A case of the Gimme Gimme's

There are a lot of things I want an explantion for.  I want things, and I want to know why I either can't understand them, or can't have them happen.  For example:

I want a small ass. This will never happen. I’m just not built to be “small”.

I want a smaller forehead.  Because bangs to cover it up on a hot day is not a good look for anyone.

I want the black studded-red-bottomed-rock-my-world-and-create-spontaneous-orgasms Christian Laboutins. I will shower, run, sleep and work in them. For real.

I want a tummy tuck. Without having to spend the $5,000.

I want to own a mirror that allows me to look into it and see no flaws.

I want to own a haute couture dress that costs an obscene amount of money. Because if I can own something like this, it pretty much means I can afford to pay my cable bill BEFORE the shut off notice comes.

I want chocolate and wine to be fat and calorie free. And while we are at it, those two things alone should be able to cure cancer, middle age acne and cellulite.

But most importantly, I NEED to know why in the name of all that is holy does this monster called Black Friday exist?

I don't get the reasoning behind ditching your family in the middle of the night to freeze your ass off waiting for a store to open to buy things you probably wouldn't buy if it wasn't on sale on this wretched, God forsaken day.  Is it really worth getting up at 2am to wait in line for a toy that you saved $5 on, and that your kid will probably play with for 10 minute before he ditches it to play in the box it came in?

And that giant TV you just had to buy because it was sale?  Jokes on you, cause that bitch will still be on sale tomorrow.  And the day after that.  And next Black Friday.  Just because it's on sale today, doesn't make it special.

It's like retailers are screwing with you making you think you're getting a sale when all you're really getting is frostbite and a nasty cold.

I can tell you from 20 years of Christmas shopping experience that I have never been willing to be trampled on at a Super Wal-Mart at 4am because my kid wanted some annoying Elmo doll that was only going to piss me off and make me hide it, and then blame my kid for losing it.  If I can't order it online, or find it when I have the time to go to the store without fear of being attached by some psycho mom who needs that toy more than I do, then guess what kid?  You ain't getting it.

And seriously, just because you get up at the ass crack of dawn, doesn't mean you have the right to show up wearing the pajama pants you slept in and funky morning breath.  Take a shower and brush your teeth, or stay home and shop Cyber Monday like all the other lazy assholes (like me!).

Oh, and if someone could also make me look as sexy as I think I do after a few glasses of wine, rather than the sweaty, eyeliner running, spitting when I talk mess that I actually am, that would be great too!

I am a mom.Therefore, I know NOTHING.

I have two teenage children. They are both walking stereotypes. My son is the handsome football/basketball player and my daughter is the super girly, hyperactive, boy-crazy cheerleader.

In short, these things equate to me, a 37 year old mother who was once a teenager so many moons ago, to knowing NOTHING in my children’s opinions.

I struggle daily with allowing my children enough room to learn to make their own decisions (good and bad) and having to step in to put them back in check and remind them that I am the adult in this house, and therefore I get the last word.

For instance, my daughter has…shall we say, blossomed…over the past year. Which means I am constantly scanning her Facebook page to make sure that her goodies are properly contained within the confines of her Aeropostale t-shirt. So, you can imagine my horror when we started looking for a semi-formal dress for her school dance and she kept pointing out strapless, teeny tiny gowns. After politely telling her a multitude of times that a strapless dress just isn’t appropriate for a 14 year old girl, I finally had to go into bitchy mom mode and break it down.

Until you are old enough to pay for anything that might come out of your vagina, I own it. The whole shootin’ barrel. Nothing goes in, nothing comes out, no one sees it, touches it or ponders invading it. Which means no dresses that run the potential for you a) bending over and risking your tiny little ass or your tiny little boobs falling out or b) running the risk of your vagina coming out ala Britney Spears style. I promise that if you decide to go all Teen Mom up in this bitch, I will retaliate by going all Mommy Dearest on your ass.

I don’t want my teenage daughter being gawked at by some pimple faced boy with a perpetual boner, just hoping she will bend over so  he can oogle at her teenage boobies as they come out of her strapless dress.

Nuh huh, ain’t gonna happen.

And as exhausting as this argument has been, I am keenly aware of the fact that this is the smallest of all the battles that are yet to come. And that exhausts me even further.

I don’t even want to think about the stains on my son’s sheets, or the two LONG showers he takes every day. I cringe every time we are watching The Voice and he repeatedly feels the need to tell me that Christina Aguilera is “hot”. Cue vomiting noises.

This chapter was definitely not in “What To Expect When You Are Expecting” and I want a fucking refund.