Gwyneth Paltrow Lives Under My Bed
My more than a girlfriend, Mandy and I are about to embark on a six day juice cleanse.(read: hell followed by bliss followed by looking like KateMoss/Madonna/GaGa/Cher/EltonJohn by day 5) Anyhoo, just the word cleanse is a bittersweet reminder of when my girlfriend and I first met Gwyneth Paltrow.
Two years ago, Mandy and I did Gwennie's, Goop Cleanse for 10 days and of course felt like real Hollywood stars cuz we did it three days longer than Gwen suggests. However, this is also the time that our sick, twisted, manipulative, co-dependent relationship with Gwyneth actually began. And where am I two years later: I am sick of being quiet and being an emotional slave/punching bag for Gwyneth Fucking Paltrow. So damn it, I am using MY blog (Yeah, Gwen other people in this house have blogs!) to let it all out. First off, she mostly lives under our bed. Not with Chris Martin and her two healthy, vivacious children but under a lesbian couples bed in the ghetto. Not to say we can always find her there. Oh hell no, not Miss Gwyneth Marie Paltrow. I mean seriously, what do you think it's like to be tip toeing around the house thinking Gwyneth Paltrow is under your bed only to turn on some music awards program and see her singing or there she is on Ellen, cooking. We used rush to the bed and lift our gorgeous Egyptian cotton bed skirt wondering if her dead shark eyes would be looking back at us. When it happens now we just turn a head in the direction of the bedroom and shout, GWYNETH! If we don't get a response, Mandy and I just look at each other, roll our eyes and one of us might ask, did you see her leave? I just wanna add, and seriously I don't wanna sound bitter, but when I see that effin cookbook or see her cooking on a major network TV show all I can do is purse my lips and say, C'mon, Galadriel just calm down. Yes she has ruined countless homemade organic meals that you have prepared and yes she has never so much as chopped a carrot or washed a dish. But damn it, let it go and calm down and don't let Gwyneth get the best of you today. One thing is, Sunny and Boo (our four legged furry soul mate sons) don't seem to notice she lives here; for which I am so grateful. It is almost like only Mandy and I see her. Note to self: include this in the gratitude's you do just to pass the painful 45 minutes of your next 6:45 am spin class Mandy and I bounced in the other nite after a dinner with the Obama's jazzed to be home. Mandy wanted to catch up on Preggerz in Heels on Bravo and I wanted to sit down and blog some carb free Italian recipes I developed but no. The heat, you see, had been jacked up to it's limit and hey did I mention it was an early summer evening, the kind where fans and maybe even a lite AC would be appropz?
Lemme tell you why this really gets my goat…Gwen has been privy to our fight with gas company regarding their absorbent oil prices and the subsquent outrageous winter heating bill. With sweat dripping down my face I seethed,
"Gwyneth why is the heat on… wait a minute… omg is the oven on too??!"
"Oh, I wanted to release toxins."
I turned and looked at Mandy wide eyed and fuming. Mandy mouthed, "She is such an asshole"
"Gwyneth, I don't know if you were tripping balls with Madonna again and hallucinated the name Rockefeller on my door but I can't afford to heat this place so damn it gwe.."
Cut to her crying. Me staring emotionless at her. Her mumbling something about the falling out with Madonna, not taking Gwen to Malawi, how close they were and of course totally ignoring the 325 degree apartment that will cost me a small fortune. Oh and in case you were wondering no she doesn't ever chip in for bills. She has her management conveniently schedule those talk show and music show appearances around the the first of the month just the time we would reach a hand under the bed asking for her to chip in for once. If anyone is wondering why we don't have a beach house this summer it's cuz we are paving the way for a Hollywood Starlette to lounge under our bed day and nite while flipping through scripts. It is hellish to coexist with Gwyneth Paltrow. Mandy and I will rushing around trying to get out the door. There is GP with her blond tresses fanning out from under the bed skirt, nursing her now cold coffee and downloading things with viruses onto one of our laptops all the while wanting to talk about some deeper issue. Her response to my, OMG I should have left ten minutes ago I am gonna be so late something like….
"Hey guys I know you tend to make love on Sunday mornings when you are all rested and relaxed which is totes cute (omg she is talking like me!) but that is my time to skype with Mario Batali and it's just kinda…..well I am right under you guys; I mean under your bed and well. (Smoke begins to come out my ears) Oh never mind, anyway did you see Bridesmaids? Fuck that Kristen Wiig, stealing my hairstyle, riiiiight! I mean that whole movie was so me, it is so my humor, its like all my jokes. And Tina Fey is gonna be totes maj sars (wait she IS talking like me.) when my lawyers get a hold of her scrawny neck…that book is MY book, it's like basically my journal. I lose the next part as I lock the door behind me but it is something to do with do we know anyone who delivers bloody marys in the neighborhood followed by if the maid is coming today please text her that your house guest is gonna kick and scream and bite if she tries to get the giant "dust bunny" out from under the bed. The other nite Mandy n I were pretending our spacious bedroom was a studio apt. This means Mandy is on the bed reading some gorg self help while googling Alexander Wang shoes and I am on the chaise pounding away at my blog while checking facebook and twitter every five seconds. We had our gorg organic vegan dindinds on our side tables and our two sleeping dogs were sprawled out on top of a slew of tabloids and fashion mags. At this point I said, "Mandz, Gwyneth is ruining my blog." (blogging about GP is even harder than living with GP.) Mandy pantomimed kicking our mattress and mouthed the words, "Gwyneth is a betch!" I smiled at Mandy so wanting to jump up and kiss her but knowing if I did Gwen would grab my ankles with her skinny flabby hands. See, sometimes she gets in these crazy territorial moods and right now she thinks she "owns" Mandy. I knew and know that creating boundaries and ending this cycle with Gwen-Gwen needs outside help so I called my dear old friend, Drita D'Avanzo of Mob Wives fame. As Drita says, "If u don't like me take a seat with the rest of the bitches waiting for me to give a F&^%K !" Drita and I don't have a ton to talk about and bond on but she LOVES when I do my spot on imitation of her cast mate, Karen Gravano. (I enjoying working on the Karen character when alone and driving to Trader Joes if nothing good is on the radio.) But none the less Drita and I just get on like gangbusters. Honestly, I do not know what went on in the apartment while we left Gwen and Drita alone but I do know that our huge flower pot of spare change was gone, the sugar free Redbull was gone and Mandy's Ann Demeulemeester leather leggings..you guessed it gone. But what was left was our copy of My Father's Daughter by Gwyneth Paltrow with a threat/promise scrawled in handwriting, I might add similar to that of a serial killers…see ya soon love ya like sistahz, gpxxx