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Your Kids Are Cute, But.......
by Rockstar Mommy
It's that time of year again. Malls are packed, highways are parking lots, checking accounts emptied, finance charges rolling over, drunken Santa Clauses with flasks under their beards ringing bells in our faces, jolly fucking yule tide greetings stuffed down our throats in commercials by way of Macy's cashmere cardigans on sale, and Christmas cards pouring in stuffed with pictures of every one's kids from our best-friend's neighbor's nieces, to Great-Aunt Gertie's poodles. Seriously, I'm sure your kids are great, but you do realize that everyone that is opening these cards to see pictures of your kids are rolling their eyes because not only is it probably the eleventy-billionth picture of random children we have received but also because WE ALREADY KNOW WHAT YOUR CHILDREN LOOK LIKE. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about showing off my children. But I refuse to do so at Christmas time because I can just hear the eye rolls they will be receiving as I stamp the envelopes. And the childless engaged or newlywed couples who send the photos of themselves all gorgeous and tanned with genuinely unforced smiles on their faces, sitting on some magical tropical island with margaritas in each hand? Don't even get me started on you, you assholes. Thank you for reminding me what a three ring circus my life is, that I haven't waxed my eyebrows in over 3 months, that my legs are so pale you can almost see through my skin to the bone, and that I perpetually have snot or Kraft macaroni and cheese smears on me somewhere. Thank you for reminding me that my husband and I will not get to take a vacation alone together on an island for the next 17 or so years, that the only places we will get to go will have to include the words Land, Mountain, Park, or Water in the title. Thank you!
Even worse than the collection of pictures of other people's kids we receive are those annoying family newsletters that one (or maybe two, poor you!) person has to send out every single year to go on at length in some less than witty rhyming diatribe about how their year went. Seriously, it's nothing personal. I probably like you. Maybe not, but probably. And I'm probably happy for you. I'm sure it's great that you bought a brand new house with a kitchen the size of Time's Square, and that your husband got a promotion at work, and oh! look at that, Little Timmy is playing hockey this year and Sara lost a tooth. Wow. Compelling stuff. I just find it funny how you neglected to mention that time your teenage son stole your car in the middle of the night last August to buy some pot from an undercover cop or how your 15 year old's barely legal MySpace account is bringing in nearly 10,000 hits a day and mainly from the state penitentiary! You must be so proud. No, really. That's the kind of newsletter I want to read. I don't want to hear about your brand new Beamer because all it does is remind me that no matter how cool I want to look while driving, I will have to purchase vehicles that are sensible and have multi-passenger seating until I am 43 years old. Thank you for rubbing in my face that none of our vehicles have been washed since summer broke and that even if we were parked in a spot where the sun could set around it, it wouldn't because it would get swallowed whole by the classic Pig-Pen ring of dust. No, really! You've put me in such a wonderful, jolly mood.
So, please, I'm begging. Stop sending pictures, stop sending newsletters. Just pick up the phone. Or better yet, get a blog.
Rock Star Mommy does not want your naked photos, either.