Talking about sex in public is like talking about religion in public. They both make me feel queeby, after the fact. Not that I regret it, just that I wonder where the hell I was going with it all in the first place.
But do you know what makes me feel queebier? Having to sit in a small waiting room filled with Southern stage moms for an hour and having to listen to them talk. Oh. Dear. Lord.
My daughter has dance camp every night this week. I have heard the Southern mothers pontificate on everything from spanking to cats and I can't take it anymore. I asked, or actually begged, my husband to take her last night, but he claimed to want to have time to bond with the boy. Yeah right.
Last night I asked my husband if he would please jam screwdrivers into my ears before her next class. This may be the only solution. I bring a book and bury my nose but that can't keep out those twangy whines.
And why are random people always asking me for parenting advice. Do I look like Dr Spock? Can't they see that I'm trying to read a romance novel here? Do I tell my kids, "no." Hell yeah. Do I make them say, "Yes, ma'am." Well, I make them say, "Yes, Mommy," since this isn't a prison. Do I spank them? I've never had to. And I never would. You raise them right and it's not even an issue.
Anyone want to trade lives with me? Just for the evenings for a week. My daughter's really cute and well behaved. And she can dance up a storm. I could go to your house and do whatever it is that you do. I'm prepared. Come on. Deliver me from evil Southern stage mothers.
I'm begging here.
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