Saturday, April 20, 2013

Throw 'Em Out of the Nest and Have a Glass of Wine

Throw 'Em Out of the Nest and Have a Glass of Wine

I just love Oprah.  

I think she’d like me more than Gayle, her moocher friend and juice box girl.

Oprah’s ground-breaking magazine is like Cosmopolitan to moms who are tired of all Cosmo’s advice such as “7 Ways to Raise the ‘Bar’ in Bed: (You Won’t Believe It!)” 

O’s headlines pull me in with “7 Reasons You Are So Messed Up” and “Me! 10 Ways I’m So Much Better Than You!”  The articles include questionnaires from psychology experts to help me determine my strengths and weaknesses.  But I don’t need a questionnaire to tell me I’ve lost my mind and I’m too sensitive.  My husband tells me every day. 

Sometimes an “expert’s” ideas are so ridiculous I have to call time out.  For example, Oprah featured an article by a “helicopter” mom who realized her 17-year-old son didn’t know how to make pasta or do laundry.  She gave him a crash course in Home-ec before college because she didn’t want to “unleash a spoiled princeling into the world.”

I agree most boys don’t even know how to find the milk in the fridge.  And sometimes we’d like to slap the entitlement attitude out of them (however slapping doesn’t work, not that I’ve ever tried that).  But it doesn’t bother me a bit to unleash a princeling into the world.  

Why?  Because some McDonald’s manager will push Little Lord Fauntleroy with his pastel Polos in the mud speedy quick in the real world.  The Justin Bieber mentality will end as soon as his boss asks him to clean the fryer and actually expects him to clean the fryer.

I think Mommy Weirdest wasted her time showing her son how to poach things and make pie crusts.  I mean, no one poaches in real life.  And why can’t he just buy Mrs. Smith’s pies like normal people?   If I were her, I’d just send him out to shoot hoops in the driveway and go have a glass of wine.
I say throw him out of the nest and he’ll fly.  He doesn’t need to be taught how to fly first.  That’s just redundant. 

When he moves out, he’ll discover that “food fairies” hardly ever come and replenish the Mountain Dew anymore, and most importantly, Uncrustables are just expensive, teeny PBJ sandwiches that almost any college kid can make if he Googles  

Thinking it through, having a husband who cooks wouldn’t be such a bad idea.  I’d just let him take over the kitchen. That way I can go to Bobbie Jean’s and play bunco while he makes pies and poaches his little heart out. 

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