Many thanks to Twitter Pal @FamilySizedFun for tipping me off to the recent alterations to Kate Gosselin’s face and inspiring this post.
Can I call you Kate? How about Katie. Or Kath. Or Miss Kitty. I want to call you Miss Kitty so I’m going with that.
Don’t get too excited that I’m writing to you, here, Miss Kitty. This letter should not be taken as evidence of a slavish adherence to news of your comings and goings or even a mild enough interest in any of your tv appearances to turn them on. I’ve never seen you on tv. Not once. Not your show about your family, not you dancing in sequins, not an interview you’ve given. Nothing. Nada, Nichts.
See, I don’t think you’re very interesting. Sure, there’s a sort of side-show appeal of gawping at a woman who shot 6 kids out like a carnival attraction but that’s not enough to make me want to invite your horde into my living room week after week. My whole feeling is that I didn’t bring those 8 kids into the world, it is not my responsibility to do anything to help support them. So, I’m not watching. I’m not letting the advertisers that make you rich rope me in (well, maybe I am, but not during your show). You had 8 kids. On purpose. In fact, you went to great lengths to get to 8 kids and embraced the reality of that. The fact that you did it without the material means to support them is not my problem. Going on tv and, in essence, parading your kids in front of me to get me to reach into my pockets and shell out my money so you can reap a profit, doesn’t move me. I am a rock. You can’t have my money.
But even though I don’t watch you on the moving picture box in my living room I still get a whole lot of exposure to you, your hair extensions, and your douche-canoe ex-husband through the tabloids and pop-culture websites that are my required daily reading guilty pleasure. And one of those websites showed me this:
First of all, Miss Kitty, you should call Miley Cyrus and do some pants shopping together because this get-up, in addition to being unseemly for a woman of your age, is gonna show us things we don’t want to see if you get out of a car in front of a paparazzo. Second of all, put your boobs away. Third, your shoes are…kind of fabulous, actually. What size are they? Can I borrow them? But you face, Miss Kitty! Your face! WTF happened there?
Your eyebrows have migrated up into your extensions! But they left the eyeliner behind and now you look a little like Marylin Manson. Only blonde. And slutty. But not good slutty. Trying-too-hard-cougar-slutty. And you look shocked and appalled by something but that makes sense because I’d be shocked and appalled too, if I looked in the mirror and saw this.
Miss Kitty, you gotta chill out. I know you think a media empire is the only way you can support those 8 kids you had on purpose without any real plans for how you were going to feed, clothe and shelter them, and I know Jon has vanished into the realms of baby-daddy and can’t be counted on to do things good fathers do but that is no excuse for doing that to your face. Because, Miss Kitty, I hate to break it to you, but you look like a scary clown.
Here’s what I suggest, Miss Kitty. Find the business card of the doctor who did that to you face and burn it. Then walk into your closet and start throwing everything in there that didn’t come from TJ Maxx into a large pile. Once you’ve got all the designer stuff together, find one of those places that’ll sell you stuff on eBay for you and unload it. I’m sure there’s some drag queen out there who wants the outfit from this picture and will pay a pretty penny for it. Take that money and stick it in some 6 months CDs or maybe a nice safe money market fund. Once you’ve gotten all that squared away, go renew your nursing license (you are a nurse right? Or is that someone else? Never mind, we’ll pretend it’s you even if it isn’t). Then go gt a job as a nurse. Then turn the cameras off. That’s it. Done. Your kids can go to public school, a lawyer make Jon can help pay for sitters while you’re on shift, and you can live a normal life. No Prada. No Botox. No hair extensions that cost the equivalent a year’s mortgage on a moderate home in a Midwestern city. Just a job, your kids, and taking personal responsibility for raising them and supporting them without dragging the whole world into it.
Because supporting them is your responsibility and no one else’s.