And I'm not talking about how some paparazzi snapped an unfortunate photo of her crying. I mean, if I had paparazzi following me all the time I'd have 42,000 pictures of myself looking like a frumpy slob with a pita chip addiction and maybe two photos where it looked as though I had finally pulled myself together. I'm not talking about the head shaving because, while that was a seriously unfortunate incident, I do feel that we are all entitled to do as we please with our hair. I'm not even talking about the whole What the heck are you doing marrying some backup dancer who is clearly after your money you crazy insane woman because, though I have no backup dancers (wouldn't want to draw your attention away from this groove) and no money to speak of, I do have the unfortunate memories of my own personal K-Fed. Fortunately we said no vows and bore no children but, nevertheless, I try not to judge other people's curious spousal decisions. And I am definitely not talking about the whole baby not in a car seat thing because, and I'll just go out there and be completely honest here, I often dream of sitting the boy on my lap to drive the two seconds it takes to get from The District Retail Center to my house. I don't do it because I pride myself on having a head attached to my neck, but I guess, and it's taken me awhile to admit this, I can wrap my brain around actually doing it and thus forgive her for her careless decision. But what I am talking about here is having two gorgeous little boys and seeming to not give a gosh dern (that's pastor's wife speak for "I'm really freakin' bugged by this") about ever seeing them again. And I have to think that something has gone terribly wrong in that pretty little head.
And ok. So I know she didn't have to be there on Monday. But you can bet your, I don't know, bottom dollar or something, that if I hadn't seen my son in over a week and my husband had full custody of him, I would not be three hours late to court. I would not be wearing my wedding dress when I finally got there. I would not start freaking out because of the media frenzy and get back in my car and go shopping. I would be on time. No, wait, I would be at least thirty minutes early. I would be wearing something sensible, like, maybe a pants suit that shrieked, "Look at all the business I am taking care of! I am taking care of so much business I should get a business woman special and you should let me see my kid." I would be begging for shared custody but, at the very least, visitation. This girl does not get to see her children until at least February 19. I think I would shrivel up and die and that's the honest truth.
What bugs me is, someone who is clearly psychotically deranged should be being watched closely. She shouldn't be allowed to wear a wedding dress to a hearing because, well, doesn't someone in her entourage glance in her direction before she leaves the house? I have to believe, for those boys, that she is just incredibly troubled and that she's not actively trying to be one of the worst mothers on the face of the planet.
We were on our way home from Israel in April of 2005, laying over for a time in O'Hare, when I saw the magazine covers confirming the rumor that Spears was pregnant with baby number one. I was exhausted from 16 hours of flying. I was infertile. I was having a gigantic pity party and my husband was having none of it. It turned into this over tired argument about how Britney Spears had just as much right to bear children as I did. No she doesn't! Yes she does!(When you've been trapped in an airplane over the Atlantic for hours and hours and hours, arguments begin sounding reminiscent of kindergarten.) While I have since retracted my thoughts that, "just because you make the completely psychotic television extravaganza, Chaotic and marry K-Fed you shouldn't be allowed the God given ability to have children," I do take just a small amount of pleasure in the fact that I can look at my husband, smile and say, "Remember how I went ballistic in the Chicago airport and said that I didn't really think she was fit to be a mother?" And he can bury his head deeper into the newspaper and roll his eyes. But he can't argue with me. Wait, did I say small amount of pleasure? Yah, I meant a lot. A lot of stinking pleasure. One point for Infertile Airport Lori.
It's not satisfying though, this feeling of being right. Because the fact remains that she's gone mad and she's got two children who need a mother. I don't think it's funny that she's turned into a total disaster. I don't want her to be the center of every joke about trailer trash. I want someone to help her. I want her poor mother to say, "Sorry, Jamie Lynn, about the fact that you're sixteen and pregnant. By the way, why did you go and do that, honey? You don't know, ah well, you've got seven or eight months before the real work begins so I'm going to go babysit your crazy sister and make sure she doesn't go anywhere in her wedding dress." I'm trying to think about what my mom would be doing in this situation. I think she'd be laying out my clothes for me. She might even be making me pancakes and taking me to my electroshock therapy sessions.
In conclusion, when I was in high school and Miss Spears (three months my junior) came crashing on to the music scene, people used to tell me that I looked like her. I used to take this as a compliment from the guys who thought she was hot--because that's back when she was hot--and a cut down from the girls who were about seven years older than her target crowd of eleven year olds and seriously annoyed by her crooning of hit me baby, one more time. Now I just have to know, once and for all, by a show of hands, er, comments, tell me, when you see me walking around with my toddler in tow, do we look like this?