The UnreMarkleable Duchess

Guys, it happened. It was inevitable, I suppose. But it wasn’t pleasant. In fact, it was so upsetting that I had to hibernate for the last few months. Let me set the stage for you: a prince, in line for the British throne, desperately wants to marry his divorced, American lover. His family is wary of the union, but this headstrong prince will not be dissuaded. He marries his lady friend - and the monarchy is forever changed because of it. Sound familiar? It should. But not, perhaps, for the reasons you think.

No, this is not the “fairytale” love story of Harry, the SGP, and Meghan Markle, his vainglorious wife; no, it is in fact the story of Prince Edward, who would spend less than a year as King Edward VIII before abdicating in order to marry his divorced, American mistress, Wallis Simpson (who may or may not have had the same level of affection for her new hubby). This was not a popular union; she was divorced – and American – after all, and he had to make a choice. It was, of course, a different time. But it’s ironic that, had he not been forced to make such a choice, the royal family as we know it would likely not exist. King George VI, Queen Elizabeth’s dad and Edward’s brother, would not have become king and Queen Elizabeth and her spawn descendants would likely be but a footnote in history. But, as it happened, King Edward did have to make a choice. And he chose love. Whether he came to regret that choice is a story for another day.

Wallis and Eddie
This is truly one of the only photos I could find where they're smiling.  

The point is, the very reason Prince Harry is in a position for anyone to even care who he married, i.e., the reason he is famous  – and likely the only reason this Meghan Markle person is interested in him at all – is because of the luxurious lifestyle bestowed upon him as a direct result of the fact that his great uncle found himself in almost the exact same situation, but with fewer options. Prince Harry is living the life of luxury, one of the world’s most eligible bachelors (until recently, of course), because his great uncle, Prince Edward, didn’t have the luxury of choosing both love and country. He had to pick a side. He chose love. And because he made that choice, Harry’s grandmother ultimately became queen and Harry, by extension, one of the most privileged and sought-after men in the world. Ironic, no?

Now, when I first started writing this blog, the unfortunate Harreghan union was still but a rumor. But, alas, no more. Yes, in case you haven’t heard, the Not-So-Amazing Ms. Markle became the Duchess of Sussex (or Sucksass if you’re super immature. Which I’m obviously not) in May. I used to really like that month. Now I associate it with broken dreams and tears. Yes, my friends, May 19, 2018 is a day that will live in infamy – not only because it’s the day I received my law degree (I can do cool things too, Meghan), but also because it is the day that the actress-turned-royal-girlfriend officially became the UnreMarkleable Duchess. 

The thing about royal weddings – much like royal babies – is that there’s so much build-up, so much anticipation, that it’s nearly impossible for them not to disappoint. And this wedding, like so many before it, was no different. Disappoint it did (I say, having watched not a minute of it). But, though I may not have seen any of the wedding itself, I did see plenty of pictures of the bride and groom. Harry looked like, well, pretty much any other groom in a uniform – not too disappointing because, let’s be honest, no one cared what he looked like. What everyone was dying to see was how Meghan, the new royal fashionista, would style herself for what was arguably the biggest day of her life. And, well, I’m not entirely sure what happened. I liked her dress, but why didn’t she bother to do her hair? It looked like she’d just stepped out of a wind tunnel or a lengthy ride in a convertible. I know her in-laws are all about the environment, but surely they would have allowed her the luxury of some hairspray on this, the most important day of Meghan’s – nay, the world’s – life. Barring that, couldn’t someone have slipped her a bobby pin or two? I mean, she had to know all eyes were going to be on her, right? So why did she show up looking like Bella Swan?

  Maybe Meghan was going for the Mr.-Tumnus-slash-I'm-about-to-marry-a-vampire look  

We may never know the answer to the above; what we do know, however, is that Harry wasn’t put off by Meghan’s poor hair choices for even a second. In fact, it may very well have been her decision to eschew all ozone-destroying beauty products that really got him in the baby-making mood. Or maybe he’s a 30-something-year-old man who’s always in the mood. Whatever the reason, it took about six minutes for Meghan to get pregnant.

Again I say, marrying into the royal family must make you the luckiest girl in the world – not only because you are forever rewarded for being lazy, but also because, despite being way on the wrong side of 30 (which I can say because I am too), having zero body fat, and living under the constant stress of knowing that procreating is your only real job (which I imagine makes it harder to perform – like when you’re told to pee in a cup), these two duchesses still managed to get pregnant immediately, as if on command. How does that work exactly? Of all the millions of women across the world who struggle with infertility, William and Harry were somehow able to find two that just snapped their fingers (that’s how babies are made, right?) and *poof* pregnant. I thought Kate was an outlier, the luckiest woman alive, but apparently she’s not so special after all (which, hello, is what ATG has been trying to say for years).

Here's another wedding photo. I know you just can't get enough of them.

So, that pretty much wraps this post up. I mean, what else is there to say? Harry picked a girl, who has, surprisingly, more family drama than his own (who knew that was possible), married her, and is now having babies with her. The end.

Just kidding.

How could that be the end?? There’s still so much more to say, so many more brilliant points to make, so much more judgment to spew. So buckle up.

This could take a while.

Brilliant Point #1: The UnreMarkleable Duchess is trying way too hard – proving that, although she may be an actress, she’s not a very good one.

Stay with me here. I’m not talking about her “work” on the USA show Suits. I never saw it. And to be fair, I spent the first half of my life trying to figure out how I could make a career out of playing dress-up and make-believe (heck, I’m still wondering), so who am I to judge anyone for this particular life choice? No, I’m talking about her fake, fake public persona. She just reads completely inauthentic to me. She’s always smiling like a bloody idiot while simultaneously breaking all kinds of royal protocol - by insisting on hugging every person she comes across - and sending her security detail into conniptions (on the inside; obviously the Brits don’t show external emotion). 

This poor child doesn't know what to do. Clearly even she can tell 

that this is conduct unbecoming to a duchess.

Some say Meghan behaves like this because she’s just so authentic, such a lover of people (unless you happen to be her assistant), and that she just can’t help it. Remember how William and Kate were purportedly changing the face of the monarchy? Meghan’s going them one better and changing not only the monarchy’s face, but also its behavior. Except, hold on a second, didn’t Princess Diana already do this? Only so much better? At least she managed to look authentic (probably because she was). Meanwhile, Meghan just looks so. fake. Please, girl, you’re no Diana. You’re not even a Fergie. This calculated effort to be likeable, relatable, and, let’s be honest, palatable is a major fail, fail, and fail. Time to go back to rehearsal; apparently you weren’t ready to take this show on the road.

But the inauthenticity doesn’t stop there. Oh no. Now, my friends, now, the UnreMarkleable Duchess has somehow managed to acquire an English accent after living in England for approximately 7.3 seconds. Apparently she thinks she’s Madonna. I’m not even kidding (about the accent; I don’t know if she thinks she’s Madonna). If you don’t believe me, please just watch this. (No need to read the article, just click on the video.) I've waited in line at the DMV for longer than she's lived in England and, yet, she already has an English accent. Except obviously she doesn’t really have a English accent. Without significant brain trauma, no one develops an accent in 7.3 seconds. Unless, of course, it’s totally bogus and – say it with me – completely inauthentic. I wish you could all see my face right now. My eyes have rolled so far back in my head that I can’t even see the screen as I type. But it’s not my fault. I have a severe allergy to fake accents. I blame Gwyneth.

And, if you watched the video, maybe you can answer this for me: How did this self-described feminist suddenly become a bashful, bootleg version of Kate Middleton, she who has never been known for being particularly independent in thought or deed? I mean, it’s well-documented that Kate spent many years chasing William – both literally and figuratively – waiting for him to decide if he wanted to marry her. This is the woman Meghan chooses to emulate? What would Gloria Steinem say? 

Look, all I’m saying is that I have a very hard time reconciling this new meek, mild Meghan with the person she portrayed herself to be pre-Harry. It’s hard to believe that everything about her changed when Harry met Meghan; that all her years-held ideals went flying out the window and she suddenly became a Disney princess wannabe, only becoming her true self once she was finally rescued by a handsome prince. (I, on the other hand, completely buy into this Disney princess version of life.) It’s much easier to imagine that this new Meghan is a direct result of the years she spent honing her craft. I mean, even terrible actors know how to mold themselves into certain roles, including the role of a British royal. The problem is that, unlike good actors, who make it all look so believable, bad actors end up looking insincere and inauthentic – with dopy smiles and unfortunate accents.

And, on the topic of Meghan being a less-authentic – or, to be honest, successful – version of Kate (and you know I hate to defend the Deficient Duchess), we have now reached the portion of the program we like to call Meghan the Mimic. Here is some photographic evidence of Meghan trying (and failing?) to be just like Kate, because, as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.

I must warn you, though, it’s starting to get a little Single White Female in the Palace of Buckingham.

Meghan the Mimic

Exhibit A: The way she waves.

Exhibit B: The way she holds her clutch. (The fact that she even carries a clutch is a bit strange considering her previous affinity for cross-body bags – which would obviously make those ill-advised hugs so much easier.)

Exhibit C: The way she's constantly playing with her hair.

 

Exhibit D: The way she decided to have a baby three seconds after Kate had a baby. Just kidding. She had to do that one. It’s her job. Her only job.

Here's Kate with baby #3, Prince Louis of Cambridge.

Here's Meghan gestating baby #1.

I know it's hard to see but I have it on good authority that it's happening.

Brilliant Point #2: The UnreMarkleable Duchess is a bit of an attention, um, seeker, shall we say?

Poor dear. She's clearly terribly uncomfortable in the spotlight.

Meghan sure does seem to be basking in all this attention and I, for one, find it a bit off-putting – not because I wouldn’t do the exact same thing, but because I’m here to judge others. (Hypocrisy is not a word that exists in my universe.) On the one hand, it makes a bit of sense, I suppose. She is an actress, after all. Unlike Kate, who seemed a bit uncomfortable with all the attention – despite having spent seven years being chased by the paparazzi – Meghan has spent her life in front of the camera. And after all, actors are conditioned to garner attention. Without it, their careers crash and burn. They pretend they don’t like it, but you don’t become an actor if you want to avoid attention. If you want to be constantly ignored, you become Charlie Sheen’s PR person; you don’t move to Hollywood with stars in your eyes. And you definitely don’t marry the world’s most eligible – and famous – bachelor.

That said, attention-seekers, while annoying, aren’t bad people; they’re just insecure. What does seem to be a fineable offense, however, is Meghan’s propensity to overshare – at least by royal standards. She married into a family that values discretion (read: secrecy) so much that they don’t even release their children’s names until days – sometimes weeks – after the birth, but, as a royal girlfriend, Meghan did a Vanity Fair article – which, let’s be honest, she was only offered because she was dating Prince Harry (I mean, c’mon, the title was Wild About Harry) – in which she talked extensively about her relationship. Not a huge deal if you’re an actor dating another actor. But when you’re involved with someone from a tight-lipped family, it’s a bit more problematic. Or was expected to be. Yet, Queen Elizabeth still signed off on this marriage. Prince Edward must be rolling. You know what this says to me? This dear lady is tired. Very, very tired. These a-holes have worn her out. She’s a classy broad who has had to deal with scandal after scandal after scandal, starting with her very own sister. She doesn’t want to do it anymore. If this American actress, who gives in-depth interviews about her life with Harry and relishes the spotlight, is what the SGP wants, then that is what he shall have. For better or worse.

Be careful what you wish for, Harry.

Now, one might argue that Meghan had to give the interview – as an actress it was part of her job – except the article had nothing to do with acting. Not to mention that no one cared to interview her before she was dating the SGP. And you want to know why? Because she was a supporting actress on a cable show. A cable show. It wasn’t even network. No must see TV here. She’s certainly no Angelina Jolie. No one cares what life on the set of Suits was like. They want to know what life on the arm of the SGP is like. And Meghan is happy to dish – as long as she remains firmly in the spotlight.

Brilliant Point #3: The UnreMarkleable Duchess is super clingy.

Listen, I too am clingy. I can admit it. But, as they tell me at my meetings, there’s a time and place for everything. And I would imagine that royal engagements are neither the time nor the place for such things. This seems to be proven by how senior royals have conducted themselves in public for generations. Even William and Kate, who are obviously fond of each other, seem to understand this, leaving the PDAs to a protective arm around the back or understated handhold. But not Meghan and Harry. Oh, no. They don’t care about tradition – or being understated. They refuse to be separated. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they are always touching. Like, always. They’re like Siamese twins, connected at the hand. (I don’t actually think that’s a thing.) Maybe they’re trying to give the Travoltas a run for their money. In the beginning, it was kind of cute. Now it’s just annoying. We get it. You’re married. And you’re super into each other. And you belong to each other. The world knows all this. No need to cling to each other like Howie Mandell clings to hand sanitizer. 

Sometimes I come up with these ideas in my head and then have a hard time finding photographic evidence of what I know to be true. This was not one of those times. It’s actually kind of remarkable how many photos there are of these two engaged in extensive clinginess

In fairness, Harry has always appeared more affectionate than William, but still. He’s been able to keep his hands to himself in public. Meghan, on the other hand, not so much. On the one hand, I get it. He’s the SGP. I’m not sure I could keep my hands to myself either. On the other, you’re a royal now. Get it together. I mean, I’m no body-language expert, but if I were going to pretend that I was, I might say that, in the beginning at least, her body language looked very proprietary – like she was afraid someone would steal him away if she didn’t lay claim. And again I say, we all know he belongs to you. No need to mark your territory by leaving fingernail gashes along his biceps. For his part, he certainly seems to be in love, but also somewhat uncomfortable with her demonstrativeness. Makes total sense, I suppose, considering the stoic people he comes from.

Here's the UnreMarkleable Duchess with her new, semi-stoic family, celebrating Prince Charles's 70th birthday. Is it just me or do her eyes look a little creepy? 

Listen, I don’t mean to rain on the newlyweds’ parade. I get it. They are clearly in love. May we all be so lucky as to find someone who can provide us with this same amount of love, happiness and tiaras – all while completely transforming who we are at our very core. What the future holds for this newly minted duke and duchess, only time will tell. But they remind me a bit of Prince Andrew and Fergie: hot and heavy in the beginning and fizzled out by year 10. The good news for Meghan is, if they do in fact follow the path of the Yorksters, they will remain “best friends” for years to come, have a couple of forgotten but overall well-mannered children, and, eventually, Meghan will find herself with both a lucrative book deal and a fairly well-received, though short-lived, relationship with Weight Watchers.

Silver linings, Meghan. Silver linings. 

And Don’t Call Me Sweetheart

Y’all, it may surprise you to hear this, but I don’t like Ashley Judd. It used to be a low-level hate, based mostly on her complete lack of acting ability and her face, but it’s recently risen to a DEFCON 1, maybe 2, level of hate. And, shockingly, this change in opinion is entirely unrelated to her face or lack of talent (both of which I still find fairly offensive). Apparently I’m growing as a person. I know. I’m pretty impressed with myself too.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. This new level of hate does come courtesy of her face – or at least part of it. It’s her mouth, or, more specifically, the nonsense it spews, that elicits such ire. I admit, this isn’t a new occurrence. She’s been spewing nonsense for years. Most celebrities do. But this newest nonsense offends me to my glittery core. In fact, it’s a glitterocity.

Yes, Ashley Judd’s stupidity hit Kanye levels in a recent Facebook Live post. In case you don’t feel like subjecting yourself to the insanity perpetuated in the video below, let me give you the CliffsNotes version. It all boils down to this: Ashley Judd finds it very offensive when a man calls her sweetheart. Or compliments her dress. This is, as she calls it, “everyday sexism.” That’s it in a nutshell, but in case you’re a masochist (as I apparently am) and would like a little more detail, here you go:

Ashley Judd, she who has singlehandedly taken up the fight for all women, one airport security officer at a time, recently found herself, no surprise, in an airport security line. So far so good. But it’s what happened next that really offended her delicate sensibilities.

Please brace yourself. What she was forced to endure is truly appalling and may not be suitable for the faint of heart. No human should ever be treated with such disregard.

As Princess Ashley was making her way through security, one of the guards said, wait for it, “hey, sweetheart.” What??!? The gall of him. I’m almost overwhelmed with fury. How. Dare. He. Not one to stand for such disrespect, our fearless leader, Ashley the Magnificent, quickly put this vile human in his place. She quickly reminded him that a) she wasn’t his sweetheart, and b) she was his client. Does her awesomeness know no bounds? Katemazing better watch out. There may be a new savior in town.

Unfortunately this encounter would get worse before it got better. (I know it’s tough, but we’ll get through this together.) After the peasant was reminded that he was *cough* essentially her Highness’s employee, he had the audacity to—it’s almost too upsetting to say—compliment her dress. You just can’t make this stuff up. I’m sure you would agree that this is a most egregious display of sexism, especially because She of the “nice dress” didn’t hear him compliment anyone else’s dress. I mean, obviously the compliment had nothing to do with him possibly trying to make a nice impression on a famous person. Or trying to rebound from the tongue-lashing he had just received for offending her female sensibilities. No, the only logical explanation is that he was a total sexist pig.

But, wait. There’s more.

As she was moving through the line, this presumptuous, sexist monster deigned to touch her holiness. I know. I know. It’s too much. I can’t imagine the horror. I have never been touched in an airport security line, nor have I ever seen anyone touched—incidentally or otherwise—in an airport security line; so, yet again, the only logical conclusion is that he was belittling and sexisming her.

But, wait. There’s still more. Seriously, just when you thought it couldn’t get worse...

As if he hadn’t already insulted her enough, as she gathered her belongings, trying to put this whole sordid affair behind her, this cad, this dog, this vile human being said, prepare yourself, “Have a good day, sweetheart.” I know. It’s too much. I am completely disheartened by the inhumanity of it all. How can we treat each other with such disrespect? It’s truly sickening. Perhaps you can’t know the true heinousness of the crime unless you watch the video below. But please, please if you have children in the room, remove them before watching it. Children shouldn’t have to be subjected to such ugliness.

Guys, I can’t. Considering this is a woman who is famous solely for her last name and boobs – which, incidentally, she apparently has no issue displaying ad nauseam on film – she takes herself way, way too seriously. Maybe this guy was just being nice. I’ve certainly been called honey, or sweetie, or yes even *gasp* sweetheart a time or two—by both men and women—and I’ve never found it to be particularly offensive. In fact, I almost consider it a term of endearment. Perhaps it’s my southern roots. But, then, Ashley (or perhaps that’s too familiar; would you prefer I call you Ms. Judd, sweetheart?) grew up in Kentucky so who the hell knows what her problem is?

What I am fairly certain of, however, is that turning this into another gender war is just stupid. It simplifies the issue way too much, completely dumbing it down. (Of course, this is the woman who called a conveyer belt a doohickey, so not a huge surprise.) I worked with a lovely woman this summer, the office momager if you will, who called everyone baby. Men and women alike. It didn’t feel offensive or disrespectful. But, then, I wasn’t looking for things to be offended by. Perhaps that’s the difference. And to be fair, I’ve heard plenty of women refer to men, both young and old, as sweetie or honey. Would this have elicited the same response from Her Majassty? I’m guessing no.

But if you thought all of the above was the purpose of this post, you would be wrong. Let me explain why I find this type of rant so offensive: Sexism exists. It’s an unfortunate commentary on the world, but there it is. There are women who are grossly mistreated or underestimated simply because they are women, both internationally and at home. So when a pampered princess like Ashley Judd goes on a rant because some peasant called her sweetheart, she minimizes and dilutes every legitimate claim of sexism that follows. People become so immune to the claims, so numb, that they can no longer be incensed – or even sympathetic – to authentic cries of sexism. That’s what she should be railing against: the false claims, those that lessen the legitimacy of every real one.

But of course she’s not doing that. Why do something that matters when instead you can waste everyone’s time with your elitist, easily offended, nonsense, while simultaneously slandering a guy who was probably just trying to do his job – and was perhaps a little star struck as well? All while wearing a giant floppy hat. In an airport. To avoid attention, I’m sure.

And speaking of her appearance, since she basically dared me to address it, does anyone else find it ironic that a woman who presents herself as such an I-am-woman-hear-me-roar, don’t-call-me-sweetie kind of gal has had so much plastic surgery? Do you suppose she did it for herself, to fulfill some deep-seated need within her? Because, I mean, surely she didn’t do it for a man. That would be entirely unacceptable, completely sad and utterly pathetic. After all, strong women don’t need a man’s approval.

They do, however, apparently need a lot of Botox and Restylane.

Mommy Dearest

Remember gratitude journals? I think it was an Oprah thing – from, like, 1997. Anyway, I had a teacher who was very into it and made us journal about the five things we were grateful for at the start of each class. What would have made me most grateful would have been to not have to do a stupid gratitude journal – or sit through her class – but being a firstborn, and a Virgo, I dutifully did what was asked of me. I’m pretty sure my list perpetually consisted of variations on: my family, my friends, Diet Coke, mascara, and toilet paper. And since then, I’m pretty much grateful every day that I don’t have to journal about my gratitude.

Today, however, for the first time since that class ended, I found myself considering resurrecting the gratitude journal. Yes, my friends, that’s how grateful I felt. So grateful in fact that had it been an entry in my journal, it may very well have occupied spots one through five on the list. What is it that has me exploding with gratitude you ask?

I am eternally grateful that Kelly Preston is not my mom.

Random, I know, but stick with me. Today I found myself killing time by reading various celebrity gossip pieces, and as I did, a story about John Travolta’s daughter popped up. To be clear, I forget John Travolta exists most of the time, but I’m always curious to see what the progeny of the rich and famous looks like. Spoiler alert: this particular progeny, Ella Bleu, looks a lot like her dad, which is kind of too bad. (After all, the only good thing about having Kelly Preston as your mom is looking like her.) To be clear, this sentiment is not specific to Kelly Preston or her non-look-alike daughter. The simple truth is, when a girl looks like her dad, even if he’s a handsome fella (which I don’t particularly find JTrav to be, but, hey, to each her own), it doesn’t always translate well into female attractiveness. And I’m totally allowed to say this because I, a girl, look like my dad.

Conversely, Kelly Preston is a babe. And I say that as a totally straight female. She may be a monster on the inside – which we’ll get to in a second – but on the outside, she’s pretty much gorgeous. And herein lies the problem. How does a girl—who, through no fault of her own, looks like her semi-aesthetically offensive father, while simultaneously finding herself in the throes of that awkward teenage phase—deal with the pressure of having a mother who graced the pages of People’s 50 Most Beautiful edition? That’s got to wreak havoc on a girl’s self-esteem.

And after seeing the picture below, I’m more convinced than ever that Ella is struggling with the pressures of being born to two of the world’s most beautiful People, who also happen to be the world's third and sixth most famous Scientologists. [Am I wrong, or is being born into a Scientologist household enough of a fate-wielding bitch slap to the face without adding a momster to the equation?] 

This poor girl looks like she wishes she could blend into the carpet, the door, the red pants on the lady behind her. In fact, she almost looks like an assistant or nanny or publicist hiding in the background, while her mom basks in all her B-list glory. Even that kid is allowed his moment in the spotlight, while Cinder-Ella is forced to remain hidden in the back. It kind of breaks my Grinch-sized heart.

And though it was the above picture that first caught my attention, it didn’t take long to realize that this was far from an isolated occurrence. There are a plethora of photos of Ella Bleu (or is Blue more appropriate?) standing alone in the shadows, left behind by a media-loving mother desperate to soak up the last drops of attention her waning celebrity provide. It just feels gross. Especially because Ella appears to have once had a good relationship with her mom. There are plenty of pictures of Kelly loving on her daughter. They cease, however, about the time Ella hit, I don’t know, 12(ish). And I can’t help but wonder if it’s, in part at least, because Ella has landed squarely in her “awkward phase”; and, similar to most adolescents hurdling themselves through this most unfortunate period, the younger Travolta no longer fits into the picture-perfect Travolta family image Ms. Preston (because she’s nasty – and not in a good way) is trying to perpetuate. 

BEFORE:

AFTER:

  It looks like they waited for her to turn around  
and then took off without her. 

 

Fortunately for Ella, she still has a dad who seems happy to be seen with her in public. Thank goodness for small blessings, I suppose. And speaking of blessings, I’m counting mine that I was able to endure my greasy-haired, zit-covered, deodorant-spurning years in semi-private. It's bad enough that those moments were memorialized in my yearbooks; I can’t imagine having them splashed across the internet for all the world to see. 

Cinder-Ella Bleu

Blue for a Bleu

I think what makes the lack of physical contact between mother and daughter all the more obvious is that Kelly is ALWAYS touching her husband. The photo below captured an especially cringe-worthy moment, but it's nearly impossible to find any where they’re not touching.

It's equal parts comical and gross.

We get it, guys. He’s straight. Very, very straight. So straight, in fact, that you can’t keep your hands off each other. Because your sex life is A-MAZING. Let me say one more time: We. Get. It. And I think I speak for everyone in the entire universe when I say, no one cares. At all.

Also, ewww.

I guess maybe I shouldn’t be so judgmental (ha!) about a mother's parenting choices, especially a mother who has suffered the incredible tragedy of the loss of a child. After all, no one knows for sure what goes on behind closed doors. In fact, despite what the photos seem to indicate, perhaps Kelly is actually Mother of the Year. Perhaps she stands in front of her daughter, sucking up all the attention and ignoring her child like she would a psychiatrist, in order to shield Ella from any unwanted attention.

But…

I doubt it.

Besides, that doesn’t really fit the narrative I’ve created in my head. And if I’ve learned anything during my hiatus from ATG, it’s that I don’t want to live in a world that in any way contradicts the narratives I've created in my head.

Something Bad’s About To Happen.Or Maybe It Already Did.

So, NBC has a new Sunday Night Football theme this year. Unfortunately, it still stars Carrie Underwood, but, while her previous performances seemed to simply be Faith Hill reboots, this year the bigwigs at NBC seem to be going for something a little fresher, a little dancier, a little less Faith and a little more Carrie (a decision, by the way, that I do not support; Faith was exponentially better in her SNF intro). And to this, my friends, I say, they have failed. In a big, big way. This was a bigger fail than Crystal Pepsi or, for you Millennials, Brangelina’s marriage (more on that later).

But because I’m such an optimistic person (notwithstanding that Brangelina comment), let me start with the positives: Carrie’s legs look incredible. Truly. And, well, that’s it. Carrie’s legs are all it’s got going for it. Obviously her diehard commitment to endless lunges and squats –and spray tans – has really paid off.

Now, perhaps the producers were betting on these tanned, toned legs being enough to distract the average football-loving, puberty-reaching, beer-chugging viewer of Sunday Night Football from noticing the rest of the catastrophic performance. But I am not so easily swayed. (I don’t even drink beer.) In fact, all I can feel when I watch this “performance” is embarrassment for Carrie. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure the billions of dollars NBC paid her to look like a moron is softening the blow a bit, but, seriously, what is even happening here? Is she supposed to be dancing? Skipping? Shimmying? Because all I can see when I watch it is a woman who appears to be in the throes of a minor seizure. I want to call her an ambulance, not settle in for an enjoyable evening of football.

And does it strike anyone else as odd that for a musician, she doesn’t seem to have much rhythm? And by “not much,” I mean none. She looks like a three-year-old trying to clap along to her Raffi tape (did I just date myself or what?!), with no concern for the actual beat.  

I just don’t get it. But, because I would never be so bold as to tell such an intelligent and discerning group as the ATG Nation what to think, I leave it to you beautiful people to form your own opinions.

You may begin.

Oh Say Can You See...All These Gold Medals?

July 1996. I remember it like it was yesterday (which is weird since I’m pretty sure I was only two in 1996). I was obsessed with the Olympics that year – or, more specifically, women’s gymnastics. The Magnificent Seven was everything I wanted to be: Polished. Successful. Respected. Toned. They were perfection. From Shannon Miller killing it on the uneven bars, to Dominique Moceanu’s flawless floor routine, to Dominique Dawes (my favorite) nailing it on balance beam, these girls were on fire.

The Magnificent Seven back in the day. Y'all, this was 20 years ago.
How is that possible?!!

The Magnificent Seven today(ish)

They were in a position to win the United States's first team gold EVER in the HISTORY of women’s gymnastics. All they had to do was hand in a solid performance on vault. It was cake. They loved vault. They were strong on vault. The gold was all but theirs.

And then...this:

And this:

All of a sudden, the inevitable wasn’t looking so certain. Or evitable.

Especially after this:

In the blink of an eye – or crack of an ankle – the Americans’ victory was in serious jeopardy.

And then, just as it started to look like the gold was all but lost, Kerri Strug, fueled by pure adrenaline and fear of Bela Karolyi, did something amazing - and propelled her miniature self into America’s hearts and Olympic history in the process.

Yes, my friends, Kerri Strug nailed her second vault. Nailed it. And then remembered to salute the judges. All on essentially one leg, as her other leg was seriously injured. In that one second, she made Olympic history and insured that the American women would take home their first gymnastics team gold. As it turns out, the Americans didn’t even need Kerri's score in order to win, but that doesn’t make her performance any less incredible. In that moment, she embodied all that is the Olympic spirit, nay the American spirit. We may disagree on politics, religion, and Taylor Swift’s talent level, but when it comes to the Olympics, we Americans are a united bunch.

It’s inspiring. And, even though I had absolutely nothing to do with any American victory, I feel like I have personally accomplished something great when an American medals. Probably because, as discussed above, we are all one, united in victory, which I'm pretty sure basically means we've all won those medals. Without even leaving the couch - or breaking a sweat. Unless you’re Aly Raisman’s parents.

And speaking of Aly Raisman, if it is possible to capture the magic of the Magnificent Seven, the 2016 women’s gymnastics team has certainly done it. They are America's Sweethearts: The Next Generation.

The 2016 U.S. Women's Gymnastics Team

I'd like to give a special shout-out to Aly, who has repeatedly played silver fiddle to her younger, newer teammates, but has shown nothing but class and dignity through it all. In fact, although it pains me to say it, the 2016 team may be even better than the 1996 team in some ways, specifically in their genuine support of each other. They seem to really like each other and revel in each other’s successes (except perhaps Gabby Douglas, who couldn’t even be bothered to give her teammates a standing ovation. The only way this is even remotely acceptable behavior is if her leg was literally broken, and even then, it's questionable. American gymnasts can do amazing things on broken limbs. See: Kerri Strug).

But, overall, the Americans have represented well in Rio. And the issues with Ryan Lochte et al cannot tarnish it (too much). I hate to pay too much attention to the stupidity that is Lochte, but I suppose it warrants a brief mention. When I first started penning this post, the story was still very much a he said/he said situation as to whether the swimmers or the police were telling the truth. Now, however, there’s video. And this video seems to indicate that Ryan Lochte is a big, fat, lying liar face, which is probably why he – and fellow swimmer Jimmy Feigen – were indicted for falsely reporting a crime.

However, yesterday morning, Feigen agreed to pay almost $11,000 in return for being allowed to leave the country. (The three other swimmers were already back in the U.S.) They call it a “donation” and Feigen’s attorney says the money will go to an “institution,” or “charity.” Apparently this is totally legal in Rio. I believe in the U.S., however, we call this something else, and it rhymes with mribery. Apparently one man’s blackmail is another man's donation.

The fibbing foursome

And that about sums it up. The Americans acted like idiots and then lied about it. The Brazilians overreacted and then engaged in what appears to be extortion. But all's well that ends well, I suppose. The Americans (one of whom is a fellow Longhorn; I've never been so proud) are back in the States, and the Brazilians are a little wealthier because of it. Everyone wins. Or loses, depending on your perspective. We could just leave it there - but that would be extraordinarily boring and so not ATG.

So on that note, here are my unsolicited, unfiltered, and probably uneducated opinions:

1. Rio has been faced with a lot of really bad press during these Olympic Games. From inadequate and unsafe living quarters in the Olympic Village, to Zika, to putting the wrong chemical in the diving pool, to a number of Olympic athletes being robbed and assaulted in their fair city, Rio has a lot to overcome. It makes sense, then, that they would want to make an example out of these guys; make sure that the entire world knew that this most recent tale of woe was in fact entirely fabricated, and that Rio is actually entirely safe not quite as terrifying as we originally thought.
2. If I were one of the three less-famous swimmers who were detained in Brazil after Ryan Lochte’s escape to the States, I’d have been pissed. Especially because it was his interview with Billy Bush that set this whole thing in motion. You didn't seen any of the other swimmers talking to the press about it. It was just Lochte. Being Lochte. And, as is generally the case, the ringleader got off scot-free and escaped without punishment. Life is so unfair. On the other hand, perhaps I’m being too hard on Lochte. It's probably because I don’t like him. At all. In fact, if I thought he was capable of concocting any plan more complex than eating breakfast or scratching himself, I might think he had facilitated this entire thing. Which leads me to -
3. Ryan Lochte is an idiot. Like, a total moron. And could a total moron really weave such a tangled web? Especially when all of his brain cells are so busy trying to remember not to breathe under water? Apparently he could. But, not so surprisingly, this moron also apparently overestimated his brilliance and scheming abilities, which is why he was so quickly caught in his big fat lie. Next time, Ryan, leave the thinking to those of us who don’t have chlorine-soaked brains or look like ‘roided up Smurfs.

Regardless, it’s really too bad that in an Olympic Games full of wonderful, inspiring stories, this is the story getting most of the press.

But, because I hate to end on such a negative note, I leave you with this gem. It is sure to bring a smile to your face and a song to your heart.

Unless you’re from the Philippines.*

*Please note how proud they both appear to be of their performances – and I use the term “performance” loosely. I didn’t even know a score of 0 was possible. But I will give them an A for Effort.

Celebrating the Similar

We at ATG love a good doppelgänger. From celebs to athletes, we love calling attention to each other’s similarities. After all, if we could only learn to focus on our similarities instead of our differences, wouldn’t the world, nay the universe, be a better place? But that’s ATG for you. Making the universe a better place one blog post at a time.

So in the interest of our continued role as the great uniters of the universe, the role you’ve come to expect from us, we bring you this doppelgänger-filled celebration of similarities, sure to unite all the land. And for this installment, we have chosen to highlight the Real Housewives. Heaven knows they could use an extra shot or two of love and light – and perhaps a couple fewer of Botox and Restylane.

Now, don’t expect us to go for the low-hanging fruit. We’ve never been ones to take the easy route. There will be no comparisons of New Jersey’s Melissa Gorga to a horse, nor Beverly Hills’s Kyle Richards to Demi Moore (honestly, I think Kyle looks more like The Firm’s Jennifer Carman anyway), nor even New Jersey’s Joe Guidice to a hobbit. No, we won’t mention a word of it.

And it is precisely because we aim a little higher that our comparisons may take a little more work to see, but I assure you that they aren’t any less true. At least in my head. And if you’ve learned anything by now, dear readers, it’s that if it exists in my head, it’s gospel.

[Disclaimer: As I’m sure we all know, doppelgängers don’t always look super doppelgängy when put side-by-side, so I would encourage you to approach this post as you would an abstract painting. Don’t look directly at the pictures, or, if you must, perhaps try to blur your vision a little. But however you choose to examine it, all I ask is that you bear with me, even if the similarities aren’t super obvious to you at first. After all, we’re trying to unite here. And the first step to unification is agreeing with everything I say.]

Now, without further ado, I give you...  

New York’s Sonja Morgan as Barbra Streisand

Her Ladyship (L) and that Funny Lady (R)

Sonja Morgan, everyone’s favorite delusional diva. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she fancied herself a bit of a Barbra. She is, after all, very important. With very important friends. It’s probably why she finds it necessary to have interns “working” for her. I’m not entirely sure why you need interns (that’s internS, plural) when you don’t have a job, but I guess those care packages for your daughter don’t pack themselves.

New York’s Carole Radziwill as Nicky Hilton

The princess (L) and the heiress (R)

Ironically, Nicky Hilton is the niece of another Housewives “star,” Kyle Richards, as well as the sister of the infamous Paris Hilton, who "we" obviously all know from her “work” in the “film” 1 Night in Paris (not coming to a theater near you and not in any way safe for work).

Carole, on the other hand, was married to Jackie Kennedy’s nephew, who also happened to be a prince. Of something. This makes Carole a princess. I used to think the only thing princess-like about her was her title, but this season she’s begun to take on a bit of a princess attitude as well. And not in a good way. Apparently her new role as BFF to the insufferable Bethenny Frankel and cougar to a vegan chef makes her better than everyone else. Newsflash, Carole: You’re on a reality show. You’re not out curing cancer. You spend your days curling your hair, plumping your lips, and judging people. I’m not saying I don’t support all of these activities, but if the toughest decision you make all day is whether to wear waterproof or non-waterproof mascara, you don’t have much of a leg (of superiority) to stand on. Sorry, princess.

And speaking of the miserable Bethenny Frankel…

New York’s Bethenny Frankel as The Grinch

I know. It's hard to tell which is the actual Grinch.
They're both so unlikeable. 

I completely understand why you may not have ever noticed this similarity. I only see it when she smiles, which pretty much never happens. Because she’s an insufferable witch. Perhaps she needs a little (more?) Who-pudding, a little more spontaneous singing, and/or a little more circle time in her life so that her Grinch-sized heart can do a little growing itself.

But I’m not holding my breath.

Orange County’s Lydia McLaughlin as the sea creatures from The Little Mermaid

It’s the eyes, guys. It’s all in the eyes. Lydia has very large eyes. (Thank you, Captain Obvious.) But I’m not being critical. Seriously. In fact, she’s done quite well for herself considering she’s the daughter of a woman who is not only a serious pothead, but who also fancies herself a fairy. I mean, Lydia’s mom may be a very well-to-do pothead/fairy, but she’s a pothead/fairy none the less.

I’m starting to think, though, that maybe this comparison is a little mean; completely true, but mean. And she does seem like a nice lady. Maybe we can find a more complimentary comparison.

Is this better?

C’mon! Sebastian is adorable!

Okay, how about this? A Disney princess matched with a girl whose mom sprinkles fairy dust on strangers. Perfect.

By the way, this post is already longer than Lydia’s entire time on Orange County.

But since we’re on the topic of princesses –

New York’s Dorinda Medley as Princess Diana

The laundry-loving lady (L) and Lady Diana (R)

Unlike Dorinda, I would assume that Diana (RIP) never got naked wasted in public, nor would she have settled for a vertically – slash – horizontally challenged, red-faced, dry cleaner boyfriend who treated her like crap. At least not one without a title. But other than those small differences, these two are essentially the same person. (No disrespect to either.) I mean, their names even start with the same letter. Coincidence? Doubtful. Sure, Dorinda is a little less refined than the princess, but that’s what makes her so darn fun. And slightly unbalanced.

But, remember, no disrespect.

And for our finale, we move from princesses to kings. Of the jungle.

New Jersey’s Dina Manzo as the King of the Jungle

I think this one is pretty self-explanatory

Her personality may be more reminiscent of a hyena, with her constant screeching and (verbally) attacking the weaker Housewives, but her maxillofacial area definitely reads lion. Besides, if this post were about personality doppelgängers the comparisons would be entirely different. And less interesting. Who cares about personalities anyway? It’s what’s on the outside that matters. (I learned that from watching reality TV.)

And thus ends our smorgasbord of similarities. Are you all feeling all warm and fuzzy – and unified – now? Good, now go pay it forward.