I hate to admit it, but I’m sitting here listening to Kelly Clarkson…on purpose. I needed some fluffy, emotionally charged, girl music. Sometimes it does the trick, lights a fire and reminds me of all the things I already know. I downloaded Pandora on my phone; on it I programmed all the stations I’d never listen to in public – Kelly Clarkson, Air Supply, Rihanna. No- Air Supply isn’t fronted by women, but…they could be. It’s not that I think this music is beneath me; I just like to think I’m tough broad and listening to sappy music doesn’t exactly fit the bill. In the back of my head, I’m warning myself that chick tunes are a gateway to the Lifetime Channel. If I start writing about Meredith Baxter-Birney, cramps, The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants or any other estrogen related topics…I advise you to skip the intervention and shoot me…Ol’ Yeller style.
I’m not sure what’s going on lately. I seem to be on the receiving end of a whole shit-load of reminders that I’m not doing what I should be doing, what I could be doing and what I’m not doing. Yes, I have more than a few flaws, but they’re part of my charm. Without them, life would be exceptionally boring and I would have nothing to talk about. My son is my most vocal critic; he’s at an age where he knows everything. Near as I can figure, this starts at four and continues well into 40. Yes, I know I am the adult here and it’s likely just a phase, but as much as I consistently correct the behavior, it continues and it’s starting to wear on my self image. I miss the days when I was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Now someone that just mastered the skill of wiping his own butt is commenting on my shortfalls.
All of his mom directed statements start with “Moooooom! You were supposed to…” or “Mooooooooom! Why didn’t you..”. When he woke up this morning I was supposed to have his chocolate milk ready and his school clothes laid-out. Well, excuse the hell out of me. As I trudged through his whining, I thought about teaching him that I am not here to wait on him hand and foot. Someday, he’s going to have to learn the lesson that any woman he is lucky enough to have in his life is not a mind-reader or perfect and will disappoint him. I decided to go the alternate route of “Quit whining. Santa is watching”. I love this time of year; I get to rule with an iron elf. I can sing “He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake” under my breath and momentarily correct whatever obnoxious behavior is occurring. I feel sorry for Jewish mothers; not having a score keeping, fat man to hold over their little darling’s heads when they refuse to eat their Matzos. Sure, guilt is just as effective, but not nearly as musical or entertaining. I look forward to the excitement on my son’s face, when he discovers the loot that Santa left under the tree Christmas morning. What I don’t look forward to is running around securing the requested items, tripping over the bounty until the toys break and having to make room for all it.
This morning, I attempted to get into the shower but decided it was too much effort. My bathroom, much like the rest of my house is ankle deep in toys, especially the tub portion of this room. In the very near future I am going to have to sort through all of this shit and donate it to a charity or the dump. I turned on the shower and attempted to locate a clearing in the tub so that I could shampoo and exfoliate. I got the water to an acceptable temperature, disrobed and put one foot in, only to be greeted by something resembling a dolphin with a birth defect, under foot. It squeaked at me like Flipper and stabbed me in the arch of my foot, viciously, with its dorsal fin, as if it was shanking me in the yard of a Dolphin Prison. This sent me lurching backwards, jumping on one foot and yelling “God-damn-son-of-a-bitch-that-hurt!!!!”. Dolphins are supposed to be loving, gentle creatures, aren’t they? I let the dolphin think it had won the turf war and decided to put off showering until I was in a more reasonable mood.
Toy manufacturers; if you’re reading this…please explain the sharp, pointy obsession. I spend ginormous amounts of money on toys to entertain my son, why do you only repay me by trying to make me an amputee? And why must everything have a million little pieces that get lost under the couch 5 minutes after opening the package? Spider-man is not a crime-fighting hero, he is malicious little fucker that lurks in the shadows waiting for me to step on his web launcher and taunt me with repetitive phrases. These toys shouldn’t come with catch phrases like “retractable mega-gun” or “live action play”. They should be more accurate and announce fun things like “parent crippling action” or “6 real life drain clogging functions”.
My son is obsessed with the toy magazines that now arrive in the mail on a daily basis. He’s sitting on the couch right now with a red marker; circling the items he thinks Santa should consider leaving him in exchange for good behavior, while finishing off the rest of his Halloween candy. Last night, he was on the phone with his father; the entire conversation was toy centered. It was pretty obvious that his dad doesn’t know his “Talking Fijit” from his elbow. I’m not even sure what a Talking Fijit is, but it sounds annoying and expensive. Thankfully, through eavesdropping, I was informed that it is a girl toy and not required to be wrapped and under our tree.
We haven’t even gotten through Thanksgiving yet and I am already willing Christmas to be over. I know the holidays are supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year, but in reality, for me…they aren’t. There’s a lot of pressure, whether it be finding the perfect gift or putting aside anger for a day and not stabbing a member of my extended family with a fork for being a jackass. The holidays are not about making yourself happy; they’re the days reserved for making someone else happy and wearing stupid sweaters. I will do my best not to go psychotic when I hear “Blue Christmas” for the 800th time or get into an altercation in a mall parking lot, with some asshole wearing reindeer antlers and driving like an idiot. Sometimes, even I need to be reminded that Santa is watching.