Let me preface this by saying that I am not a Scrooge. I love this time of year. I like dressing up and going to holiday parties. I like overeating and overdrinking. I like buying presents for my friends and family. What I don't like is buying a present for your baby. I'll explain.
That's right: We single, childless gals are rockin' a hangover from a kickass post-Thanksgiving party (how was yours?) and will gladly leave the bizarre American middle-class Black Friday shopping to you. You can meet at Walmart at 4 in the morning. I am more than happy to let you have the quesadilla maker at 20 percent off. My gift to you.
Everyone knows that the most important decision of any beach day is where to put down your towel. I make an effort to pick a quiet, isolated spot on the sand, but no matter where I sit, you and your troops invade and ATTACK!
America, you certainly are the land of the brave. And I am the land of the free. Free of children!
You people are reproducing. To borrow a phrase from "Jersey Shore," you're not just "smooshing," then popping something out nine months later. No, I'm talking more like Gremlins, when you pour water on them. You mommies are reproducing a new version of yourselves -- daddies!
I am about to get on a plane to travel cross-country. To plan for this painstaking day, I thought it would be appropriate to speak to the mothers of the world who will be joining me, along with their screaming, coughing, drooling children.