Old Bridesmaids

I may be a narcissist, but I can also accept the fact that I'm old. My 20's are a distant memory, and I don't believe I ever was a teenager. I won't tell you exactly how old I am, but I can tell you this: I'm too damned old to be a bridesmaid. And yet...in a few months' time, I will be one.

WHAT, you ask, is "too old" to be a bridesmaid?

There are a few factors, any one of which could easily disqualify a woman from bridesmaidhood, but when you put them all together - as is the case with me - well, let's just say I'm too damned old to be a bridesmaid. (I know I said that already. It's my blog.)

1. Over 30: If you're over 30, your body isn't what it used to be...Hollywood starlets are the exception. If you're over 30, you just look SAD in a matching line of women. If you're over 30, you SHOULD NOT BE A BRIDESMAID.
2. Married: If you're married, the best you should shoot for is Matron of Honor...and even then, only for immediate family. If you're wearing a bridesmaid dress and a wedding ring, you basically just look like an idiot. Period. If you're married, you SHOULD NOT BE A BRIDESMAID.
   
3. ...With Kids: If you have kids, your bridesmaid heyday was a million years ago. Kids warp your body. Kids need to be attended to, particularly if they, too, will be attending the wedding. Mom is needed elsewhere. If you have kids, you SHOULD NOT BE A BRIDESMAID.
4. You weigh more than your minimum acceptable BMI: If you have a body that is less attractive than you'd like - I realize that's most of us, but for an over-30 married mommy, trust me, it's so much worse - and knowing you will inevitably be stuck in a dress that does not flatter your figure (it's strapless and you have upper arm fat, it's short and you have the cankles from hell, it's tight and just screams I'M A PEAR when you put it on), accepting the invitation to be a bridesmaid is asinine. If your BMI is anywhere higher than bare-minimum stick-figure, you SHOULD NOT BE A BRIDESMAID.

That said, I said yes. You see, I hadn't thought any of this through. My dear friend is being married, and she wanted to include me in the wedding party, and I was flattered. I'm going to be a bridesmaid...at WELL over 30...as a married woman...with kids...who weighs more toward the upper end of the reasonable BMI...and will be wearing a strapless short dress that accentuates my Mommy Wings, my cankles, and that huge baby-bearing booty in back. Happy-happy Joy-joy. It's a good thing I love my friend, or I'd back the hell OUT.

And it's a good thing I confessed to my own stupidity on this blog, because maybe you'll avoid my mistake. Learn from me. Old bridesmaids are bad, bad, bad.

Stay-Home Moms Who Can't Cook

Ladies and gents, this drives me INSANE.

I realize that stay-home motherhood has become a thing of the past, and that there are relatively few of us compared to how things were 100 - or even 50 - years ago. I would argue, however, that most of the women who are stay-home moms today PLANNED to be stay-home moms while they were yet kids...or at least teens. And if that was the case, they must've realized that a portion of their responsibilities in the home would include meal preparation, serving, and clean-up.

And yet, so incredibly many stay-home moms just...can't...cook.

Really? You didn't plan ahead for this?

In this information age, how hard is it to find a simple recipe? To read it, purchase or assemble together what you need, and follow directions? .................. Apparently, it's next to impossible.

Okay, let me start again: how difficult is it to pick up a bag of Buitoni freezer pasta and - again, following directions - throw it in a pan over medium heat and stir it once every 2-3 minutes for 10 - 15 minutes? .................. Sigh.

I don't care if you don't LIKE cooking, I don't care if you don't LIKE cleaning up after it; you have a family to feed, and they cannot live on PB&J and canned Chef Boyardee. (Actually, I suppose they could, but you're certainly not doing them any favors...like you agreed to, in deciding to be a stay-home mom.)

Learn to cook. Watch the damned Food Network. Eat at nicer restaurants so you can learn what tastes good, and then feed your family based on what you've learned.

But please, don't force your husband to make an after-hours trip to McD's for a Big Mac because you served the only casserole you know how to make - cream-of-something plus a few cans-of-something - AGAIN and it was once again INEDIBLE. Take your responsibility seriously. Feed your family FOOD. GOOD food. BE a mother. NOW.

While We're Still on Animals...

Another thing I hate: people who have dogs instead of kids, then talk up their dogs AS THOUGH they were children.

It's not that I hate dog people...generally speaking. So long as you train your animal, scoop up its crap from my stretch of sidewalk/lawn/driveway, keep it on a leash, and make sure you regularly vacuum up its hair so that when I sit on your couch, my black slacks don't end up shaggy, dog people are just fine. I like them better than cat people, actually; they pay attention to me, whereas cat people are busy worshiping their cats.

But I HATE dog people who think that raising a pooch is akin to raising a child.

WRONG!!!

Scooping dog crap is NOT like changing your child's diapers. With a child, you're teaching them to want to be clean. You're wiping thick green soy poo from a red, raw tushy at 2 in the morning...every morning for weeks on end. You get peed on, pooped on, often have to change clothes and wipe floppy feet that found their way into the aforementioned poo, and just generally sacrificing for the sake of your progeny.

Dumping kibble into a bowl and refreshing water once a day - never, if you have one of those lazy-ass self-refreshing water bowls - is NOT like feeding a child. Let's look beyond bottles and burping for a moment, and consider your average 6 year-old who prefers Mac 'N' Cheese to veggies. They still need veggies. And those veggies need to be bought...and cooked...and eaten. And you, as a parent, are responsible for all of the above, including any ensuing tantrum AND the consistency to insist time and time again until they either develop a taste for veggies or learn to stir the veggies into their Mac 'N' Cheese so they don't notice them as much. And kids eat CONSTANTLY...which you also must monitor. Too much food or too much of the wrong types of foods = FAT kids with health problems. If they're NOT eating constantly, you have to worry JUST as much about the sake of their health.

Training a dog to sit, lie down, not jump on people, and restrain their barking is NOT like teaching a child to speak/read/think/behave appropriately to the situation/socialize with everyone from a newborn on up to a geriatric. The contrast there is so obvious when those two things are juxtaposed that I feel no need to elaborate. Point is, they're worlds apart.

If you have a dog instead of children, fine. Enjoy your ANIMAL. That said, don't you DARE try to tell me that having a dog is just as difficult as raising your own flesh and blood, or that you understand the pain that I endure attempting to teach my unfocused child to read because you just taught your dog a new trick. Try, and I may just introduce your face to my fist.

ANIMAL, not CHILD. Listen up, Dog People...and shut up.

Cat People

I hate cats. Not because I'm allergic - I am, but that makes them an irritation, not a reason for anger - but because they are JUST LIKE ME.

Cats are narcissists, every one. "Feed me...pet me...empty out my poop...buy me toys...give me some catnip and let me get high...pet me 'til I purr, and then don't stop...let me lie in this sunny-warm window all day...expect nothing from me but that I use my happy hunting instincts from time to time on my own whim...WORSHIP ME."

Was that a narcissist I just described, or a hedonist? ............... Yes. Both.

With perhaps the exception of the poop-emptying, the aforementioned bits and bobs describe me very well. And when did any two people so similar EVER get along? Worse, most of the time two souls from the same mold HATE one another, for a variety of reasons.

Therefore, I hate cats. I am a narcissist, a hedonist, and cats are competition. And I hate them. And I hate their people, who are too wrapped up in worshiping their narcissistic animals to worship me. Damn them all.

Dogs as Accessories

It's all the rage: dogs as accessories.

Wait, what?

Yes, it's been happening for years now, and I still don't get it: people who use live small animals as body decor. They carry them in purses and keep them on sparkly leashes, insisting that their living creature be allowed to join them for dinner in polite company.

They adorn themselves with living animals.

I could go on forever about the injustice, about the humiliation the animal suffers - without realizing they're being humiliated - but I won't. This is a quick post today.

I will leave you with this thought, which sums up my feelings about animal adornments:

If only they would adorn themselves with a boa constrictor about the neck...

Day 1: Multi-level Marketers

Who came up with this idea, really? "Hey! Look at all this super overpriced CRAP that I invested in and that I believe in with all my heart and soul and pocketbook! You're my (insert ANY relationship here, however distant), you must want to spend an exorbitant amount of money on this junk, too. Please disregard the fact that a portion of the proceeds go directly into my bank account, and take this catalog / website / info to help you decide what else you want to purchase. No pressure, of course; I don't want to make you feel like I'm cramming this crap down your throat, because then you'll avoid me when we bump into each other at the grocery store. All the same, I really, really want you to buy my stuff - from ME - and to send other people in my direction. While you're at it, how about throwing me a party so that 'other people' - YOUR family and friends - can be forced to sit through a sales-heavy presentation about my super overpriced crap...and I'll give you a discount on my overpriced crap for offering me this new forum. Deal?"

Meanwhile, the fat cats at corporate laugh all the way to the bank.

Mary Kay, Avon, Amway, Pampered Chef, Scentsy, knives that cut pennies in half, Tupperware, Cookie Lee jewelry, Princess House, Mona Vie, NuSkin, NeWays (which looks like "any ways," btw...)...if a woman can use it, she'll hawk it to other women to make money off them. Tacky with a capital T...and a major pet peeve of mine.

I don't want your overpriced crap. You sell Mary Kay or Avon, not Lancome or Dior. I don't want to sit through an hour-long "class" or "demonstration;" those are words conjuring the same sort of torture as a Time Share sales meeting. Don't invite me for lunch and ply me with catalogs. Don't offer me a girls' day out and then ask me to pay twice the retail cost of your average upscale candle.

I will make one exception: sex toy parties. But that's just because I actually WANT those, and Passion Party prices are comparable to ebay or my local naughty boutique, and I FINALLY get to have a frank conversation about ways to spice up my sex life. Bring on the sex toy parties.

Other than that, people, leave me the HELL alone, and keep your overpriced crap to yourself. You bought into it. Your friends, family, acquaintances, church members, and neighbors did NOT.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was Bitch #1. Hang in there. More on the way.

PS: That tupperware set featured in the photo up top? $119.99. I SHIT YOU NOT.

And So It Begins.

I've been wanting to say some really awful things on facebook lately, but I just can't bring myself to shatter the image I've built: you know, the sweet, smiling SAHM who loves everyone and everything. SO not true. Deep down, just like the song says, I'm a Bitch.

And a Narcissist. I am convinced the world revolves around me...in ways you cannot possibly imagine.

Seriously.

This blog will serve as my confessional for 2012. (After all, come December 20-what's-it, we're all going to die anyway, right?) And if we make it to 2013, well, I'll turn this damn thing into a book, delete this blog, and get on with my life having finally vomited out all the self-centered bitchiness I possess. Good Times, Noodle Salad.

Enjoy.