In the anonymous world of blogging it’s expected that you’re going to get a lot of anonymous comments or e-mails about what you write. What’s also expected is that some people are going to hate what you write. But what has been surprising, at least for me, is the sheer volume of idiots out there. Idiots who send me e-mails about what a horrible mate, mother, mammal, you name it, I must be. According to quite a lot of folks, I’m Beelzebub in a mini-van. Therefore I will be using this post to defend myself.
Before I begin my formal defense I want to state for the record that the name of my blog is not Saintly in the Suburbs or Perfection in the Suburbs. It’s Snarky. Furthermore, let the record show that, I have never given parenting advice, suggested I was a paragon of parenting or in any way held myself up as an example to be followed or emulated. Now, that we’ve got that out-of-the-way let’s proceed to the evidence portion of this posting.
The best way to start, I think, is to break down the evidence, here after known as comments, into two criticism categories. Category one is criticism about me, my appearance and personal habits. Category two is my failings as a mother.
Let’s begin with my favorite that I’m a fatty. Oops, I guess all mentions of my cankle affliction, size 12 and/or 14 pants, and less than stellar appearance in a swimsuit has garnered me some fatty haters. To those of you that have sent me e-mails calling me out for weighing in the three figures and having a body mass index of over 18 I’m here to say that I’m so very sorry for upsetting your delicate body image sensibilities. That said, thanks for all the unsolicited weight loss, de-tox, exercise and surgery advice. As for the “At Home Colon Cleanse” suggestion, sorry, but that’s a great big NO to inserting a “rectal nozzle” (apparently available on-line and at your local CVS) to my garden hose and using it to purify my large intestine.
I also strenuously object to the advice that I back away from the carbs. I’ll have you know that my liaison with baked goods has been a life long love affair and truly one of the most fulfilling and rewarding relationships one could ever hope for. Nothing and I mean nothing will ever come between me and my Pillsbury Grand Cinnamon Rolls. I just can’t quit you, Pillsbury.
Which brings me to the next oft mentioned personal criticism that I’m a drunkard. Okay, people just because I have mentioned on numerous occasion how I enjoy a “fun” drink does not make me an alcoholic it makes me a functioning member of the human race who, thanks to the sporadic adult beverage, has not gone on a homicidal rampage – yet. There’s still time as I have two children to shepherd through the teen years.
I would also like to offer my condolences to all you discount shopping snobs that see fit to let me know that you wouldn’t be “caught dead” walking in a Target. All I have to say is that I’m deeply grieving for you. Target is balm for a weary soul. I’m begging you to spend one afternoon at Target. Get a diet coke from the snack bar and roam the aisles. Start with cosmetics and end with home decor and then try to tell me you don’t feel better. After that get back in your car and go to Costco, head straight for the refreshments and get yourself a slice of cheese pizza or if your feeling more sweet than savory a churro. Take your massive cart head for the free samples and then circle back to the fine wines and spirit section. The Target/Costco trip or as I call it Tarco is the stuff a perfect afternoon is made of.
Moving on now to category two, my suckage at being a mother. Who knew that there were so many perfect mothers out there in the world? What a huge surprise to find that these women have the time to read, critique, and offer, what I assume are, heartfelt suggestions to other mothers about what a bad job they’re doing. There is nothing that brightens my day more than an e-mail from a sanctimommy telling me how much better they are than me at this whole parenting thing. First, let me congratulate you on your exemplary time management skills. Golly, you really must be a super mom to do all you do and still have the energy to troll the blogosphere for hours offering aid to less than flawless mothers.
I really took a beating from the monuments of maternal magnificence when I dared to post that raising your daughter to be a princess was not a viable career choice especially in an iffy economy. You would have thought I had written that Cinderella was really Sleeping Beauty’s Prince Philip in drag. These moms were livid that I would even suggest that a grown up princess was nothing less than the American ideal. Many of them had some royal family issues as 4 out of 5 signed their e-mails with “It’s good to be Queen,” the “Queen Mother,” “Queen Bee,” etc. I’m sure if they could have tracked me down they would have jumped on their valiant steed and stabbed me with a tiara they had filed down to a shiv while doing time at The Happily Ever After Mental Institution for the Regally Insane.
A big shout out to the moms who delight in writing me so they can tell me how I’m failing my children. The “Activity Addict” moms love to share how I’m messing up my kids existence by not enforcing a strict diet of four seasons of extensive extracurricular activities. Excuse me, that one of my mom edicts is that if four out of seven dinners a week have to be consumed in the car because of the “to and fro” of activities than somethings gotta go. One mom this summer pointed out how her children’s lives were forever enriched by attending mime camp. Really, mime camp and I’m the bad parent?
The mother-load of mommy crap rained down on me when I had the audacity to suggest that our kids get too many awards. These Award Whore moms were aghast that I wasn’t busy putting together more IKEA shelves to hold my children’s collection of plaques, trophies, ribbons, and certificates for such achievements as “Best Skills at Lining Up for Recess.”
I got one extremely angry e-mail from a mom who shared with me her parental pride in her son who, for six years running, has received the Perfect Attendance Award. Her “baby boy” has never missed a day of school “no matter how bad he felt” and “even went to school three times with the stomach flu.” (Really I can’t make this stuff up.) I replied back that I’m sure her County Health Department, the Center for Disease Control and all the kids in her child’s classes for the past six years might be less than thrilled with her son’s perfect attendance as he has surely passed on many a communicable disease. Kudos, I concluded, to her son for bucking up and sneezing, coughing, vomiting and high fevering his way through his elementary school years and an extra special Typhoid Mary award to her for never having to miss a day of work due to a sick child.
I’ve also managed to tick off some hot moms or moms who think they’re hot when I mentioned that shorty shorts, Ugg boots and pigtails should get the worst mom outfit of the school year. It seems, I offended a portion of the mom population that think they can “rock the look.” According to the e-mails I got “I’m jealous” on two fronts.
One, I’m jealous because I can’t “pull it off” and jealous because I can’t “afford Uggs.” These women are right, I am jealous. Jealous that I don’t live in their delusional world where I think looking like a deranged, middle-aged, down on her luck, battling a meth addiction, pig tailed Cindy from the Brady Bunch turned Hooter Waitress is a look that I can “rock.” Who wouldn’t be jealous of that kind of self-confidence?
I also have a group of women in East, Texas praying for me and doing some on-line ministry. This happened after one mom called upon the Lord to help me find my way and guide me so I can be saved from the unrighteous, non mommy bliss, life I’m living. She alerted her bible study class about my “sin ridden” blog and they all started reading it in order to better focus their prayers.
I asked them how I was singled out to receive their abundant blessings and was told I was discovered in a google search. Apparently, when you enter crack whore, nipples, sucks, vajazzle, bible study, F bomb and bad mommy into google “Snarky In the Suburbs” pops up. (I’m so proud.) I was touched by their concern for my mortal soul but I, ever so politely, suggested that their prayer power might be better directed at stopping war, poverty, hunger or even some kind of outreach to the rejects from The Bachelor not some nameless, faceless person, on the internet. No matter what I said they remain dedicated to saving me.
So, I decided to use my shameful sin to brighten their lives, a feel good for them, if you will. I told them that their instincts were correct. They hit the bulls-eye. The reason they felt I was a terrible mother with mental health issues is because I’m not a mom . . . I’m a man. A lonely dude in prison, Rikers to be exact, currently serving 10 to 20 for armed robbery. (I just knew all those hours of watching Law & Order would come in handy.) To pass the time I write this blog on the prison library computer which I only get to use when I earn enough good behavior credits.
They were all beyond excited about this revelation (one prayer group member confessed to having a celestial vision that I was a man) and are planning a mission trip to visit me very soon. I can’t wait!
On that I rest my defense.
**For more Snarky check out my book Snarky in the Suburbs Back to School.
Here’s a little ditty about it: The Spring Creek Elementary School PTA board (a coven of Mean Moms dressed in Uggs, yoga pants, and dermal filler) is up to no good. Wynn Butler (middle-aged, uncool, and not bringing sexy back) is determined to find out what’s going on. With help from her two kids, a Roomba vacuum turned mobile surveillance drone, and a few good friends, Wynn launches a covert investigation that leads to the “mother of all revenge capers” at the school’s annual Fall Festival. If you’ve ever fantasized about smoke bombing the idiot parent who has yet to master the fine art of the school drop-off lane, or standing up and shouting, “Liar, liar, Botox on fire” during a PTA meeting, then this delicious tale of payback is for you.
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