more designery-visual. More image heavy than written heavy content.

Honestly, there's nothing really touching about velvet sofas {figuratively of course}. Few, wipe bleary, tear filled eyes as they comment on, the over use of coral as a design element or whether the subway tile has run its course.

I think the best advice I can give myself today is, don't try to do another's work, do what you know. And so, if you've come here, to laugh, to cry, to group hug. I can't really give you that.

But at the very least I can invite you to join me on a little visual garden-party tour to get you ready for summer......

designer heather taylor

home tour LA , courtesy martha stewart

paul joseph hopper design

thank you Susannah, for trusting me to take care of your blog for the day.

being a rock star is no easy task.

rock on,

beach bungalow 8