I hate Gwyneth Paltrow (okay, when I just tried to type that, I accidentally wrote “I gate Gwyneth Paltrow” so even my computer knows that I really don’t hate her; I just envy everything about her). Her life is too perfect: two precious children, rock star husband, great acting career, drop-dead gorgeous looks, several beautiful houses (one in London), lots of money, staff of too-many-to-count, and oh, yeah, did I mention she’s gorgeous?
I also have two precious children, but from the photos it appears that Gwyneth’s little Apple and God (or Peach and Noah or something fruity and biblical) never have smears of chocolate on their porcelain white chins nor muddy boots on their tender royal feet nor tears spurting from their cerulean blue eyes. Unlike my sons, who will barely stand still to pose for a simple photo or worse, get their hair brushed. (And as an aside, is it just me or does digital photography need to improve to the point where there is not a multi-second delay between pressing the button and actually capturing the by-now-blurry shot?) Gwyneth’s little angels are well-groomed and probably reasonably quiet (oops, maybe not—I forgot about the “rock star” gene).
Which brings me to my next topic of envy: a rock star husband. Yes, my husband is fabulous in myriad ways (you gotta read this one later! post on grocery shopping), yet to my knowledge he has never, ever, sung in a rock concert (and air guitar in the bathroom yesterday most certainly does not count). He has a very boring job, which is … something having to do with numbers and computers and maybe, uh, math? He is not a rock star. I’m sure I would remember if he was, well, on second thought, maybe not (another one you'll like about my brain turning to mush).
The great acting career. Yes, let’s talk about that now. I am not a great actress, unless you count that time last week when The Boss at the high-end kitchen store asked me if I would like to wash 800,000 dishes from the cooking demonstration and I said, “Sure! I’d love to!” (to be fair, I thought she was asking if I wanted to eat some samples from the cooking demo; that’s what I get for not listening). Another Oscar-worthy turn that springs to mind is when I told my future mother-in-law that I loved-absolutely-adored-worshiped the color pink (she was wearing a pink sweater at the time), only to ensure myself of pink presents for the next 11 birthdays and Christmases (for the record, I now detest pink).
What’s next? The drop-dead gorgeous looks. I looked as good as Gwyneth at one time, and that time was for about 15 minutes when I was 20. I do have one lovely beach photo from that time period. It has been blown up to maximum poster size and hangs above our fireplace to serve as a constant reminder that when you are 20, you look damn good. (Some people see that as narcissistic; I prefer to see it as a tribute to my past.)
Several beautiful houses. Why does anyone need more than one? I mean, really. One house to live in, and then if you are that wealthy that you don’t know what to do with all that money, you can certainly blow it on overpriced hotel suites when you travel. (I’ll bet when Gwyneth goes to Disney World, she even springs for the hotel the-monorail-goes-through.) To be honest, I am sick of looking at Gwyneth’s dozens of houses every time I happen to pick up Elle Décor or Architectural Digest. Isn’t it bad enough that I have to see you on the big screen at the movies, Gwyneth? Now I have to see what kind of couch you prefer (Ralph Lauren, leather) and how many cashmere blankets you have “casually” stacked next to the guest bed (appears to be four) and what type of crystal wine glass you prefer (Baccarat)? Enough.
I am also quite envious of the “lots of money” part of the equation. Big house plus adorable well-behaved kids plus rock star husband plus acting career PLUS tons of money? Equals major resentment from MOV.
The nail in the coffin: staff. Or as the British like to say, “staff.” If I had staff, I would most certainly have a chef. We would dine on mince with slices of quince which we’d eat with a runcible spoon (sorry, channeling Edward Lear there for a moment). My chef would make scallops and lobster and chocolate mousse cake. Daily. Maybe hourly.
Which brings me right to my next new-hire: a personal trainer. Gwyneth didn’t get that rockin’ bod by sitting around watching the telly. I would work out six hours a day (just like my nemesis) and, what’s more, it would be fun!
It would be fun because I would be on some serious drugs. Yes, add pharmacist to the payroll.
Maid. That’s a given. Nanny. Duh. Chauffeur? Not if I own a Porsche—I wanna drive those curves all by myself, thankyouverymuch.
Gardener? Check. Therapist? Not necessary, now that I have all of the above (really, what is there to complain about: “When the bank teller gave me all those stacks of hundreds, it was just too heavy to carry?” or “I think my hairstylist took me a little bit too blonde this week?”).
A quick Google search reveals Gwyneth’s documented generosity to a plethora of worthy charities, including cancer research and starving children. Can we hate her a teeny bit more now please?
I hop over to Gwyneth’s blog (GOOP) just to see what type of material I would be responsible for maintaining if I had an identical life to Gwyneth. Looks interesting (if a bit intimidating), but then I come to find out almost every article on her lifestyle blog is written by someone else! Aha! A crack in the veneer! “Guest” authors!
On second thought, I can’t be Gwyneth. My fans look up to me and my perfect writting skills. They know I put lots of though and ebnergy into getting every singl blog posting just right, and they wouyld be so very sad to miss a single day of MOV. I can’t farm out my writing. That level of perfectoin is attainable only throught my personel dedication and meticulous attention to detale.