CAFE DEATH STARE

I love eating out in cafes. I love the coffee, the food, the atmosphere, and the delight the wait staff take in attending to my every need.

Today, however, my lunch time experience was disappointing, to say the least. And, as I am not in the mood to say the least, I will say the most, which was that it was unpleasant, uncomfortable, and, frankly, a little terrifying.

I arrived at the cafe before my friend, Lana, who had asked me to pre-order her a coffee. Sadly, by the time she arrived the waiter had not taken my coffee order, so she joked goodnaturedly with him about the fact that I had let her down.

The waiter didn't get her humour at all, and wandered off in a state of confusion, which I cannot condemn, because Lana's humour can be hard to understand.

I snapped this pic of our waitress mid-stare

But then he took our order, which included a baguette (for me) and poched eggs for Lana. Yes, the menu said 'poched' eggs. Which is fine, really, because I can forgive a typo. A poched egg is an egg by any other name. Except that when Lana ordered her poached eggs, and I muttered 'poched' under my breath, the waiter looked monumentally unimpressed. Perhaps he simply believed the scrambled eggs were a better choice, but either way, it was a loveless moment.

Still, the worst was yet to come. Because when my baguette arrived it was the size of a newborn - like, a proper newborn human, not one of those minuscule newborn kangaroos that look like jelly beans for the first weeks of their lives. Lana's eggs, however, were teeny tiny. I mean, the eggs were regular size - not, like, newborn kangaroo size - but they were perched on one piece on toast, and it was a pretty fucking small piece of toast at that. Seriously. That toast could not have fit a newborn human's handprint, let alone filled an adult sized human's stomach.

So, having a horror for unfairness and adversity, I beckoned to the waiter.

"Can she have another piece of toast?" I asked. "That one is teeny tiny."

Well, he looked shocked. Truly. I might as well have asked him for newborn kangaroo on a plate of mashed yeast. There were some disapproving looks, some rustling in the kitchen, and then a waitress who we had never seen before flounced out, dropped the toast on the table, and issued Lana with a death stare capable of freezing full sized mammals of all description in their tracks and shattering them to pieces. It was like looking into the eyes of a psycho killer. There was just blackness there. Dark pools of anger and revenge.

Lana did not finish her toast. She was too frightened. I finished my baguette, because no mere confrontation with a murderous waitress can dampen my appetite. And, to be honest, it was a delicious baguette. Much, much better than the poched eggs.

All in all, it was an unsettling experience, and I am still recovering. As for Lana, well, the food poisoning hasn't kicked in yet, but we are monitoring her progress by the hour.

Have you ever had a bad restaurant experience? And would you eat poched kanga on rye?

Why Looks Matter, Though I Wish They Didn't

In a recent post I referenced a woman who had shamed a man who didn't find her attractive because she was fat. Very contentious stuff. And I've been thinking about it a lot since.

Attraction is important. We are not just brains - we are brains walking around in bodies with faces attached. Our bodies and faces are as much a part of who were are as our minds. And our brains have a tremendous influence on our bodies and faces. Think about it. What do you eat? How much do you exercise? How much makeup do you wear? What clothes do you choose? How do you do your hair? Do you have tattoos/piercings/weird feather type things sticking out from odd places? 

All of these decisions come from your brain, and will change your appearance accordingly.

But it works the other way, too. We are all born with a particular body - a body that can be altered to an extent, but not entirely. How tall or short we are, how conventionally attractive our features, our genetic predisposition to being thin or fat, any disabilities or illnesses, will all dramatically affect our personalities.

My last boyfriend.

We are a combination of mind and body. And when we meet other people, we are attracted to their particular combination of mind and body, or we are not. 

I don't really understand the science of attraction. I know that I can find classically good looking men remarkably uninteresting, and can be devastatingly attracted to men who would be more suited to the cover of Horse and Hound magazine than Men's Health. But I also know that I can have a visceral repulsion towards a man who may be perfectly pleasant in personality, but whose appearance triggers something negative in me. It may have nothing whatsover to do with traditional notions of beauty, but rather his appearance doesn't resonate with me for reasons I can't articulate.

Of course, attraction is fluid. We can find someone unattractive on first meeting, get to know them, and decide they're not so bad after all. I remember thinking a friend's husband was the least attractive man in the universe until I became friends with him, and realised he was nice looking after all. As I said, brains and body are inextricably connected.

But what to do when you're dating? And is judging people on their looks something we should feel bad about? Lana and I discussed these issues the other day. Would love to hear your thoughts.

THE TROLL EDITION

If there is one thing I don't want to be it's a hypocrite. I mean, there are lots of things I don't want to be. I don't want to be a leper, or a communist, or a parking officer, or a contestant on a reality show. But I also don't want to be a hypocrite. Not being a hypocrite is one of my Core Values.

And so, in giving with my Not Being A Hypocrit-ism, I must be prepared to be criticised. I make my living, in part, by writing opinion pieces, and if I am allowed to have my own opinions then other people must be allowed to have their opinions of me.

And here's the thing: not everyone will like what I write. Sometimes I write pieces that get floods of positive feedback, messages and emails and tweets and balloonagrams from the sky. (Okay, not balloonagrams, but we do like balloons here, so if you feel moved to send one, please contact me for my address.) But no matter how well received a piece is, there will always be someone who doesn't agree. No matter how much people love my writing, there will always be someone who thinks I'm shit. And no matter how many people love my work, there will always be someone who cannot stand the very sight of my name. (I must say, I'm included in that last one - I've always thought 'Kerri' was a pretty poor moniker.)

So if someone wants to express their dislike for my work, they should feel free to do so. Not that they need my permission, of course. But I'm giving it anyway (which will probably piss them right off). I genuinely, truly do not care if someone says I am a terrible writer, or that my opinions suck, or that my hair looks really bad now that it's been cut. (Oh GOD, I lie, I do care if you don't like my hair. Do you like my hair? Please tell me you like my hair!)

Obviously if someone is threatening, or brings up my family, or reveals intimate details of my life (it is MY decision when I tell you about my secret marriage to Simon Baker, NOT YOURS) I will come out fighting. But criticism, no matter how rudely expressed or laughably phrased, is absolutely fine.

So when Lana told me about some nasty comments about me on GOMI ("Get Off My Internets") recently, I was amused. We talk about it at length (well, five minutes is a length) in this video below. I also address those rumours about my divorce and my sex life with a female online personality. Exciting stuff indeed. Keep it going, GOMI!!!!!!

Do You Know The Stuff I Don't Know?

I'm a reasonably bright girl, but my general knowledge is woeful. The stuff I don't know could fill an encyclopedia, though obviously someone else would have to compile it because I don't know very much.

I know a lot about certain things. I know pretty much every detail of my kids' lives, and that is a lot of detail. I know about my friends' marriages and my parents' friendships and why Simon Baker is currently in Australia. I know how to get burned soup from the bottom of a saucepan, what hair products are best for curly hair, and how to write a good circular conclusion to a blog post.

I know about social media and 19th Century literature and how to compose a haiku. I can recite the raps of Eminem and poems of John Donne and the entire script of Grease including musical numbers.

But I cannot name the capital cities of half the world's countries, and when I say 'half', I mean 'much less than half' because I'm so ashamed about how little I know.

I'm fascinated by people with tremendous general knowledge. I want to be them And I try, but the information keeps slipping from my brain. Interestingly, though, the names of every celebrity baby ever born are wedged there like blu tac.

But are certain types of knowledge objectively 'better' than others? Is my father the smartest man alive? And why are we wearing scarves?

These questions and so many more could fill an encyclopedia, but they are answered in the five minute video below:

I'm Fooling You All (Or Am I?)

I spend half my life playacting. I pretend to be a Real Writer. I go on TV and pretend to be a Real Commentator. I discipline my kids and pretend to be a Real Parent. And I go on dates and pretend to be a Real Woman.

But inside I feel..... Can't they see I don't really know what I'm doing? Can't they see that I am an imposter???

It's not all the time. I have moments when I feel like I've got it all together. Small snatches of time - perhaps I've just published an article I'm really happy with, or I have successfully helped one of the kids with a problem - where my brain catches up with public perceptions of me.

But they are moments. Most of the time I feel like I'm fooling everyone, and that soon I am going to be recognised for the fraud that I am.



this is SO TRUE

I think Imposter Syndrome is very common amongst women; less so amongst men who seem to second guess themselves less. Even since filming this segment with Lana, I have learned that many women I admire and respect feel exactly the same way.

It is remarkable to me that such high achieving women can have any doubt about their abilities. But then, it's possible that other people think the same about me. And that notion really blows my mind.

Watch our discussion here, and let me know if you feel the same:

Even Spokesmodels Wear Khakis (Sorry, What?)

It was inevitable that my #5minute video series with Lana would become an internet sensation. My years weeks of experience as a child actor combined with Lana's mesmerizing instability charisma makes for compulsive viewing - or at least, pleasant background noise whilst you're doing the ironing.

Of course, our popularity can be a little wearing. I am frequently stopped in the street by people waxing lyrical about the wit, humour and seamless wonder that is our online chats. That previous sentence is a lie, but that doesn't in the slightest detract from the veracity of the sentiment. Someone did stop me once, and though it was to ask me if my name was Rhonda, that is but a few short semantic steps from 'wit, humour and seamless wonder'.

Or big semantic steps. But still. Every big semantic journey begins with being asked if your name is Rhonda.

artist's rendition of you watching this video (unless you're a male, in which case sorry about the boobs)

It has often once been said that Lana and I make our videos look effortless, and this is part of our very special gift. Not everyone could get in front of a camera and speak non-stop for five minutes without any script or even the faintest guidelines, narrative structure or thematic crescendo.

And I know it seems discordant and wrong that we don't yet have our own cable television series, but I am quietly confident that it will happen. And a few years from now Lana and I will be stranded on an island somewhere, wearing khakis and dining on ground tusk in 'I'm An Internet Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!'

Which is why this video will come as such a surprise. When you are watching in dazed disbelief, try to remember that even the most talented of spokesmodels stuff up sometimes. And though we are not spokesmodels - and so that statement doesn't apply to us - we make a few mistakes too.

Enjoy.

Unattractive kids and why I'm a bad person and, well, bye...

Sometimes my opinion pieces trigger a flood of negative comments. I very rarely see these coming. I never write pieces to be controversial. I write what I believe, and usually I imagine that most people feel the same way.

So when Essential Kids asked me to write a piece about a woman who was worried because her child was unattractive, I was amazed by the response.

I discuss it with Lana below. And I apologise to Lana for the way I ended the video. It seemed reasonable at the time. Watching it over... well... I have never laughed so hard in my life.

 

this will make sense when you've seen the vid

Evil VS.... Something Else. Where do you stand?

Evil is a strange thing. We all have different definitions of it. I think most of us can differentiate between bad deeds and bad people; we all do bad at times, but most of us are fundamentally decent.

I know people who have stolen, people who have cheated on their partners, people who have hit their kids in a moment of anger. I know people who have run red lights or driven whilst over the limit or cheated on their tax returns. You do too. And you probably don't think that makes them 'bad', at least, not if they are mostly kind and honest in the rest of their lives.

But what happens when someone does something so bad, so shocking, that it completely defines them? Something like pretending to have cancer to get money, or murdering their children, or sexual abuse? Can we separate them from the act? Can we say that they did something bad but are not actually evil?

And if the act of evil is so monstrous that we cannot believe a regular person could do it... what then? Because this is where people tend to fall into two camps. Some people - like me - believe there are evil people in the world. I believe Hitler was evil. I believe Martin Bryant was evil. I believe men who kill their families out of revenge are evil. I believe that if you can distinguish right from wrong and perform an act of great horror, then you are evil.

Other people conceptualise it differently. Other people like Lana, for example. It is something we have debated frequently, and do so again here. And we'd love to know your thoughts. So watch and let us know.

My Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birth

I rarely talk about the birth of my third child. I did, however, include it in the book that was never published. And after Lana raised the issue of birth this week, I decided to haul it out and share it with the world. Be warned. It's traumatic.

 

My caesarean section was bizarre. There was no labour, no pushing, no transition, no process. One moment I was pregnant, and then, within a few minutes, I wasn’t. And there was my daughter, beautiful and healthy, emerging from the other side of the screen.

The baby was cleaned up, and shortly afterwards we both returned to my room. After twenty minutes or so my mum brought my big kids in to the hospital to meet their baby sister. Photos were taken and phone calls were made. I was light headed, but calm, and glad to have my daughter safe in my arms.

Then they left, and it was just my (then) husband, me and the baby. And suddenly, I wasn’t feeling so great. My stomach hurt, and it was grossly distended. And when the nurse came in to check my pad she noticed that my legs and my gown were soaked with blood.

 

“We’ll need to keep an eye on this,” she said, and I felt a tinge of alarm.

“Is everything okay?” 

“I’m just going to give your stomach a massage to help move some of these clots,” she told me.

“So I’ll be okay after that?”

The nurse just smiled. She massaged my stomach, but it was agonisingly painful.

“Stop!” I cried. “It hurts!”

“I’ll get you another shot of morphine,” she said, and left the room. My husband looked worried, and he never looked worried.

I counted the minutes until the nurse returned. By the time she gave me my shot, my pad was drenched again.

“I think we need to call the doctor,” my husband said.

“I’ll call the registrar,” the nurse told him.

“Call Kerri’s specialist,” my husband shouted after her, but she had already left the room.

Around twenty minutes later, an unfamiliar doctor pushed his way through the curtains. He looked about fifteen. I felt woozy, and my stomach was still sore.

“I’m Dr Amira, the registrar,” he announced briskly. “I’m just going to check your stomach.”

He felt around my stomach and I winced. Then he checked my pad. More bright blood.

The doctor chewed his lip, furrowed his brow and made some notes in my file.

“I want you to call Dr H,” my husband said.

Dr Amira paused. “We don’t disturb the specialists unless there is an emergency.”

“It is an emergency. My wife is bleeding.”

The young registrar looked profoundly uneasy. “Let’s give it another hour and see how she is, shall we?”

“Call him right now or I will go downstairs and page him myself,” my husband hissed at him.

Just then, my mobile phone rang. It was my son, calling me from my mother’s house.

“Hi Mum. How’s the baby?” asked my beautiful son.

“She’s good darling,” I said. “How are you?”

He answered, but I kept losing track of his words. I tried very hard to focus, but I felt like I was floating away. It’s the morphine, I thought. The drugs are making me fuzzy.

My son was saying something about homework and bedtime, but I couldn’t understand him. And I felt strange. Very strange. I was staring down a narrow tunnel, and I was being sucked into its vortex.

I was fading. I felt it. I was fading.

“I have to go now darling,” I said, and I let the phone slide from my hand.

Suddenly there was a commotion. People gathering around. Loud voices, needles being stuck into my arm, thermometers in my ear. I floated in and out of the scene, trying to stay awake. And yet, even though I was losing consciousness – even though my eyes kept drifting closed – I was panicked in every fibre of my being.

I was haemorrhaging both internally and externally and I could do nothing to save my own life. I was completely in the hands of the medical team, and they had not inspired me with confidence. I could feel myself dying. It was my worst nightmare coming true. I was dying. I was going to die.

I didn’t think of the new baby, who wasn’t even real to me at that stage. And I didn’t think of my husband, although he was standing there next to me. I thought of my parents, who had just lost their only other child. And I thought of my older two children, and how lost they would be without me.

“You don’t understand!” I screamed to the registrar. “You can’t let me die! YOU CAN’T LET ME DIE!”

The registrar spoke firmly, but I could hear the unease in his voice. “Please try to stay calm, Kerri. We’ve called Dr H. He should be here any moment. Just hang on.”

Hang on? HANG ON? What was I supposed to hang on to???

And then I saw the most wonderful vision appear before me. My white haired obstetrician materialised in my room. He was already in his scrubs.

“We’re taking you straight back to theatre,” he said briskly, and laid a reassuring hand on my arm as the staff began wheeling my bed out the door.

“Am I going to die?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Absolutely not. I won’t let you.”
 

 Here is the discussion with Lana that triggered this post. More to come.

  

Gratitude is a Commodity, and I'm Not Sold

Gratitude. Do you remember what it used to mean?

It was that feeling you had when you were nearly hit by a car as you crossed the road but it missed by that much (also linked very closely to 'relief').

It was what you didn't actually experience when your grandmother gave you a birthday present that was way too young for you and you were really disappointed (see 'ungrateful brat').

It was the emotion that rushed through you when your boyfriend arrived at the door and looked really cute and you felt hugely lucky to have him (also known as 'I can't believe he's mine!').

It wasn't a movement. It was a sensation. It was something that came from the heart, or didn't.

But gratitude has been packaged and commodified in our social media age. It is something that you 'practice', not feel, as part of a Way of Being.

It is something to be cultivated and shared, and expressed in public forums.

What are you grateful for today? people ask.

Today I am grateful for my cat, my hot coffee, this new assignment, they respond.

Gratitude is memes and blog posts and apps and Instagram pics. It is a way to live, to overcome depression, to ease anxiety, to enhance positivity. It is a panacea for all sorts of mental and emotional distress.

And yet... I'm not sold. I feel grateful when I'm grateful, which, admittedly, is a lot. I live a fortunate life. I have much to be thankful for. But when I'm anxious or distressed or in pain or sad, forcing gratitude for what is good can't fix my woes. Gratitude for my children or cat won't palliate my grief for my sister. Gratitude for my friends or parents can't heal a broken heart. Gratitude for having had two books published can't ease the anxiety over the third.

But many people I know practice gratitude, including someone unexpected. We discuss it below. And I would love to know your thoughts. Are you a 'grateful' person? What are you grateful for? Has it changed your life? Am I missing something?

Social Media: The Never Ending Argument

"Kerri, you don't know when to stop!"

If I had a rabbit for every time my parents said that to me during my childhood, I'd have an entire nation of rabbits. Because I didn't know when to stop. And I'm still not sure when to stop. When it comes to arguments, or opinions, or ideas that I hold passionately, I can go on and on and on like the proverbial bull at a gate. (Who, presumably, would stampede over those rabbits, but that's just mixing metaphors.) I feel an intense need to convince others of my opinion. and if I can't actually convert them to my way of thinking, then at least have them acknowledge that my point of view is valid.

Before social media there was a natural limit to my arguments. I only had contact with a certain number of people every day and there were only a certain number of topics we would discuss.

But Twitter and Facebook and blogs have changed all that. They offer me an endless number of potential subjects to debate, and an infinite pool of people with whom to debate them. I could, quite literally, spend all day every day on social media arguing. And I have spent hours and hours doing so.

Strangely, however, it's actually had a paradoxical effect. It has started to teach me when to stop. Because there is no organic end to arguments on social media. You can finish with one person and have ten more waiting in the wings to take up the challenge. You can write a tweet or Facebook post or blog about an issue and be inundated with responses from people itching for a fight. It never ends. It never ends unless you put a stop to it.

So I am learning to do so. I am learning when to say Enough. I am learning how to let things go, how to accept that there will always be people who think differently to me, how to maintain inner peace in the face of heated opposition.

But it will always be a challenge. I will always be a person of opinions. And I suspect I still have a few more rabbits to collect along the way.

I'm not that bad. Really. Mostly.

When I started blogging it was 2009, I was married, and I didn't imagine myself being out in the singles scene again. (Please note: Even though I am divorced now I am not exactly out in the 'singles scene'. The 'singles scene' for me carries intonations of 70's disco music, key parties and men with handlebar moustaches, and I spend most of my time alone in front of the computer. But still...)

Back in those days, I felt free to wax lyrically about all of my flaws - my poor cooking skills, my clumsiness, my parenting fails, my massive fuck-ups, even my poor seduction techniques. And it was fine, because I had a partner, and it really didn't matter if the rest of the world knew how deeply imperfect I was.

Now, however, times have changed. At some stage, I am going to want to attract a mate. And so I need to put my best foot forward, and demonstrate to the world how marvellously desirable I really am.

Yeah. I need him.

Unfortunately, I keep forgetting to do that in my videos with Lana. Therefore, before you watch our latest offering, I would like you to peruse and study the list below. It is important to redress the imbalance of information out there, and to understand that I have many excellent qualities too.

For example:

• I am a warm and friendly person (when I have had enough sleep and am fully caffeinated).
• I can reverse park into very tight spots, often without even bumping the car behind me.
• I do a sensational French Braid. (Not on my own hair, because that requires quite a sophisticated level of hand-eye co-ordination, but on other people.)
• Dogs love me. I'm not mad about them, but they really do love me.
• I am very loving and kind (when I have had enough sleep and am fully caffeinated).
• I make brilliant scrambled eggs. And really, that is a meal in itself.
• I am an excellent friend and always answer emails and texts. (Not phone calls, of course. But who makes phone calls anymore??)
• I have an excellent sense of humour, unless you believe my son. But please, please don't believe my son.
• I am supportive, empathic and nurturing (when I have had enough sleep and am fully caffeinated).

watch us discuss (some pretty weird) bad habits here:

The one subject I have never before discussed.

I've been writing online for about six years now. And in that time, I have made it a rule not to talk about weight or diets. Apart from a Sunday Life piece I wrote in 2002 entitled 'Thin Body Fat Brain', I have never gone there. Ever.

Until now.

You see, Lana and I had one of our little on-camera chats and we got to talking about diets. And the thing is, I am fervently anti-diet. I have been for the past 16 years. But - as Lana points out in the video - people don't like hearing a slim person talking about weight issues. Because, you know, SLIM. What can I know if I'm slim? Only overweight people can understand weight struggles, right?

Except that I was overweight. For a long, long time. Not the kind of 'Happy At Any Size' overweight. I really didn't want to be overweight. I wanted to be slim. And I dieted and lost weight and then regained it and dieted and lost weight and regained it and so on and so on ad infinitum until I was 31 years old.

And then I stopped dieting. Forever. And I lost about 10 kilos and have never gained it again. I dealt with my food issues, not by following some kind of restrictive eating plan that tells you what to eat and when and makes you crave all the things you're not 'allowed' to have, but by working out how to eat when I'm hungry and stop when I'm full and not eat for reasons that have nothing to do with physical needs. Reasons like boredom. Frustration. Anger. Sadness. Celebration. Depression. Or simply Because It's There.

It was a process. It took a while. I did a lot of work on myself and my relationship with food. And I got there. And now I passionately believe that diets don't work.

Except I'm wrong, in a sense, because diets do work. All diets do. If you stick to a weight loss regime, you'll lose weight. And this is easy, if you're a person who doesn't actually have issues with eating. If you've gained weight on holidays or during pregnancy, for example, but fundamentally have a healthy relationship with food, you'll lose weight on a diet and probably keep it off.

But most of us have issues with food. And certainly the vast majority of overweight people who struggle to lose weight have issues with food. And so diets aren't going to work long term unless we fundamentally change our relationship our food.

Anyway. You can watch Lana and I argue about it here. And you can decide for yourself.

How we came to be

When I was 38 weeks pregnant with my third child, and my sister suddenly died, I was a mess, as you can imagine. I was having all sorts of health problems and suddenly plunged into grief and I had two young children to care for, and it was without a doubt the darkest, most oppressively difficult time in my life.

Friends rallied around, of course, and I will be forever grateful. But in that hideous period, the kindness of two near strangers stood out. One, a teacher, volunteered to bring both my kids to the school gates for the remainder of the term so that I wouldn't have to walk into the school. She knew how difficult it was for me to face people, and I will never forget her sensitivity and generosity.

The other, the class parent for my daughter's year, arranged a food roster for me. Every single night for weeks I had a hot meal on the table for my family thanks to her. I'd never met her, but that woman made a profound difference to my ability to cope.

Fast forward eighteen months, and I am sitting on the grass at a class picnic with my now toddler on my lap. I am chatting to that class parent, properly thanking her for all she did to help me. The conversation segues into a discussion of social media. I explain that I'm on Twitter (I'm feeling quite proud because I already have a couple of hundred followers) and wonder if she's ever heard of it.
"Kerri, we've been chatting on Twitter for months. I'm Sharpest Pencil."

The woman was Lana Hirschowitz. Until that point I had no idea that the hysterically funny person I'd been tweeting online was the very same woman who arranged meals for me after my sister died.

My worlds collided.

Since then, Lana and I have spent a ridiculous time communicating, across every medium one can imagine. We talk on Twitter, in public and (far less politically correctly) in DMs. We talk on Facebook, on Instagram, in emails, and in texts. We talk on the phone and we catch up in person. I have many friends who I adore, but Lana is the only friend who lives in all of my communities - the online, the Jewish, the school, and the anxious.

Of course, being South African, Lana is as different to me as cheese is to a polar bear. Her accent is irritating and she's bossy and she doesn't like most of my clothes. She is a dog person and I am a cat person. She is also a cat person, but whatever. And we disagree on nearly everything, which is weird because we also agree on nearly everything.

But our conversations are hilarious, and often bizarre, and for fun, we thought we'd share them with you.

This is the second in our serious of #5minutes with Kerri and Lana. We are in bed. Don't ask why. Just go with it and look at those ginormous pills.

Enjoy.

Episode 1: Friends don't let friends wear panty liners on their backs