Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Rules of Engagement

As a Rule...

I don't get my haircut at places where all the stylists are wearing Crocs.

I don't let anyone who looks like she's wearing make up give me a makeover at the Bobbi Brown counter.

I never dated a guy whose butt was smaller than mine.

I eat dessert every night (after the boys go to bed!).

I don't wear holiday themed sweaters, jewelry, or shoes.

I refuse to carry a diaper bag that looks like one.

I stick to stylish ensembles that work on playdates with the boys' friends or mine.

I make my kids eat food at the table. Water or milk in a lidded cup is the exception.

I consider myself a MILF...if I don't, no one else will.

I drink red or white depending on my mood or what's available, not based on what the wine snoots say.

stay far, far away from the Hudson jean wearing, blinged out cell phone
chatting, Burberry diaper bag toting, Prada loafer clad moms at the
park. Ditto for their uber-smocked children who are still wearing Keds
bumpers at age 5.

I read books. Real books. Like the kind without pictures, cardboard pages, or cellophane protective covers.

I serve two servings from the fruit and vegetable food group at dinner every night.

I make sure our family eats dinner together every single day. At the table. With no TV. No toys. No phone. No Crackberry.

I never vote Republican. EVER.

I embrace progressives, but really wish the earthy types would shave their legs and pits and bathe once in a while.

I take unposed photos of my children to document their myriad expressions of pure joy, utter defeat, and brotherly love.

I don't drive a minivan. No MILF does.

I buy myself fresh flowers for no reason. If I don't, only my dad will...twice a year anyway.

I surround myself with people who are smarter, funnier, handier, and kinder than I am.

I don't camp.

I don't like to touch nature. I just like to admire it from a porch with a Mojito in hand.

I don't stay in hotels that don't have internal hallways.

I don't let my boys go to school, or anywhere for that matter, in dirty clothes.

I carry Purell with me everywhere and use it incessantly.

I stash Chapstick in every purse, tote bag, glove compartment, drawer, and pocket I have.

I take Bird and Deal on an adventure of some kind or another every day.

I don't tolerate stupidity. Dumb people ruin everything.

I don't download music unless my friend Tony has endorsed it. Here's where you'll find him:

play regular music in the car. I would crash if I had to endure some
singalong children's chorus singing Barney faves. I am getting ill just
thinking about it. There's no reason the kids can't enjoy Jimmy Buffett
(minus "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw" of course), the B-52s, and
the Beatles.

I don't kiss Mac Daddy if he isn't clean shaven. If I do, I break into massive hives. Trust me on this. Odd but true.

I don't buy shoes or jeans that hurt. Looks above comfort is a crappy way to live.

slather on sunscreen. On myself. On my kids. Mac Daddy is more
resistant to it than a 2-year old, and he's the one who's so white he's

I leave painfully long, blabbering voicemail messages because the machine is a captive audience.

I don't take sleeping aids, though I haven't slept a straight seven hours in about 18 months now.

I have hardwood floors in my house.

going to see my friends Shan and Chris at least once a year. Our boys
became fast friends on our last visit to Minneapolis so I can't deny
them that. Plus, Chris and Deal share a birthday, and Mac Daddy and
Shan share a birthday. Our fates and friendship are inextricably

Cross posted at Dirt & Noise.

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