You're not gonna BELIEVE this

I know it's probably bad karma to start the year with some gossipy awfulness but I've never met a blind item I didn't like. And this one, friends, is a doooozy. (Complements of Dlisted, my source for the good stuff. Plus they always provide the answers.)

It was mystifying several years ago why she was hyped the way she was hyped. Just another starlet with no real significant starring vehicles somehow ending up with a prestigious magazine cover proclaiming her as the next It. Well It never happened. And after all this time and a string of failures, she’s been trying to change the course. So she’s gone back to the major player who tried to make it happen for her the first time. There was an arrangement back then – her sexual services for his professional services – and apparently the same arrangement was resurrected recently in the hopes that she’ll finally confirm a juicy role to kickstart a stagnant career.

Never mind that he’s married. His wife benefits handsomely from his generosity and while he may not fulfill her with fidelity, he certainly makes up for it through client exchange. Probably better that way. And given what he looks like, it totally makes sense. But he is a legend in the business both for his accomplishments and for the way he leads these ladies to their accomplishments, counting a couple of award winners and a few box office heavyweights on his resumé…which is why he quickly tired of our poor girl and discarded her.

But not before drying her out. One day late summer, they were joined in a hotel suite by a third gentleman (identity insignificant), both of them enjoying her as she allowed herself to be taken, and, um, decorated appropriately, all for a reward at the end of the session – the privilege of simply looking at a script, no promise, no confirmation…just an advance read. And a suggestion to show up at a premiere for a few introductions. She is so desperate, it’s been so meagre, she submitted to the humiliation although gamely seems to have enjoyed it. An actor after all, obviously able to shut out her husband and child waiting for her back at home.

And then he just cut it off. Told her he could no longer help her. That her body in his bed was no longer required. Which of course only added to her degradation. She tried and tried to offer up more, willing to engage in further depravity, but was only met with rejection. Because he’s moved on. He’s hunting his next target. A young, nubile, blonde babe with a large profile and a perky rack who so far has been able to resist his advances but is trying to graduate from supporting roles in film, as the fact that she’s a headliner on the small screen has not helped with the quality of scripts she’s being offered, or with many of her auditions so far. She’s currently waiting on a big break and he’s trying to make sure it doesn’t happen, so that in her disappointment, she’ll come running to him, ready to wheel and deal.

Note: there are 4 famous names at play – the reject, the replacement, the power player, and his wife. (Lainey Gossip)

Is this a blind item or an excerpt from Jackie Collin's new novel?! Okay, I'll go with the majority and guess Harvey Weinstein as the power player, Georgina Chapman as the wife, Gretchen Mol as the reject and Blake Lively as the replacement?

Anyone else need a shower?

We all know that blind items are probably bullshit. Plus the details in this one seem impossibly insider. (IF it's true, who's spilling the beans? You know Weinstein ain't yapping about it.) But stuff like this has to go on, right? (Cue Megan Fox.) The casting couch never made an appearance when I was in Hollywood (being decidedly non-nubile probably helped - hindered? - me in that regard) but there was definitely a vibe going on, especially in meetings. I never figured out how to play the game (which explains my resume) but I can totally see how this kind of awfulness could happen.

Makes me glad I stick with commercials. Nobody's asking you to blow them for a Purina spot.

When Christmas gets hijacked by Crazy

Ho-Ho-Ho! Hope your holidays were merry and bright. (I'm pretty sure most of them were white. Let it snow, indeed.) I spent mine watching a blissed out now-2-year-old attempt to scale grandma and grandpa's enormous Christmas boxes ("Open dis! Open dis gift!") and by eating my weight in everything. It's not a successful holiday if your pants still fit, right? Oh, I also spent 3 days convinced that I was knocked up which added a nice bit of suspense to the festivities.

I had all the symptoms, even the gross ones. But mostly I just felt... familiar. The nausea and tiredness, the don't-touch-me boobs, the aching back, the twinges - those I could explain away as PMS. But there's a very specific feeling you get when you're pregnant - it's hard to describe but instantly recognizable. I had it. Hard. Hard enough to make me take 3 pregnancy tests even though I knew it was too early for the hormone to register on the stick. It's tough to stay focused when you're pretty sure you're carrying a Christmas miracle.

Matt: "Anybody want wine with dinner?"
Me: "Yes. Well, maybe not. I mean, it's probably okay to but... Yeah, I'll have some. Wait - no."

Grandma: "Do you want to watch House Hunters?"
Me: "What if it's twins?!"

I mean, it wasn't inconceivable that I would be pregnant but the chances were slim. Owen didn't come easy (2 years. Holla.) and as someone who's far too acquainted with the finer points of conception, the math didn't add up. But the FEELING! I had it! It was there and it was real.

And then it wasn't. One morning I woke up and everything felt different. I was still tired and bloated, but the boobs? The keen and irritating sense of smell? Gone completely. Completely.

I'm not pregnant. I just took my fourth - and, sadly, final - test. But I still can't explain the eerie certainty.

Ho-Ho-HO, don't get me started...

So I did my first Big Deal interview. It was fine. Maybe. I think. In my brain there was much more witty back-and-forthing. A few more high fives. Perhaps an invitation to dine at one of his amazing establishments. (Pretty much every fantasy I have ends that way.) Unfortunately, it didn't quite roll like that. Everybody was very, very nice. Nobody mentioned the awkward silences as I looked up the next question. It was a little like being on a blind date minus the sexual chemistry, but with a job on the line. So, you know, fun.

But I'm done (well, I still have to write the thing) and busy getting ready for the grandparents. Can I just say that Christmas with a toddler is way more fun than Christmas without? Granted, my Christmases usually consisted of a Hickory Farms cheese ball and 24 hours of "A Christmas Story", but having the little guy around to bake cookies for (not that we've done that) and see Santa with (haven't done that either) and sing Jingle Bells to (that we've managed. Over and over. And over and over and over and over) is definitely cool. He'll be turning 2 in 5 days and I've already wiped out the dollar store buying stuff for it. (There's no party. I just like paper hats.) Last year I spent hours - literal hours - crafting a nonsense of a 1st birthday cake. (Carrots, flax oil, wheat germ, whole wheat flour, ground up raisins. Happy Birthday, kid!) This year? Please. While I can't bring myself to go full-on Betty Crocker (partially hydrogenated oil and corn syrup are still out), he will be getting chocolate cake spackled with homemade vanilla frosting and sprinkles. There will also be ice cream. And presents. Last year all the poor kid got from us was a balloon. My how things change.

And, er, don't. At almost 2, Owen is still a crap sleeper. Let me rephrase: my wonderful son sleeps how he sleeps, and I am working hard to come to terms with that. After two years of fritzing and worrying and whining and reading, I think it's time to accept that my child will probably always struggle with sleep. Some children are prone to temper tantrums, some cry all the time. My kid wakes up often and early. I comfort myself with the thought that at the very least, this will eventually end. There isn't a single 15-year-old who jumps out of bed, ready to race to school. Still, articles like this make me want to throw something. For those who don't feel like reading, it basically says that kids who have trouble with sleep during the first few years tend to have cognitive issues later on.

Thank you, Science.

Who are these articles for? They can't be for parents because all they serve to do is make people like me feel even worse about a miserable situation. It's not like parents of non-sleepers are happy about the lack of shut eye or that we haven't tried (and tried and tried) to fix it. Warning us that we're in for a world of hurt later on... I mean, what's the point? It's not any of these pieces ever offer a solution. (At least this one admitted that fact.)

He did sleep until 6 this morning and only woke up once. That, friends, is the magic of Christmas.

Is it really this big a deal?

Married folks, you needs to read this.

The author of this story has some big ballsy balls. It would have been easy to pull punches when discussing the deeply private parts of her marriage, but she goes there. Really goes there.

I'm curious to see what you think. I finished it and gave my man a big, grateful kiss. (But not a French one, because those are indeed gross.)

Does this mean I write off dinner at Shake Shack?

So I ran across a book about blogging called "Nobody Cares What You Had For Lunch". It's filled with tips for creating interesting blog posts. Good idea, right? But here's the thing - I'm DYING to know what you had for lunch. That kind of little stuff fascinates me. I mean, sure, reading about every tedious moment of every tedious day isn't necessarily a recipe for success but the voyeur in me is fascinated by how other people spend their days. So if you want to tell me what you had for lunch, go right ahead. I had 2 spinach tortillas, one filled with mozzarella, turkey, and peach salsa, the other with cheddar, regular salsa, and lettuce. I am also on my 3rd cup of caffeine, which might explain my interest in minutia.

In other news, I'm doing my first celebrity interview on Monday. In honor of the occasion I bought a digital recorder that I have no earthly idea how to use. I don't think the actual interview will go badly - the magazine has already approved the questions and his wife, whom I'm also interviewing, seems very nice - but I'm definitely swimming in deeper water than I'm used to. But it's exciting. I didn't think I'd get this far when I signed up for that magazine writing class, that's for sure. Cross your fingers for me.

Mama saaaaaad.

Okay, here's the one where I feel like the worst parent on the planet.

Owen has a thing about brushing his top teeth. Meaning, he doesn't. And it drives. me. bananas. Tonight after our usual battle ("Don't forget your top teeth", "All done! ALL DONE!") he made like he was going to chuck his toothbrush on the bathroom floor, so I grabbed it out of his hand with perhaps a tiny bit more aggression than was absolutely necessary. Owen looked at his empty hand and burst into tears. "I sad," he wailed. "I sad!" At which point I took the opportunity to brush his top teeth.

After a few minutes of serious weeping, I told him that I was sorry that I had grabbed the toothbrush and that I didn't mean to make him sad, but that when he didn't brush his top teeth it made me mad. He looked up at me, eyes wide. Then his little face crumpled.

"Mama MAD? Mama maaaaaaaad!"

Cue hysterical sobbing. ("Mama mad! I saaaaad!") Just try to talk your way out of that baby trauma. Seriously, the kid's going to be on the shrink's couch for years.