SHALLOW. Like son like mother.

Again, I admit I’m a terrible person.  It’s kind of my running theme.  And I’m passing it on to the next generation.  Thank me later.

So I was talking to The Destroyer about a girl he likes.  Liked.  Here’s the deal:  I try to instill in my children that looks aren’t everything.  I try to tell them that what makes a person special is on the inside.  Stay with me here.

This is how the conversation went:

“Hey, whatever happened to ____?”  (At this stage, I’m not trying to remember their names.)

He shrugs.  “She’s not my type.”

“What does that mean?”

Another shrug.  So, I think, she’s tore up.

“Destroyer, everything can’t be looks.  I mean, is she smart? Funny? Interesting?”

“She’s smart.  I just don’t like her, mom.  Leave it alone.” I wasn’t about to leave it alone.  Me?  Nerd extraordinaire? Raise a shallow kid?  Not gonna happen.  If he can’t see inner beauty, then he’s the same as all those shallow jerks that I went to school with.  You know, the ones who couldn’t see my inner beauty.

“Listen, there’s a such thing as inner beauty.  I mean—wait.  Is that her?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.  Oh, my. WOOF. Jaysus. My goodness, Destroyer. Did—did you know what she looked like?”

“I was trying to tell you.”

“Okay.  Duck.  I’ll peel outta here before she knows you’re here.”

Don’t get mad, you guys.  I really do want my son to be with a woman of substance.  I just don’t want her to be tore-up ugly.  And I don’t mean like a big nose or overweight or a limp.  I mean looking like a Garbage Pail Kid.

Sweartogod, this is HannahMckaylaBrittneyEricaAleshaRenee
Sweartogod, this is HannahMckaylaBrittneyEricaAleshaRenee

And I know there are parents out there who wouldn’t want their son- or daughter-in-law to be fat like me.  I’ve decided not to be mad about that.  (Especially since I know that my mother-in-law wanted her son to marry a pretty, petite, blonde.  Which is the polar opposite of me and I decided not to be mad about that.  Especially since I make the Big Man very happy. Also, I’m sexy-fat.  So there’s that.)

The thing is, men get to be shallow about ALL KINDS OF THINGS. Like if a woman has hammer toes.  So, I feel like I get to be shallow about some things.  And this is one of them.  I get to think that my smart, beautiful son is out of a particular girl’s league.

I happened to marry an attractive man.  And I know that they’re my kids, but my kids are pretty darn good looking.  And I would like to have good looking grandchildren.

I don’t worry about this too much with Wondergirl.  She already has criteria in place for the man she wants to meet in 2026.  (That’s the year she has projected, not me.) She actually said, “He has to be reasonably handsome.  Not way fine, cause I’m not trying to fight over him. ” (This is a lie.  She wants any excuse to fight.) “And rich,” she added. “He has to be rich.”  Of course he does.  How else would she fund her world-dictatorship campaign? (Omega Prime, I’m looking at you, kid.)

Look, I guess it boils down to this:  If a dad can tell his son to date hot chicks, so can a mom.  Also, I hope that she’s kinda dumb. That way, I can trick her into telling the truth about what her and my son have been up to.

Oh, and then, THEN, another girl had the nerve to tell the Destroyer that she didn’t want to talk to him because some kids said that his mother is crazy.  WHAT?!?  Only SOME kids think I’m crazy?  Well, I must be losing my touch.

I don’t need no stinkin’ advice.

This is for the parents who mistakenly believe that I am in need of their unsolicited parenting advice. Welp, I’m not.

But Vida, you say, are you so narrow minded that you can’t see when your kids need help? Nope. I just don’t want help from these groups of people (who seem to feel very comfortable just handing out advice):

1) Hipsters. Yeah, I know it’s easy to rag on hipsters. Because no one likes them. I daresay they don’t truly like each other because they are always trying to out-hipster each other. I’ve seen it happen, and hipster fights are pretty funny. Hipster parenting advice, however, makes me want to do murder. And quote B.A. Baracas while doing it.

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Example: I’m telling the Weirdo that he can’t have a donut at the store. Unfortunately, the bakery is right next to the organic food section. This very organic looking lady comes up to me—uninvited—and suggests that I explain to him all of the horrible ingredients that were in said donuts and then he would decide for himself that he wouldn’t want that yucky donut. I looked at her like she just talked bad about Oprah. And I’m so petty, ya’ll, that I stared at that lady while buying the Weirdo that donut. She looked at me like I just talked bad about Oprah, turned up her nose, and took her vintage reusable bags elsewhere. Yeah, heifer, just worry about being a good parent to little Elmer or Mavis or whatever that kid was. All I saw was hair and high-water corduroy pants.

2) Tiger Moms. Okay, so I have to admit: sometimes I wish I had a little more Tiger Mom in me. Even if it’s just so that my kids are successful enough that they never come back after they move out. But Jaysus, sometimes it’s all a slacker mom like me can do to make sure my kids have on matching shoes. (That’s right, I said shoes, not socks. Socks are negotiable.)

Example:   I am picking the Weirdo up from school. He is developmentally disabled and is in speech therapy. He is trying to tell me about the fascinating day he had at school (they had kiwi for snack! Kiwi! How exciting!) And I am trying decipher what he is saying. The Tiger Mom stepped off her pedestal for a moment and deigned to tell me, “Ignore him until he slows down enough to tell you what he has to say.” Then she got back on her pedestal to continue being a better parent than everyone else in a fifty-mile radius. What do I do? Do I thank her facetiously, or do I get a little ghetto, which is something I hate to do because there are only about ten Black people where I live, and four of them are in my family? As I have previously stated: I am extremely petty. I calmly told her “Thanks for your advice. I think your daughter is crossing the street without you.” Satisfying, so very satisfying it was watching her dash out into the street in her Burberry heels. The only thing that would have been better is if Hipster Mom had hit Tiger Mom with her electric bike.

3.) Ghetto Moms.  And I’m not just talking mothers of color, either, or even moms who are a little bit hood—like I am. I’m talking the smoke-while-I’m pregnant-cuss-at-my-demon-spawn-without-actually-doing-anything-close-to-discipline-I’m-25-and-able-bodied-yet somehow-on-disability ghetto mom. These people always want to tell you how to get money from the government for your kids, without ever actually talking about parenting in anyway. This may be because they refuse to parent, and therefore don’t really have anything to do. Look here, LaQuavia or Brandeelynn, I’m not taking any advice from anyone whose children’s names have punctuation. Or if the child is named after a brand of liquor. (Poor, poor Ali’Ze Hennessy.)  I don’t have an example for this one; I have far too many examples.  I will not subject you to any of them.  You’re welcome.