i heart mimi

There are some rules in life. Rules we all should observe.

Unless a naked, vernix-covered infant is shooting from the hoo-hoo of a large-bellied woman as she simultaneously screams for drugs and twists off her husband’s lovesack, you should never NEVER never ask a woman if she’s pregnant. Because she won’t be. She’ll just be fat and you’ll be an ass.

The same holds true with personal questions at holiday dinner. Just don’t do it. Because nobody likes to be the focus of inquiries about income, failed relationships, or bad real estate purchases. It’s just uncomfortable. And I know this because every Thanksgiving, my father-in-law piles up his plate with deviled eggs and pie, and then starts asking questions. And everyone’s ears perk up, knowing it’s about to get super awkward.

Just. Don’t. Doit.

Instead, talk about the weather. Or how much the Cubs suck. Or hell … if you’re desperate, disparage the relative that was too pissy or snotty or broke to show up. But don’t gang up on your own.

And while I’m on the topic of things you shouldn’t do because it’s just bad taste, take this advice to heart. Don’t wear white before Memorial Day or after Labor Day. No matter what modern fashion magazines say, it’s tacky.

And don’t get a tramp stamp. Because once you have one, every time you bend over to pick up your kid or tie your shoes, people will see it and think less of you. Even if it’s supposedly the Chinese symbol for serenity. It’s not. It’s the American symbol for “We’re in.”

I understand that it appears I’m sitting in judgment, but I’m just trying to help you. I have my own set of very special issues, the least of which begins with some bacon and ends with two or three shots of vodka. But Miss Manners would surely agree with my stance on the above-mentioned scenarios; I’m simply putting a modern-day spin on the delivery of age-old wisdom.

If you want to make someone’s day, compliment their outfit (unless they’re wearing white in March), or their smile. Tell them something you appreciate about them. I was recently told by a complete stranger that I had beautiful skin. Which was a lovely thing to hear.

And I can’t tell you how happy I was that she didn’t pat my mid-section and ask when my cupcakes are due.

3 Comments | In: My Unsolicited Opinion | tags: Ass, Awkward questions, Chinese symbol for serenity, Cupcakes, Deviled eggs, Family, Father-in-law, Hoo-hoo, Husband, Judgment, Labor Day, Lovesack, Memorial Day, Miss Manners, Pregnant, Rules, Tacky, Tramp stamp, Twinkie, Vernix, Vodka, Wisdom. | #

The soccer moms have hated me for 18 years.

That’s how long I’ve been a mom. And that’s how long the perfect moms with their perfect houses and perfect children and perfect cupcakes have been rejecting my ass.

I used to care. I used to try to get them to like me. To engage them in conversation and find things in common and make friends.

I have given up. It’s stupid.

After in-depth analysis, I have surmised that the first time around none of the soccer moms took me seriously because I was the step-mom. I didn’t labor for 26 hours per child, they never found nourishment at my breast. I wasn’t a real mom.

Oh yeah?

Well it’s a good thing I never had to comfort a child after a nightmare, or stay up all night monitoring a climbing fever. I’m glad I never had to talk a kid through first-day-of-school jitters, or hold down a tiny body that was unwillingly receiving a vaccination.

Whew. Good thing I’m just a step-mom.

All sarcasm aside, I just didn’t fit the mold. I’m not skinny. I don’t drink lattes. I don’t drive an SUV, wear designer labels, or live in a house that has me in debt up to my eyeballs. I just don’t freaking care what people think of me. And that’s my big problem. Or rather, their big problem.

Because, apparently, to be liked by the soccer moms, one must be judgmental, uptight, and impossible to get along with. Oh, and perfect in every way. And by perfect, I mean unhappy.

I don’t know how these women live these lives in which their children are in every activity know to man, and the only “family” time spent together is in a mini-van at the McDonald’s drive-thru. Dinner comes from a bag between soccer practice and dance class, and there is no time to talk because someone is always yelling, “Hurry up … we’re late!”

No thank you.

Call me lazy, but the pace of life I choose is one in which my child can come home from school and supremely chill out. She starts by retreating to her room for 45 minutes, and I honestly have no idea what she does up there. I leave her alone because I know she needs that time. Then she comes down and reads, does a few chores, and then starts pestering me for food. Sometimes there’s homework, sometimes there are ridiculous amounts of American Idol. There is almost never a fast-food dinner in the back seat of the car (which is not an SUV).

I’m stepping on toes here. I know I am. I don’t mean to. I’m really just pointing out that I have been rejected for ridiculous reasons. Because someone else needs to feel superior, and doesn’t want to be seen talking to the fat step-mom with a nose ring and a kid with Down syndrome.

It makes me mad.

The second time around (this time I’m the bio mom, which hasn’t helped at all), the moms have “accepted” my child and love to flash their big smiles when the kid with Down syndrome speaks in complete sentences. But they continue to snub me. They looooove my darling little girl, tell me how sweet and loving she is, and then walk away. They don’t ever invite us to do anything. Never. (Conversely, I don’t ask them to do anything with us — mostly because I don’t relate to them either, and no longer want to try).

I have true friends that don’t care that I buy 70% of my kid’s clothes at Goodwill (which is where she got her kickass t-shirt collection), or that I have pink(ish) hair and play roller derby. I have real friends. I don’t need to be friends with these women simply because our kids go to school together.

So I just wanted to say out loud that I’m over it. It used to really upset me that the soccer moms don’t like me. Not any more. I think it’s funny, and I purposely make eye contact and say hello to them just to make them uncomfortable.

Perhaps it’s not very Christian of me to feel this way. I’m probably breaking a commandment or two. Most likely.

But I can’t find self-worth through the opinions of others. I must find it by being myself in every situation, no matter how I am received. I have spent 38 years trying to please others, hiding my real self because I didn’t fit the mold. Can’t do it another day.

Go ahead. Reject me. Life goes on.

12 Comments | In: My Unsolicited Opinion | tags: Cupcakes, Daughter, Down syndreom, Drive-thru, McDonald's, Nose pierced, Perfect, Pink hair, Roller derby, School, Self worth, Soccer mom, Soccer moms hate me. | #