Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Pampered Chef Parties and Baby Showers: I'm Not Interested

to whom it may concern,

i'm 26. i'm single. i don't have kids. i like to party. i like engaging in wildly intense sex. i like to hang out with my friends and shoot the breeze over a couple of cold ones. i like to talk about vulgar, inappropriate things at the most inopportune times. i like to go shopping without dragging an SUV-sized baby buggy around. and i sure as hell don't like my magazine rack being overloaded with anything other than cosmos and maxims so stop sending me invites to your baby showers and shove your pampered chef catalogues up your fat-uppity-asses.

when it comes down to it, i know all about those little get-togethers. it's always the same 5-9 jobless, undersexed mommies stuffing their faces with petit fours and finger sandwiches while talking about their uterine fibroids, endometriosis, 40-hours of hard labor, placentas, shitty diapers, snotty noses, potty training, terrible 3's, and 30-minute meal disasters. they waste no time breaking open the can of hypochondrial whoop ass when they tire of the usual suspects, declaring themselves sicker than the next person as though having chronic yeast infections warrants a badge of honor.

believe you me, the venues may be different, the wording on the invitations slightly altered, but the ulterior motive is always the same: you meddlesome mommies will stop at nothing until you have domesticaed me, the single heathen that smiles a little too freely in the grocery store, who talks a little too loudly about last weekend's plans and the plans of those weekends yet to come, the very one that cringes every time you screech at your 3 kids in the middle of the cereal aisle or when you berate your husband putting name brand items into the shopping cart. i'm on to you, you wicked wicked mommies.

and i'm waging war against your evil pampered chef and baby shower campaign. i dare you to send me one more of those obnoxious invites, one of those undercover harassments so you can impress upon me the 1-2-3's of the shitty-diaper genie, engorged breasts, whiny husbands, foot-long stretch marks, night terrors, kegl exercises, irritable bowel syndrome, heavy periods, low-cal desserts, and i-village jargon.

i triple-dog dare you to put that 5-by-7" envelop in my mailbox one more time...because i will gladly bring ten of my wildest friends to your sunday soiree, where we will show you the finer aspects of at-home entertainment: irish car bombs, topless table dancing, blow-job body shots, rampant ass-smacking, precarious keg stands, bawdy sing-a-long songs, and girl-on-girl make-out sessions.

after all, you did say you were throwing a party. kind regards,

misty botchery