I don't mean to be fastidious or to compare myself to others -- the Bible says not to do that. But have you ever watched those makeover shows on tv? There's this show called 10 Years Younger and I was watching it the other day in my nonexistent free time when it hit me. These people don't really need a makeover.

Think about it.

They choose someone who is already relatively thin, has a few wrinkles here and there, needs an updated look because they haven't looked in the mirror since the mid-80s. Then they proceed to transform the person, man or woman, into a glam girl or guy with microdermabrasion, hair color, makeup (no, not the guys), and a new outfit.

Well, who wouldn't look better if they could afford to do all that!? But the average person can't pay for those things!

I always partake in the sin of covetousness after watching a show like that. I have acne scars on my face, an extraordinarily large Jewish nose (a little gift from my father -- how nice), and a size quadruple AAAA bust. I try to make up for these things with my sparkling personality, amazing wit, fashion sense -- I used to work for a fashion magazine, and passion for life. Sometimes these things don't work. Sometimes they do (see phat knees post below).

I challenge you "makeover show" people who only make over people who don't need making over, to take me on. Fix this nose, implant large fake body parts in all the proper places, scrape my face until the scars are gone, and while you're at it, buy ME expensive outfits and makeup and hairstyles.

The photo above was taken 10 years ago. So now everyone can see what I looked like when I was 10 years younger. There's actually an interesting story behind that photo. I did a glamour shots photo session, and when I got the proofs Steve didn't like any of them. He didn't like the hat I chose or the poses they put me in. So I went back and this time Mr. Television Producer went in with me. He chose the outfit, the poses, and basically produced the whole photo shoot. Then I went out while he was still talking to the photographer about f-stops or somesuch thing.

I opened the curtain and there before me were ten pairs of angry eyes. It was 8:45 pm and they had taken so long with me that ten people behind me who were all made up with hair done had to be sent home with rain checks for future makeover/photo sessions. The icy glares haunted me every time I looked at that photo for at least two years. It was terrible!!

And Steve just laughed about it!

There was only one other time I was tempted to strangle my husband and that was when I was in labor, waiting for the Petocin to kick in and he decided to go grab a snack down at the snack machines two floors down with the anesthesiologist. Hear me now. WITH THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST!

The medicine kicked in, and I had seven of the worst contractions of my life. By the time the nurse got the anesthesiologist back upstairs, snacks in hand and my husband in tow, it was too late. I can still see in slow motion the nurse leaving the room saying, "I'm sorry, it's tooooo laaaaaate!!!" and flying down the hall to get the doctor to come in and catch this baby that was popping out of me. I had a total of 13 contractions. Twenty minutes of labor. It felt like twenty hours. It hurt. I could have killed both Steve AND the anesthesiologist. Aren't they supposed to stay nearby? Isn't that what "on call" means?

I guess I don't care if I look 10 years younger. I just want to look like I got enough sleep last night -- which I didn't because every night for the past ten and a half years there has been a little boy in my bed. Yes, the same little boy who popped out so suddenly while his mother's burning flesh seared, her agony evident only to the discerning eye as witnessed by the redness of her face and the expression of seething anger toward two men who will never know what it's like to poop out a baby au naturelle.

Pardon the segue (that's "seg-way" for my non-collegiate friends who always tell me I use words they don't understand and for my daughter's friends who tell her the same thing. Don't get me started on public education...)

But why can't this boy sleep in his own bed for more than half the night? I remember doing the same thing when I was young. But he's a boy. What is it about a mother's cuddles that wakes him up in the middle of the night and draws him to my side? I'm not knocking it -- he's my youngest and one day he'll be ashamed that he even did this at all -- but why?

I am groggy all day, can't string two sentences together until massive amounts of caffeine have pried my eyelids open halfway, and all because of that little bugger lying next to me. Last night, he decided there wasn't enough room (well, yeah, he's TEN!) and crawled to the foot of the bed. By morning, he was totally upside down and I had feet in my face. Nice.

I guess I'll keep him, though. He's kinda cute.

So talk to me. You have to click on this little bitty button beside where it says how many comments there are at the end of this post to leave me a message. It's really sort of hard to find the little button. I think it is, anyway. Maybe I just need more sleep!

Yours,

Megan Elizabeth,
alias "The Princess" of The Princess and the Pea
or to my husband, his precious Jewish American Princess
(What is this preoccupation with royalty I've suddenly developed?)