If George Costanza was on Facebook

My dear friend had her annual holiday tea at the Peninsula Hotel yesterday. It was our usual time to "catch up" with a two-hour year-in-review before we all ran off to our respective family winter breaks. Of course there was the required group picture in front of the Christmas tree, and, of course, the shot was posted on Facebook.

This is how crazy I am. Instead of seeing the tagged photo and remembering what fun I had hanging out with my long-time sisters, I became pre-occupied with the fact that the shirt I wore made me look pregnant. As an aside, one of the girl's brought a handful of of pix taken at a bachelorette party from 10 years before where we all looked like super-models on a tear. (Those weren't posted, btw.) Talk about body issues. Please, my next book could be exclusively made up of years of journal entries beginning with what I ate, if I worked out or Do I feel fat today? Certainly, at my age, one should rightfully cease to care about the silliness of this stuff except that with Facebook, etc. anyone from your high school guidance counselor to a camp mate to an old flame to your chiropractor is privy to your bad-hair-chubby-chinned memories.

Remember that Seinfeld episode where George thinks of a great retort to a conversation he had and then the next day he goes to deliver it but it's lost its power. I feel that way plenty, like I wish I had said this or that, then what-the-hell, it's too late.

That's the reason I've taken to my blog instead of putting a simple one-line protest under the posted Facebook pix claiming that, "Hey, I'm a size 6, I just have big boobs!" (because that would be psycho, right?) What better place to clean out the rattling halls of my brain from the I should have said blah blah blahs... than my public soapbox? Since everything we do is so broadcasted, why not just rant here? Explain myself. I didn't eat healthy, exercise, quit smoking a million years ago and keep up my hair color to have a bad-angled picture of myself floating around cyberspace for eternity. But, then again, now that I've said that, it's like a do-over. Here's the picture, I admit, I'm a kook. Everyone's gorgeous as ever and I'm obsessively vain.

There no end to this madness. Damn the beauty industry, curse L.A. and its homecoming queen-based culture. Why couldn't I have been French?

While I'm clearing the air, so to speak, I may as well share a story that has driven me nuts forever. At a Beverly Hills Oscar event a couple years ago with this same group of girls, I visited the fabulous home's washroom. It was occupied by a now ex-husband of one of my friends. After he leaves and I go in, I almost pass out from how much he compromised the place. I suffered through my two minutes in there and when I came out, a very well-known TV Star (who is the husband of another guest) goes in after me. In that split second, I needed to say, "Wasn't me." But I didn't. I laughed oddly and ducked back into the festivities. Guilt by association. Only a forensic scientist could have pardoned me after that. Ever since that night, I run into this guy time after time and I know he thinks I'm the culprit who destroyed the powder room. I've told people in our common circle the story in hopes that maybe they'll tell him and he'll finally know that I wasn't the pig at the party. I doubt he reads my blog, but hey, if you know the story and who I'm talking about, pass this on. Wasn't me.

So, let's review. I'm a nut-job, I'm not the size of a Metrobus, and I didn't inconsiderately take that dump at the fancy awards party. And ultimately, I'm grateful for my health, my family, my life and I'm proud to be an American and none of this matters. Was the disclaimer Miss USA enough?

I feel so much better. Thanks for listening and Happy Holidays.


Pam Alster, former TV writer & suburban mom brings a decade of living on the dark side to light in her novel debut Robin’s Blue available now in Kindle and Paperback. www.pamalster.com

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