Spare Me The Baby Talk

Mommy blogs are some of my favorite blogs to read. Except for days like today, when I’m totally nauseated by them.

This could have everything to do with the fact that I am not a mommy and cannot relate in the least. Or could it be that mommies today are oblivious to the fact that woman have been bearing and raising children for, well, eons.

I can accept the possibility that our mothers, and their mothers before them might have done a little better job had they possessed some kind of emotional outlet such as, say, blogging. But tell me, does sitting at a computer and venting frustrations over toilet training (or lack thereof), toddler diet (or lack thereof), or annoying TV favorites of the child actually make one a better parent?

Then there’s the mommy blogger who doesn’t so much complain about her little one as much as gush embarrassingly over him, as though never has there been created such a perfect creature. Oh I know, every mother thinks her child is the most beautiful, smartest, most clever and funny. But think of it from a non-parent’s point of view. All babies, toddlers, and small children are pretty much the same.

I’m not saying a parent shouldn’t be proud. I think parents should treasure their children. But it might be a little unrealistic to expect the rest of humankind of acknowledge your childbirth, your parenthood, your baby as the be-all end-all in the history of procreation.

Case in point: baby talk. It’s simply delightful to listen to a child learning how to speak. In person. From the child. There is nothing cute about an adult person writing the sentence, “wook Mommy, dats my bwankie,” as she relays a story regarding her child. I hate to say it, but all of the cuteness of that kind of talk lies in actually hearing it. Phonetic words written by a smitten parent are cloying and obnoxious.

There’s one mommy blog I can’t help but read. She can be somewhat entertaining, but every time I open the blog up I scold myself for bothering. She’s one of those who writes in the baby talk. She also has a little name for her child. The Poo. Not The Pooh, as in Whinnie. The Poo. As in shit. Anonymity is a good thing when you’re broadcasting your personal life all over the internets, and I don’t blame mommy for not giving the child’s actual name (notwithstanding the fact that her pictures are constantly plastered all over the blog), but to give your child a name like The Poo. Does she use that name for her child in real life, or is it just her little internets name? Either way, I say yikes.

And so there it is. My opinions don’t amount to a hill of beans compared to the popularity of all the mommy blogs out there. They’re definitely being read, even by the likes of me who thinks a baby who isn’t weaned from the breast by the time he has teeth or a toddler who isn’t potty trained by the time she is three will have some serious emotional hell to pay when they grow up. Could it be possible that baby would have been weaned and potty trained sooner if mommy had spent her time helping little junior succeed in these areas instead of blogging about it?

Just call me the bitter, old, barren one. Sour grapes. Not blessed with any bundles of joy. Hey, if I can’t blog about my adorable little toddler, I’ll blog about those of you who do.

Waiting Downtown

I’m sitting outdoors in downtown St. Paul, waiting for the theatre doors to open and for my theatre companions to arrive. I sat in the wrong place and within ten minutes have decided it’s time to move. The peacefulness of watching the pigeons has been disturbed by a barrage of f-bombs being dropped right next to me. I’m not a prude, but these people are making me sick with their little lower-class drama and urban profanity. I’ve got to get out of here.

Ten minutes later: Okay, that wasn’t so hard. I know I’m a racist when I say certain people of a certain cultural background come off as being the most brash, obscene, and obnoxious ingredient in the melting pot. I’m not so blind to think all dark-skinned people with pants hanging below their butts are this way, nor would I say people with fair skin and high-water pants are incapable of being brash, obscene, and obnoxious, but there’s no denying that the people I was sitting next to a little while ago definitely fit a stereotype. Thank you, MTV.

Back to the city. It’s really a shame how it has dwindled. It’s still a lovely city, but the downtown area pretty much dies after 5:30 p.m. when all the employees go home to the suburbs, especially on the east side of town where I work. Tonight I’m attending a play on the west side of town, a whole six blocks from the east side. This side of town has actual restaurants instead of fast food caves nestled in the skyway path. There are three theaters and actual retail shops on the west side of town. The people who work on the west side of town are professional corporate types, as opposed to those on the east side like me – the government schmucks. People over on the west side dress in jackets and ties, dresses and pantyhose. East-enders wear the same clothes at work as they would if they were cleaning out their attics.

But there I go again, stereotyping. I’m a well-dressed government professional. I fit right in over hear on the west side. And now I’ve sequestered myself in the enclosed patio area of a restaurant for a refreshing libation that requires money, which turns out to be a metaphor for the separation of class in our society. You see, despite the fact that I work on the east side of town, my presentation and demeanor definitely fit into the west side scene, while the guy who was compelled to sing Private Dancer at the top of his lungs to a passer-by and announced to his homeboys that he wished he had some money cuz he’s horny is positioned on the west side of town, but is a total misfit. An intimidating misfit, but a misfit nonetheless. Funny how stuff happens that way.

*****************

Okay, I misspoke. I totally disregarded the Mears Park area over on the east side of downtown St. Paul. There are actual restaurants there too. I guess I work in what could be considered mid-town. The part of town where they turn historic buildings into contemporary eyesores. Where the pastimes of the working people are softball and bowling as opposed to concerts and theatre. Yeah, mid-town.

Oh how I crave the cosmopolitan life; how sad I am that I have been sucked into the mid-town-to-suburbia lifestyle.

Hangin' With Those Smart Peeps

I once knew a person who referred to this particular style of male facial hair ...

... as pork chops.