Doodle by me.
Dear (Not so ) Suitable Boy,
I have been meaning to write to you for some time now (about 20 years) but somewhere along the way, after I realized you most certainly were not my knight in shining armor, I married someone else and had five kids. So yeah I was a bit preoccupied. No, I didn’t end up marrying the knight in shining armor. He still hasn’t shown up. Curse you, Disney. Curse you.
I remembered you and your audacious proposal yesterday night as I was scooping fat cat’s dehydrated poop out of the litter box. Please don’t be offended, you do not in any way remind me of dehydrated cat poop. I just get random thoughts scooping poop.
I just want you to know that it never would have worked. I was done the second I realized I was about to be shown off like prize cattle, when I saw you sitting there in my aunt’s drawing-room with your mom, your dad and your female sibling. I am surprised you didn’t bring your grandparents. I stopped at the door and I checked you out. Sorry I wasn’t raised in Pakistan, yeah I checked you out and you did not even make my “last guy in the world list”. But let’s be honest, you were there with your family to do the exact same thing. I just beat you to it.
Yes, in those few seconds I was able to sum you up and sweep you aside. I was a narcissistic nineteen year old what could you expect? I knew I was on every eligible bachelor’s mom’s list, most likely first or second, because I fit what every desi mother-in-law wanted. Tall, thin, fair, but most importantly, Canadian National. God bless our hypocritical, stereotypical desi double standards!
Besides being turned off by the fact that I was about to be paraded in front of a guy I did not know (why can’t people just arrange a normal lunch with lots of people?) it was the moustache. That ridiculously thick moustache that made Tom Selleck look like a fuzzy lipped female. Had you never heard of Johnny Depp? Apparently not. You looked like a forty-five year old, (yes I am aware that you were not actually forty-five, but damn that was some ‘stache!) a forty-five year old who was accompanied by his parents and little sister to check out a nineteen year old chick. That is not a good first impression.
I did my utmost to be as obnoxious as possible to your mom and little sis. I refused to go into the drawing-room to meet you, I didn’t see the point since I had already decided we were most certainly NOT meant to be. So they came to meet me in the other room. I disagreed with everything your sister said, I mocked the fact that she didn’t enjoy Jane Austen which she was required to read for school. I love Jane Austen. The second a tray of drinks was brought in I hopped up and rudely grabbed a drink for myself to the shock of both my aunts. And your mom. I wanted her to realize what Canadian National meant. It meant I was not the standard docile girl who had been embedded with the concept that I had to marry whichever Suitable Boy thought I met his mom’s standards. I would not be cajoled into an arranged marriage just because everyone thought you were a Suitable Boy.
Fourteen hundred years ago my religion gave me the right to decide if I liked a guy enough to marry him, but along the line somewhere all that got lost in stupid cultural backwardness. Up till the point where girls were displayed to be evaluated by a boy and his family. To see whether or not she was good-looking enough, submissive enough, to make a good daughter-in-law and wife. Then the poor girl waited, hoping not to be rejected as Prince Charming went on to check out the next eight girls on Mama’s list.
The point of all this is, you probably have kids now. Unless you jumped off a cliff in a fit of drama, your ego bruised by a girl who had the impudence to refuse. If you have a daughter please don’t parade her in front of dozens of young men and their families. Let her peek in the drawing-room first. And if she doesn’t want to go in and meet them, don’t make her.
The Canadian National you are so lucky not to have gotten hitched to.
P.S. Do remind her however, that the knight in shining armor rarely shows up, she should not waste her precious time waiting for him.
You know that parent you find in random aisles when you go shopping? The one with a UNICEF Ambassador’s concerned expression and the tact of a woodland creature surrounded by hungry wolves?
Their child is sprawled on the floor causing a ruckus that would shame a South American howler monkey. And they stand there being a good parent and continue to give this writhing, howling hell child “choices”.
“Honey, you can’t have both, you have to make a choice. Do you want the (sugar laden, cavity causing, hyper-activity trigger) cereal (made with loads of genetically modified stuff) or do you want the (excessively salty) chips (full of saturated fatty acids that will be sure to make you a candidate for cardiovascular diseases in the future) ?”
Devil spawn gets up glares at the parent and knocks down everything on the bottom two shelves. Because it couldn’t reach any higher than that. Not effective parenting.
I say, yes give the child choices. In fact I would give the child three choices.
“I can either whoop your ass: 1 here, 2 at home or 3 you can shut up.”
Being a bad ass parent literally means you have to be bad ass.
My dad’s cousins were bad ass mothers. These aunts of mine, they are oh so awesome! To this day they evoke respect and can make their grown sons shake in their boots. They believed in extreme parenting. Once one of their very young sons let them know that the story about the stork bringing babies was a lie, babies came from tummies. My aunt’s reply?
“Really? Well come here and I’ll cut your tummy open, let’s see how many babies we can find.”
Needless to say, the son never questioned the authenticity of her explanations again. Their children did not throw tantrums. Sometimes being extreme is the best option.
Some Extremely Effective Options:
1. Your child needs to go pee and refuses to acknowledge this. Options:
“Honey your bladder will burst and you will have a pipe attached to a pee pee bag that you will carry around for the rest of your life. Or you can go to the bathroom and save me a trip to the hospital.”
2. Your child can’t fall asleep because it is too hot. Even with the A.C working perfectly. Options:
“Honey I can stick you in the freezer. Or you can just go to sleep in your bed. Immediately.”
3. Your child can’t fall asleep because it is too cold. Replace ‘freezer’ with ‘oven’ in above option.
4. Your child is unhappy with you because you are an unfair mother. Options:
Pack a bag with some of their clothes and drive them to an ominous looking building. “This is the place for children with moms that aren’t fair. There are no x-boxes, no ipods, no birthday parties and no snacks ever. They are served only with leftovers, they wash their own dishes and clothes, and no one tucks them in at night or tells them stories. You can stay here or you can come back with me and live with my rules.”
5. Your teenagers don’t listen. Ever. They don’t even deserve an option, post their bare bummed baby pics on Facebook, Tumblr and Twitter. Don’t forget to tag them. Another great pic is the ‘first time on potty’ pic.
6. They forgot to take out the trash? Dump it on their bed, that should improve their memory.
7. They don’t put away their stuff? Throw it in the driveway.
8. They don’t like what you cook? Kick them out of the dining room and lock the pantry. After two days of starving everything will taste gourmet.
And every night at bedtime don’t forget to tell them how much you love them. BTW I have used #s 1, 2,3,4, and 7. Extremely effective.
(all pics from Google Images)
Selfie: A selfie is a type of self-portrait photograph, typically taken with a hand-held digital camera or camera phone, while in the bathroom in front of the mirror wearing undergarments and sticking out lips in a most nauseating fashion, giving the impression of being extremely constipated, going into labor or passing a kidney stone.
I prefer to be at the other end of the camera.
This is the only way to spend a winter vacation with a house full of rowdy kids. Wearing flannel pyjamas ( God bless the inventor of flannel). I planned on not taking them off (except to wash them). However husband refused to be seen in public with me wearing them, so I had to change to attend a couple of dinners and a wow birthday party. I think I could have pulled it off at the birthday party though, I mean Mickey Mouse was wearing his red pyjamas I don’t see why I couldn’t wear mine. Okay maybe they weren’t pyjamas, but they looked it.
Since I already am a super mom(not bragging or anything) I became ultra super mom and baked an endless supply of cookies, brownies, apple pie, cheese cake and banana bread. My teenagers face-palmed as I took endless pictures of my creations. I was going to put them up all over facebook, but one of them had a delete-happy trigger finger.
I am now ultra super over weight mom. Yes I had one cookie too many. I suspect that the cheese cake helped.
Thanks to the ice storm we had great scenery and the hills were awesome for sledding. I hogged a whole sled to myself. I was the only forty-year old woman sledding down hills in the park.
Nope no pictures of that! Next time I will convince husband to take a picture of me zipping down icy hills.
I did absolutely no writing at all. I did however keep the angry woman in my head under control. She really wanted to tie and gag the kids then lock them in the garage after the second day of the vacation. It is amazing how many things five kids can find to fight about. She was also tempted to hit the husband over the head with a rolling-pin after his third day of vacation. It is amazing how much time husband can spend in front of the computer oblivious to the pandemonium his kids create. I tied her up, gagged her and locked her in the garage. I will let her out after I finish cleaning the gargantuan mess made by two heathen teens, three rambunctious under tens, one incredibly sloppy husband and a very lazy, blue flannel pyjama clad me. I know her fingers are itching to type out a story.