Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Rules to Live By

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.

I 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: http://www.croutonboy.typepad.com/

I 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.

I 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 clear.

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.

I'm 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 intertwined.

I am verbose.
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