The celebrity bred and fed, all-encompassing sense of self-importance and grandeur makes me nauseous. Or is that a flutter, the weirdest little flourish of life coming from my womanly innards? I have trouble chewing and swallowing the notion that Jennifer Lopez, a.k.a. JLo, a.k.a. Jenn Pants, insisted during her much ballyhooed, Doublemint pregnancy, “…this is the first time in my life where I'm just going to be a little bit selfish.” Her publicity machine certainly doesn’t spin it that way, screaming gold-chandeliers-in-the-baby-nursery-mama-in-a-Dolce-and-Gabba-mumu, nails and hair perfect.
A book of photos of oneself as a “gift”? Not unless those pictures where of a filthy and erotic nature, something useful for a girls “alone time” and accompanied by batteries and various saucy accoutrements. Did I mention my birthday is this month?