Recently I crawled out from the Havin’ Lots O’ Babies cave where I’d been not-sleeping the past 8 years and heard some amazing news!
*** JANET JACKSON JUST RELEASED A NEW ALBUM! ***
Here is what you should probably know:
- I am unsure whether this album is actually still “new.”
- I am unsure whether the word “album” is actually still relevant.
- I am unsure whether this is the proper way to use bullet points.
Unfortunately, as the above will illustrate, I am no longer cutting-edge enough to make an intelligent comment on this breaking news, nor do I definitively know what those polka dots are supposed to be doing next to those words up there.
Here is what I know about Janet Jackson:
- She played Penny on Good Times.
- She is the only woman who has ever looked gorgeous in a baseball hat (much less a baseball hat paired with 7 pounds of chrome hardware):
- She is a really good singer. But not as good as Michael. (Sorry.)
- She once had a wardrobe malfunction that looked like this:
And that, my friends, is called a segue.
Because it just so happens that similarly identical in a cookie-cutter, twin-like clone way to Janet Jackson …
… I have also had my fair share of wardrobe malfunctions.
Except mine are an entirely different version.
Instead of these wardrobe malfunctions being sexy and being caused by Justin Timberlake provocatively pawing at my chest, my wardrobe malfunctions are performed as a regrettable solo act.
And I sense that among other mothers I’m not alone.
Because my wardrobe malfunctions are the kind that come with focusing part of my brain on dressing other people. And it’s a wonder that any of us dressing-other-people people have enough of our brains left to even put clothes on ourselves. We have thousands of tiny clothing holes into which we must insert thousands of slightly-less-tiny limbs and heads and buttons (and in sequential order so as not to leave any obnoxious empty holes), and there are just not enough hours in the goddamn day to also properly clothe our own slumpy, broken backs.
Here is what you should know about my recent performances featuring wardrobe malfunctions:
- I often will wear shirts that have been puked on, pooped on and chewed on. I wear sensible Mister Rogers cardigans nearly every day to hide this fact.
- I haven’t taken my dry-clean-only work clothes to a dry cleaner since 2012. I hope you haven’t noticed.
- I have literally walked around with a marble-sized wad of chewed-up blue tortilla chips in my micro-cleavage for an estimated time of two hours before I finally figured out why I smelled like the warm Pawnee Indian corn cakes my 2nd grade class made during our 1982 field trip to Pioneer Village. Tada! I made them with my boobs! [Note to Personal Fan Club: This could happen to you if you also (1.) have at least two breasts, and (2.) mindlessly scroll through Facebook at 11 p.m. while leaning against the kitchen counter stress-shoving crunchy food into your mouth while wearing your low-cut nursing pajamas for no one in particular. Practice, practice, practice.]
- I have stored feminine hygiene products in my shirt sleeve while at my office, precisely before taking a bathroom break. I’ve been a tad too swingy with my arms. I’ve overestimated the elasticity of my shirt sleeve. [Note to Personal Assistant: Belts or boots or umbrellas with secret tampon holsters … get on it. Invent it and then patent it. Label it my signature collection.]
- And my personal favorite nod to sexy Miss Janet. Drumroll, please. I obliviously did this once after nursing my infant in a darkened room:
And then after I emerged from the darkened room, instead of performing a sexy Super Bowl halftime show, I stood and talked with the air conditioning repairman … for a full 20 minutes. And I never even broke a sweat.
Until I spotted myself in the mirror moments later.
[Note to Agent: Next time I perform this way with a dance partner. Preferably a handsome up-and-comer half my age. Choreographed by Tina Landon. And set to saxophone solo. Do people do saxophone solos anymore? Please advise.]