Just because I gained 30 pounds last year doesn’t mean there’s a bun in the oven
Dear companies that keep mailing me shit about babies:
Lately my mailbox–my real one, not my cyber one–has been inundated with advertisements for expectant mothers. It’s true that I gained quite a bit of weight in the past nine months, but I think it’s really insensitive of you to assume that it’s because I’m pregnant. Did it ever occur to you that maybe I’m just a fat ass? Yeah, who feels like a jerk now?
If you ever bothered to read my blog, you’d know that I’m clearly unfit to be a mom because I click my tongue at children, and poop makes me vomit. You’d also know that I quit my job to groom dogs–not to expand my carbon footprint by creating a whole new human being. I mean, if you had any brains at all, you’d send me something useful, like a Pet Edge catalogue.
The upstairs neighbors have started to gossip, and I’m pretty sure the mail carrier thinks I’m a huge slut because I’m not married. And even though I’ve told her time and time again that kids are most definitely not in my future, my mom is all, “But you’re getting all of this baby stuff in the mail. Maybe the universe is trying to tell you that you should give me a grandchild before I die.” To which I say, “You know, if you were so hellbent on living out your old age with a bunch of fat grandbabies on your hip, maybe you should have had more than one kid. Because it’s kind of impractical to pin all of your hopes and dreams on your one and only child.”
To further complicate matters, Jenn is bragging to her family that she’s accomplished the physiologically impossible and managed to knock me up, and her parents are all “Sláinte! Let’s buy you a Saint Gerard Majella medal and register you at Gymboree!” and her sister–always the practical one–is like, “Neither one of you has a job. How are you supposed to raise a kid?” She’s such a killjoy.
Seriously, baby companies, you’re kind of screwing with my life right now, and I really don’t appreciate it.
So, to reiterate: I am not pregnant. I am not a nursing mother. I don’t care about lemaze classes or disposable diapers, which I’d never use even if I had kids because–hello, 450 years from now it will still be sitting in a landfill, nasty as ever. I think people who shop at Gymboree are creepy, and I would never, ever spend almost $1,100 on a freaking stroller. I don’t like the Wiggles or Elmo or Teletubbies–except for the purple one who Jerry Falwell claimed was gay.
Please, baby companies. I’m begging you. Cease and desist. Immediately. Before things get really out of hand and the folks from Miles Kimball find me.
On a completely unrelated note, did anyone else happen to catch the resemblance between Augra, a muppet from Jim Henson‘s 1982 film The Dark Crystal, and Placegarden Malachy, the Pekingese that won best in toy group at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show?