It's Complicated. (How Many Times Have I Said That This Year?)

How much did I LOVE the movie "It's Complicated"? Meryl was wonderful, of course, and as I may have mentioned before on Dreaming in Dior, I absolutely love everything she does as an actress. She is hugely talented, and since I used to DREAM of becoming an actress myself (and nearly pursued it, at the age of 18) I've always admired her career. Everything she touches turns to gold.

I think what I loved even more about the movie "It's Complicated" is that it was so honest, and so frank. Alec and Meryl were hilarious, and if you're in the mood for a movie night with your girls, or a super cute date movie, go see this one.

I would've gone back to the movies to see it a 2nd time, but it's almost Oscar season, and since I didn't become an A-list actress, I figure I still have to stay informed about what's going on in Hollywood. I live vicariously through the red carpet.

Are You There, Tiger? It's Me, LC

Dear Tiger Woods,

At this very moment, legions of angry women around the world want to burn you at the stake. Millions of women are praying for Elin, and simultaneously cursing the day you were born.

I’m not one of those women, Tiger.

Actually, I’m thinking more along the lines of the BILLIONS of men out there who are thinking, “Man, you really screwed up. Why didn’t you get a PREPAID phone, jackass?” Perhaps it’s because my best friend is a man, or maybe it’s because I grew up with boys. Whatever the reason, I don’t hate you for cheating, Tiger.

Instead, I have a few pieces of advice. Think of me as the little sister you never had. Tiger, you lucky bastard! Here it goes:

1. Next time you cheat (because let’s face it, you will) please hire a WOMAN as a personal assistant who is slick enough to arrange all of your “meetings” (a.k.a.: sex-capades) for you. Find yourself a “guy’s girl.” Not one of these pansy-ass chicks who have big mouths and sit around and gossip, bitch about their husbands, and finger-snap with their girlfriends while drinking some sissy ass martinis. Nope. Fuck that shit. You need to get yourself a girl who can manipulate the shit out of your wife, send her to Tupperware parties to get her out of your hair, and then schedule you in some side sex in between your time on the course and your next photo op. Get yourself a personal assistant who is smart enough to know how a woman’s mind works, but level-headed enough to know how to handle both the head on your shoulders, and the one in your pants. Actually, the woman you need to hire? Is ME. Hit me up, Tiger. I need a new job, with health benefits, thank you very much.

2. Keep all golf clubs hidden from the women who you are cheating on/with. I don’t give a shit what anyone in the media (or you, or Elin) claim, we all know that poor girl went off the deep end and started beating your ass with a club. Just thank your lucky stars you didn’t marry yourself a Mexican or Black girl. I think I speak for the collective whole when I say, us chicas of color? Would’ve torched your Escalade, with you in it. Has your half-black ass not seen Waiting to Exhale? What were you thinking? If you thought marrying a white girl was gonna make life easier, I have two words for you: Britney Spears. White girls have a thing for beating cars with umbrellas, golf clubs, you name it. Date a Mexican girl next time. We’re used to getting cheated on.

3. Raise the bar, Tiger. I know you lost your Dad, and out of grief, might have gone a little crazy. I know you were micromanaged your whole life. But that still gives you no excuse to cheat with girls who look like back alley hoes. Your mistresses? Not so hot, Tiger. I understand, you don’t care, as long as they have a vagina. But when you’re a billionaire, Tiger, I think you need to set your standards higher. Going back to me being hired as your assistant, I know plenty of sluts. I’d be happy to set you up. And the good thing is, not one of them is smart enough to even be able to READ a book, much less WRITE a book describing your affair.

4. Those pictures in your wallet? The ones cozied up next to the Magnums? Next time you want a quick piece of ass from some random hoe, pull out those pictures. Not for nothing, but nobody wants to grow up knowing their pops was once a big time puto. (That’s Spanish for whore, Tiger. Live it. Learn it.)

5. The rehab center you’re going to? Is in my home state. Big ups to AZ! Only a state with this many Republicans and Mormons would be the place to come “dry out” when you have a problem with sex addiction (which is a fancy-schmancy way of saying that you can’t keep your schlong in your pants.) If there’s one place that could put someone off sex, it would be Wickenburg.

On that note, I will wish you well, and hope that you can either fix whatever’s broken with your wife, or have an amicable divorce. (If such a thing exists.) Hey, try not to give your mother-in-law anymore heart attacks, okay? She’s from Sweden, those bitches can’t take shit like us American girls. They’re socialists, for Christ’s sake. We’re used to getting dicked over here in the states. Swedes? Not so much. Instead of boning everything with nail polish, try picking up a copy of New York Times, and you might learn about all of this, doll.

Best of luck to you, and hope to work for you sometime soon.

Sincerely,
LC

P.S.—As your future personal assistant, I will work tirelessly to make sure photos of you, like the one above, will never be released to the public. Because seriously? You look really constipated in this picture.

Happens Every Day: LC's Must-Read Book of the Week

I love memoirs. Perhaps it’s because I’m a storyteller; as a writer, it’s second nature to explain a personal experience to someone as though I’m writing my own memoir. Somehow, telling people the bullshit that I’ve been through seems to help them through difficult times and gain some clarity they didn’t have before.

This is by far one of the most incredible memoirs I’ve ever read. Isabel Gilles’ voice in the book shines through; you can tell she is a novice at the whole writing thing, but it’s that voice—a real, true voice of a woman who survived the worst possible heartache—that makes even the biggest cynic empathize with her.

When her husband gets a new job in a small town in the Midwest as a professor at a university, Isabel is forced to move her two young sons and become a stay-at-home Mom. When he begins coming home a little later, she realizes he is having an affair with the woman who just started working in his department, and they finally decide to be together, despite much begging and pleading from Isabel. There is a scene in the book where she suspects the woman, who she befriended, was having an affair with her husband, and when she talks about infidelity while they are in a movie theatre together, her husband’s mistress turns to her and says, “It happens every day.”

When I read this book for the first time in the summer, it hit close to home for a few reasons, personal reasons…and flashbacks of the times I’ve been hurt and felt broken flooded back. When I was staying with Auntie Gloria in Las Cruces, New Mexico in summer this past year, she let me (as usual) stay in her bedroom, and as I laid in that big bed at night and read most of the book, I found myself in a little ball, crying as I read the last part of the memoir. It was so real and so heartfelt, it pulled at my heartstrings in a way a memoir ideally should.

Pick up a copy for yourself at your local library if you’re a recessionista, or if you’re the type who likes to add a new and wonderful book to your bookshelf, visit your local Barnes and Noble, or www.bn.com, or Borders Books and Music today. Everyone has a story, and this one desperately needed to be told.