I think I'm entitled to write this...

A Belated Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and early Happy New Year to everyone. I hope everyone got what they wished for, and if you didn't, I hope you weren't too put out by it. Not like THESE entitled schmucks...  home.comcast.net/~gn0me/random/ ...which brings me to the topic of this post, entitled, "I think I'm entitled to write this..."

If you click on the link, you'll find a page of tweets compiled by someone other than me. I haven't been able to ascertain who it was exactly, but if I ever meet them, I'd like to shake their hand. Maybe buy them a drink too. ETA: the tweets were compiled by Jon Hendron aka @fart. Great name. Anyway, back to the point of those tweets. They are all written by people who, for some mysterious reason, unbeknownst to me, are actually bitching that they didn't get any of the following for Christmas:

iPhone
iTouch
iPad
insert other high priced electronic device here
Car (a few people complained about this one, and it's SO ludicrous that I'm not even going to touch it)


I'm stymied as to why ANY of these ungrateful little shits would broadcast their obvious slights for the world to read, and even further baffled as to why they think they deserve these things in the first place. I mean, yes, I know we live in a digital world, and I am a digital girl (props to ripping off Madonna here), but not in a million years would I DREAM of going online and kvetching (and I use the word loosely) about my lack of latest Apple product that should have been gifted to me. My jaw actually hit the desk when I read some of the comments directed at the poor parents of these little ingrates. There are things written that I've never even THOUGHT about my Mother. (well, maybe once, but that was a long time ago, and she wouldn't let me go to the Poison concert because she said I was too young.)

Upon further examination of these tweets, I was struck by apparent fact that the large number of these twits are likely under the age of 25, based on photographic evidence. I'm going to put on my "old lady" hat for a minute, and make note that when I was 25, we didn't even HAVE an iPad. We had to use Palm Pilots. How do you like that? Huh? My point is, what does this apparent lack of appreciation and all out greed say for the "younger" generation? (and I use quotation marks only because I'm not that far removed from said generation. OK, so I'm about 12 years removed from it, but so what?) Is this the message that Gen Y really wants to send to the rest of the world? I mean, hell, that generation is the fastest growing segment of the work force, so I can only IMAGINE the conversations that abound when it comes to talking salaries and benefits with potential employers. "What, I don't get 250K a year and my own car as a burger flipper?" "Don't benefits include mani/pedis every two weeks?" "Um, I see by my schedule that I get lunch, but there's no slotted "online shopping" time?" You get the idea.

In other words, to make things nice and simple; I fear for our society. Greatly. So much so, that I'm thinking of moving to Bora Bora. I hear they have really nice beaches. I wonder if they have Wi-Fi?

To RSVP...or not to RSVP, that is the question...

Let's get something straight first off... I love hosting parties. LOVE it. I even use renovating my house as an excuse to have one. (come to think of it, the renovation work is a whole other blog in itself) What do I love about them? I love planning. I love decorating things in such a way that people will wonder if I hired Maaaaartha to come over and do it for me. I love designing a menu which I then press my husband into executing. (hey, I didn't marry a chef for nothing, you know!) I love gathering family and friends and filling them full of food and drink. (I love doing this to myself even more, but a party's a GREAT excuse to do so.) 

But, in all of this silver lining, there's a black thread. The R.S.V.P. - which, as you may or may not know, is French for Repondez, s'il vous plait. Merci beaucoup. In other words, if I take the time and effort to invite you to my party, then please, do me the courtesy of responding, so I know how much brie and wine to purchase. I mean, don't get me wrong. I LOVE brie AND wine, but I don't really want to consume my body weight in both, just because you couldn't be bothered to let me know you wouldn't be attending my little shindig. I'd gladly do it, but really, I can do that any old night of the week. 

It's really not that difficult, especially with the advent of social media like Facebook. I create a swell little events page, and lovingly choose the people I want to spend my evening with, come up with a catchy little phrase to invite them, and voila! (There's that French again. It's SO good that I took that in school instead of typing.) I hit "invite", and there you have it. So then WHY, for the love of all that is good and Holy, is it so freaking hard to hit "yes", "no", or "I don't know you, so please eff off"? I even send updates and reminders to people, and if you knew how much I hate looking desperate, you'll know how much I hate doing that. Nothing smacks more of desperation than "oh, hai, I see you haven't responded to my invitation, so could you please head over to my events page and reply? Because otherwise, it's going to be me and my 14 cats enjoying the salmon ball for the evening." 

And, people can't even use the excuse that the invite hit their inbox and they didn't know about it, because Facebook did me the great service of explaining their new messaging system, which I thought was exceptionally timely. And for all you old-fashioned folks who think that using social media as a invitation tool is lame, what exactly am I supposed to use it for? Updating my kid's bowel movements? Sharing that lame-ass "what colour is your bra" thing? That's why it's not called "anti-social media". You dig? Now, next time? Just grab your French'English dictionary, and Repondez, s'il vous plait.

When I'm done laughing, I'll give you an answer.

Someone asked me last week if I was going to have more children, and as always, my reply was, "well, I'm not, but maybe talk to my husband. If he's willing to go through nine months of puking his guts out, then HEY! I'm all for it."

I'll be honest, I do miss having a wee bairn to cuddle, and having that babe gaze up at me adoringly, like I'm the only thing in the world. It sure beats the hell out of "Mom, can you come wipe my bum? I think I got poo on my hand..." or "Mooooooommmmmmm! I'm hungryyyyyyyyyy! Can you bring me a bagel & cream cheese and some strawberry-banana juice?" Like, who in the hell does this kid think he is? Coco Chanel? Now the only time he gazes at me with that loving expression is when I happen to have a McDonald's Happy Meal in my hand.

So, when people ask if we're going to expand the family, my first response is to laugh hysterically. It's similar to what I would do at 3 AM, when the child wouldn't latch to save his life, and I was at the end of my tether. No, sadly, there are no more kids in the mix for us. My sanity just won't allow for it. Let this serve as a PSA for everyone out there who feels that they have to ask, which brings me to the reason for penning this post.

WHY, when I say that I'm not having any more kids, do people look at me with such pity in their eyes, or like I've got a boil growing out of my forehead? Oh, right, it must be all those "Mother of the Year" trophies I have lining my walls. Listen up people. All I'm really doing is depriving some lucky child the chance to eat dry Rice Krispies while watching Spongebob, while Mommy whiles away the day at the computer, challenging Alec Baldwin to that 14th game of Words with Friends. I'm not spending my day, making life-size impressions of my child's head with decoupage, or recording his every burp, fart and bowel movement with a scrapbook page. Hell, I'm lucky if I can get two matching socks and a clean shirt on his bod before hustling him out the door for a few hours, so I can develop my Sims Social character in peace. It also gives me time to come up with witty comments on Twitter, without having to deal with petty problems like what to serve for lunch or dinner. What I'm really trying to say is that we all have our own reasons for not wanting to over-populate the Earth. When I give you mine, please respect that fact, and please don't tell me that "oh, your poor son. He's not going to have anyone to play with as he grows up." Bitch, please. My kid is a bigger social butterfly than the entire cast of Gossip Girl. Trust me. He can make friends with anyone and everyone, and he does. Even if they don't want him to. Just stand still long enough, and you will get his entire life story, all five years of it, in a nutshell. We're working on just name, rank and serial number, but it's hard work.

Another favourite of mine is, "But you'll regret only having one at some point, and then it'll be too late, because you'll be too old." First off, I highly doubt it, because I like my sleep too much, and secondly, that's right! I WILL be too old. Do you think I want my kid to be getting out of diapers as I'm going into them? Hey, I could do what Madonna did, and adopt a child at 50. Just think of the fun we could have playing "braid Mommy's wrinkles" or, "help Mommy find her keys/clothes/house/remember her name". Good times!

No, boys and girls, I'm quite content with my, as some ditz once put it, "token child". He and I have a great relationship when I'm not trying to figure out how much I could get for him on the black market. Having another would skew that dynamic horribly, and would skew my brain function even further. The bottom line is, not everyone is meant to have a brood of children. Therapists would lose a shit ton of money on those "only child syndrome" types if that were to happen. Think on that the next time you want to project your opinion on poor, ol' mother of a single child, me. It'll save you having to back away slowly, looking around for the nearest exit.

Tis better to give...

I had an interesting conversation with my 5 year old yesterday. We were talking about Christmas and gifts, and how it's nice to get a gift that you really want, as opposed to when you were 13 years old, really hoping for a Sun Ice jacket, and instead got a sweatshirt with kittens on it. (The rhinestone eyes were the real piece de resistance - I'll have to go into more detail in another post) I said that maybe he should ask his Daddy what he might like for Christmas, because I don't have a clue, other than beer, socks and underwear, in that order. Isn't that what every man wants? That, and a Victoria's Secret model wearing a bra that's two sizes too small?
5 year old immediately pipes up and says, "oh, I already know what Daddy wants!" So I said, "Oh, really? And what's that?"

"Daddy wants an 'Air Hog Crane and Helicopter'."

I should probably, for those of you who aren't up on your Air Hog merchandise, explain what that is. It is presumably a toy crane and helicopter, which according to the bright, splashy advertising, can "REALLY FLY!" I highly doubt it.

Uh-huh. So, I think he's got the whole "getting a gift you really want" thing down pat. Really. It puts a whole new spin on "it's better to give than to receive". Indeed. I hope the husband likes his Air Hog.

So what am I doing here?

Let me preface this first post by reiterating something. I'm not a writer. Not in any way, shape or form. I mean, I can spell, and I can form words with a pen/pencil, and (usually) a keyboard if I have to, but when it comes to creating major works of prose, I'm not that person. Take this first paragraph for example... it sucks. My fourth grade teacher would have a field day.

What I AM is an observer, and more often than not, a commentator. I comment, a lot. Most of my comments are comprised of sarcastic wit, or so I'm told. I also LIVE to make people laugh. Of course, I tend to make myself laugh more than anything, but hey, you have to start somewhere, right?

So why, you might ask yourself, am I making this foray into the morass that is the blogosphere? Other than the obvious fact that I must be mad at myself, I find that more and more, my comments can't be limited to 140 characters. It's EASY to make someone laugh when you have a limit to what you can say.

So, now here I sit, fingers clasped in front of my face, and I'm wondering why they smell like cigarettes. I haven't smoked since high school, and even that was short-lived. Maybe it's some sort of residual thing, to remind me why I shouldn't. I wish I had one of those for about half the guys I dated. God, that would've saved me a lot of "it's not you, it's me" conversations.
I'm also wondering what in the HELL I'm going to write  comment about. I'll have to go think on it while I stop my 5 year old from trying to hurl himself off the couch onto the cushions which are now about 8 feet away. Come to think of it, if he misses and hits the wall, it might make for an interesting story. I'll let you know how it turns out.