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Authors: Jenny McCarthy
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legally.
• If needed, you can muzzle him.
• If you throw up, he will clean it up for you.
My Wet Dreams
I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never, never, never let you forget you’re a man!
Am I completely dating myself to ask if you remember that little jingle from the Enjoli perfume ad of the 1970s? Well, Google it if you don’t know it. And be prepared to laugh.
Though I can indeed bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never, never, never let my man forget he’s a man … I’m exhausted. Aren’t you?
An average working day (one that doesn’t include long-distance travel, an evening event, a photo shoot, or a publisher meeting) for me begins at 5:00 a.m. and ends around 11:00 p.m. I spend a lot of time taking care of Evan—getting him ready for his day, cooking for him, and helping him with his homework. I spend a lot of time in a car getting to and from work. I spend a lot of time
at
work. And answering phone calls and emails.
Like anyone else, I pick up around the house, go tothe grocery store, sort the mail, and pay the bills. In my “free” time I blog, write an advice column, and write books. I also like to throw a love life in there, and that takes time and energy.
Some days I’m really on my game, don’t piss anyone off, take A+ care of my son, and can bring a little Playmate to my romantic relationship. Other days, not so much—I’m impatient and overextended, and I’m lucky if I can keep up with Evan’s
playdates
.
I know I shouldn’t complain. I can afford help with some of these tasks, and I usually take a car service to and from work instead of battling traffic from behind the wheel myself (but I work in New York City so I don’t really have a choice). Through my work, I get to meet a lot of smart and famous people. Sometimes the people are both of these things (but brains and fame don’t always go together). And I’ve got my health, so I’m thankful. (Health is one thing, looks are another. As I get older I have to spend an increasing amount of time trying to look younger, which sucks, but my sisters tell me I’m looking more and more like Jimmy Carter so I’ve got to do something.) But the exhaustion … it’s brutal. To reference another old ad, I swear that sometimes I just want to yell, “Calgon, take me away!” To lie back in a massive bathtub with acres of soothing, fragrant bubbles and hot, hot water and let
someone else be me
. That’s my kind of wet dream (pun intended).
I also often wonder what it would be like to have someone else’s life. A simpler, less public one. Like, maybe, the life of a high school guidance counselor?
Seriously, that’s an advice giver’s fantasy job. You sit in your cute little office—which is decorated cheerily with a positive-affirmation-a-day desk calendar and encouraging comic strips posted on the cork bulletin board above the computer screen—and you chat with and cheer up teenagers whose biggest problem is the C+ they are getting in physics or not making the varsity cheerleading squad. (
Poor babies!
Remember when life was
that
simple?) You go to faculty meetings where you can nap without anyone noticing. Plus, the school day is over around three, so if need be, you can hit several happy hours on the way home to wash away any aggravations of the day. And summers off? Dreamy!
Wait, but what if I misdiagnose garden-variety teenage funk and miss the signs of threatened suicide? How would I say something new and convincing in every college recommendation I’m asked to write? Would all the people I meet be interesting, or would some be angry, worried, and helicoptering parents? Oh, and what about having to fend off pervy advances from the PE teacher? And all that advice giving doesn’tleave much time for online poker. And I’d probably have to spend my summers catching up on sleep and getting up the nerve to go back to work in September (which probably ruins all of August). I wouldn’t have a car
• If needed, you can muzzle him.
• If you throw up, he will clean it up for you.
My Wet Dreams
I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never, never, never let you forget you’re a man!
Am I completely dating myself to ask if you remember that little jingle from the Enjoli perfume ad of the 1970s? Well, Google it if you don’t know it. And be prepared to laugh.
Though I can indeed bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never, never, never let my man forget he’s a man … I’m exhausted. Aren’t you?
An average working day (one that doesn’t include long-distance travel, an evening event, a photo shoot, or a publisher meeting) for me begins at 5:00 a.m. and ends around 11:00 p.m. I spend a lot of time taking care of Evan—getting him ready for his day, cooking for him, and helping him with his homework. I spend a lot of time in a car getting to and from work. I spend a lot of time
at
work. And answering phone calls and emails.
Like anyone else, I pick up around the house, go tothe grocery store, sort the mail, and pay the bills. In my “free” time I blog, write an advice column, and write books. I also like to throw a love life in there, and that takes time and energy.
Some days I’m really on my game, don’t piss anyone off, take A+ care of my son, and can bring a little Playmate to my romantic relationship. Other days, not so much—I’m impatient and overextended, and I’m lucky if I can keep up with Evan’s
playdates
.
I know I shouldn’t complain. I can afford help with some of these tasks, and I usually take a car service to and from work instead of battling traffic from behind the wheel myself (but I work in New York City so I don’t really have a choice). Through my work, I get to meet a lot of smart and famous people. Sometimes the people are both of these things (but brains and fame don’t always go together). And I’ve got my health, so I’m thankful. (Health is one thing, looks are another. As I get older I have to spend an increasing amount of time trying to look younger, which sucks, but my sisters tell me I’m looking more and more like Jimmy Carter so I’ve got to do something.) But the exhaustion … it’s brutal. To reference another old ad, I swear that sometimes I just want to yell, “Calgon, take me away!” To lie back in a massive bathtub with acres of soothing, fragrant bubbles and hot, hot water and let
someone else be me
. That’s my kind of wet dream (pun intended).
I also often wonder what it would be like to have someone else’s life. A simpler, less public one. Like, maybe, the life of a high school guidance counselor?
Seriously, that’s an advice giver’s fantasy job. You sit in your cute little office—which is decorated cheerily with a positive-affirmation-a-day desk calendar and encouraging comic strips posted on the cork bulletin board above the computer screen—and you chat with and cheer up teenagers whose biggest problem is the C+ they are getting in physics or not making the varsity cheerleading squad. (
Poor babies!
Remember when life was
that
simple?) You go to faculty meetings where you can nap without anyone noticing. Plus, the school day is over around three, so if need be, you can hit several happy hours on the way home to wash away any aggravations of the day. And summers off? Dreamy!
Wait, but what if I misdiagnose garden-variety teenage funk and miss the signs of threatened suicide? How would I say something new and convincing in every college recommendation I’m asked to write? Would all the people I meet be interesting, or would some be angry, worried, and helicoptering parents? Oh, and what about having to fend off pervy advances from the PE teacher? And all that advice giving doesn’tleave much time for online poker. And I’d probably have to spend my summers catching up on sleep and getting up the nerve to go back to work in September (which probably ruins all of August). I wouldn’t have a car
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