TGIM

You read that right: "Thank Goodness I'm Married!" For a whole host of reasons, of course, but this one struck me this morning.

Did a theme park the other day w/ the hub; got checked out...by a few different men.

But that was what struck me. They were men. Adult men. Whose age exceeded my own. By 10 - 30 years. I'm in my early 30's now. If I'm lucky, I get a second glance from a guy who is 28...but that's only if he mistakes me for a younger woman.

This could easily turn into a self-pity party about my brand new, first wrinkles...my saggy mommy body...the list goes on. But it's not really about me.

It's that I pity my single friends.

Perhaps pity is too harsh a word...and yet, I can't think of a better one at the moment, so...sorry, single friends. I'm gonna have to go with pity.

Here I am, catching glances from much older men - and only much older men - and I'm not even looking for a guy. And why do us young 30-somethings catch glances from the older guys? Because the younger guys want fresh-faced, teenage tail.

To put it bluntly.

Any guy between 18 and 30 is looking for a girl between 18 and 21. Any guy between 30 and 40 is looking for a girl between 21 and 25. And men over 40 are looking for women under 40...but preferably old enough to have developed a (drama-free) will and personality of their own, limiting them to women over 25 but younger than the big four-oh. So where does that leave my late-20-to-young-30-to-mid-30-to-late-30-something women? With men who could be their fathers, naturally. Because we sure aren't getting looks from men our own age. Men our age are still chasing young tail.

So thank goodness I'm married. I'm not ready to date my daddy yet.

And I'm sorry to all you women between 25 and 40 who aren't ready to date daddy, either. Botox, gym visits, and microdermabrasion, anyone?

Really?

My son comes out of his room this morning after I'd sent him in to change, and approaches me.

"Hey, Mom! Check it out!"

I turn toward him...clad in only his undies.

"My penis is hanging out of my underwear!"

Aaawww, GEEZ. Thanks, kid. Like I needed that visual.

Aaaaah, Motherhood.

Those Damn Thomas Trains

Kids have a few of the Thomas the Tank Engine trains, and they love them.

Problem being that when my youngest says Percy's name, it sounds very distinctly like "Pussy."

Brings a whole new child-molestation level to her requests for Daddy to come play.

"Daddy, will you play with my Percy, please-please?"

And a very dirty parental in-joke: "Daddy, do you like Percy?" "Mommy, can you give Percy to Daddy, please-please?" "Percy doesn't want to see Daddy right now." "Daddy LOVES Percy!"

Yes, yes he does, thank you very much. Now bug off, kid. Daddy's gonna play with my Percy.

(Man, that was dirty...even for me!)

Thanks, Kid.

My son this morning decided to point out everything in his view that matched his red shirt.

My hair rubberband, his sib's socks, a piece of furniture, the red nail polish stain on the carpet, a random toy, the blood in our bodies, (he's half vampire, did I mention that?) and the best part:

Those red dots on mom's face.

Thanks, kid. I needed that today. Think I'm gonna go put on some makeup, ya little twit.

UGH.

So, my intestines are trying to chat me up this morning...

AND I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT THEY'RE SAYING!

Really, it beats the crap out of me!

If they could only speak ENGLISH...

She Wants to be a Soccer Mom

Girl I know...fondest dream? Motherhood a la Soccer.

I'm living a beautiful, successful woman's fondest dream?

Let's analyze this for just a moment, shall we?

I mean, I do spend most of my time having my nails done, visiting the salon for my root-upkeep, and shopping at Neiman Marcus - the outlet, of course - not to mention all those personal training sessions at my in-home gym...

And I love my ice cream bon bons while I'm updating myself on the daily goings-on of General Hospital...

And there's something about watching your maid do your cleaning for you, and your housekeeper heading out to pick up your children from school and day care, and your personal chef preparing your South Beach lunch and putting together your farmer's garden-based family dinner for later tonight, and your gardener cutting back your tea roses, and the dog-walker taking your puppy for a spin around the neighborhood, and that hunky pool boy scooping the fallen leaves from the pool knowing you'll never have to do any of those things yourself that really increases your zest for life...

And did I mention how much I adore my au pair? Almost as much as my kids do...so long as they never start thinking that she's the mom, that is. Oh, and I'm equally as thrilled by how much they love their private tutors...and golf teachers...and piano lessons...and dance instructors, sports coaches, and the lot...

But I must confess...the last time I actually drove my minivan, it was to have my eyebrows threaded, and the last time I actually attended one of my son's soccer games was...well, let's be honest, I let my husband do that. My skin is sun-sensitive.

No wonder she wants my life. It's good to be me!

Are They KIDDING ME?!

Leaving my kid's school today after dropping said child, I encountered exactly 4 other people headed back to their cars, as well.

THREE of them were on cell phones.

WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE SO DAMNED IMPORTANT?!

Really. Did they just HAVE to call their significant other at work to say "I just dropped Jr, and now I'm on the way home!" (Significant Other doesn't give a damn, okay?) Was it absolutely imperative that they immediately telephone the doctor's office to say "I'm on my way, but I'll be 2 minutes late"? Or maybe they had to call up their BFF's and say "My kid is out of the way, so I'll meet you for brunch at 10!"

NONE of those things are important enough that they couldn't wait the 5 minutes it takes to get home to a landline.

"Oh, but we don't have a landline because our cell phones are just so much more convenient!" Yes, and you pay for that convenience out the NOSE, don't you? You PAY MONEY each month - sometimes into the hundreds of dollars! - so that someone can bother you WHEREVER you are. WHY? In the name of all that is sacred and holy, WHY do you want to be able to be reached at every moment of every day?

Are you a paranoid individual? You're afraid your father is going to have a heart attack at any second, and you want him to be able to reach you while you're at Target buying socks (rather than call an ambulance, like he should)? Does having a cell in your purse ease your anxiety about your the possibility of your child becoming ill at school, knowing THIS WAY they can reach you?

Or are you just THAT important that you NEED to be able to be reached? A heart or neurosurgeon, for instance? No? How about...a Blockbuster employee! Because, you know, any one of your coworkers could get mowed down on the freeway on the way to work, and you MIGHT be needed to come fill in! HOW ELSE WOULD PEOPLE RENT THEIR MOVIES if you weren't able to step in for your dead coworker??? Perhaps it is that, as the mother of a Boy Scout, you're just always prepared, and this way your teenager can text you to complain - in abbreviated English - about the load of homework the teacher is currently laying on. Because, you see, THAT couldn't wait until they came home. NO, NO, WAIT...your child needs you to pick them up from school, but you'll be running errands all day and won't be home until the bus would have arrived...then again, you'll get home, check your messages when you notice your kid didn't get off the bus, and race to the school five minutes away to pick that kid up. ("The school might be EMPTY by then!" Doubtful.)

I JUST...DON'T...GET IT.

We are SOOOOO eager to be SOOOOOO connected...doesn't that seem just a little codependent? Or egotistical? Or obsessive? I mean, really, how did we get along without cell phones back when we were kids?

Just fine, thank you very much.

And I get along without a cell phone just fine now. And so do my kids. No, not everything is instant, but I don't expect it to be. And damn it all to hell, I don't WANT to be reached when I'm browsing through clothing...I don't WANT to be interuppted when I'm perusing the aisles of the grocery store. I just want to enjoy.

People of the world, turn off your cell phones - at least while you're driving, at the movies, attending a live performance, or sitting at dinner - and enjoy just taking a breath, will you? I promise, the world won't end if you don't get that text until later, and that phone call coming in? Or the one you were just about to make? It's not important. You're not that important. And that's okay.

I'm not either.

I'm Baaaaaaaaaaaack...

Ate a piece of cheese today: Cotswold, to be exact.

I nearly orgasmed on the spot.

Bad, Naughty Mommy is BACK, people. With a VENGEANCE.

Go Ahead, Judge That Book by its Cover!

Out today with the kiddies running errands, and a man pulls up alongside me...covered in tats...on a Harley...with his handle bars a good six inches above his head...smoking a cigarette...wearing the requisite leathers and bowl-shaped motorcycle helmet...with lit-up-eyed skull and cross bones attached to his black leather bumper satchel.

My first inclination was to roll my eyes in disgust...and partially because it was just so stinking CLICHE. But then I thought to myself, "Come on, you...don't you go judging a book by its cover. Who knows? Maybe he's a retired grandpa who tatted himself up in Vietnam, and now he's with BACA (Bikers Against Child Abuse). Maybe, just maybe he's..."

That was as far as I got. You see, right about then he turned and spat on the ground, smoke streaming from his mouth, and I got a good look at the front of his helmet. On it were two things - both revolting to me, and also serving to confirm that if it looks like a prick, acts like a prick, and advertises itself to be a prick, IT MUST BE A PRICK - the first of which was a picture of a hand giving the world the middle finger. Charming.

But the second was putrescence defined, and I quote: "Dead Girls Don't Say No."

I'd tell you to try not to think about that, but since I'm going to walk you through the horrors, just hang on tight.

1. He's sexually obsessed...and not at all in a good way.
2. He's apparently okay with necrophilia, defined in its simplest form as "sex with corpses."
3. He's comfortable raping a woman if she's terrified enough of him to say yes.
4. He's KILL YOU if you won't have sex with him.

I understand free speech, but if my child were old enough to read that and ask what it meant, I might have to hunt the guy down and take him out in a car "accident."

So, sometimes you CAN judge a book by its cover...and if its cover suggests a chain-smoking, Harley-riding, skull-and-bones-worshipping, ink-covered NECROPHILIAC RAPIST, hey...that's a pretty strong suggestion. Who am I to deny him the judgement he so eagerly seeks?

*Banging Gavel*

By order of the court, that man is a PRICK, and I do hereby sentence him to misery and obscenity for the balance of his chosen life!

*Banging Gavel*

Like I said...if it walks, talks, acts, and advertises...or is that rides? Whatever. Still a prick.

Dog Crap

I checked on the hubby's student loans this evening...just wondering how long it'll take to get that crap paid off, you know.

$15k in loans.

Another TWELVE YEARS (to make 15 years total).

To the tune of $28k.

Meaning we'll have paid out about $13,000...in INTEREST.

Dog crap, man. Maybe not Bull poo, but still, serious Bow Wow bowel movement, nonetheless.

It's like a mortgage on your education. Yeah, there are returns, but when you live with your spouse and children in a place where RENT on a 900 square foot DUMP is $1500 a month, you don't SEE those returns.

Major Doggie doo.

By the way, if you want to share my pain by disclosing your own, great, but if you just want to rub my face in the fact that your life - or your debts - are worse, don't bother, please, 'cuz I'll still be bitter about my own life and then pity you on top of it. But do feel free to vent...