Fuck it...the gloves are officially OFF ppl.
So, a few weeks ago I wrote a rather scathing review of the new latin food eatery Mama Rosa. While I didn't hold back, I gave an honest (read: UNFUCKINGBELIEVABLE) account of what went down that night. And let's just say shit was very much not pretty.
I thought that would be the end of it, but alas, the internet does NOT disappoint yet again.
Allow me to re-introduce you to Weird Watier and Crystal Necklace dude. I'm not sure how deeply entrenched these fine fellows are in the Mama Rosa empire, but needless to say: they're both pretty damn chatty. And if you think they're leaving notes of apology, think again:
Before you get all worried about how I'm gonna survive this attack of the bacon, let me assure you that I already have set appointments this week with my dietitian, my nutritionist, my naturopath, my personal trainer, and my cardiologist has a defibrillator on standby in case shit goes south. Now some basic stats about the Bacon Take-Down that went down this Sunday at The Bell House:
- there were 21 varieties of bacon dishes
- total amount of bacon consumed: 300 lbs
It basically went down like this: you eat a shit-ton of bacon:
Just when you think it's over, THINK AGAIN. There's more bacon.
Meant this as a counterpoint to my grousing about the farmer's market but got distracted. Anyway, given the show of force around the nabe this weekend (did NOBODY go to the country?), I was pleasantly surprised by the peace and serenity of the Botanical Gardens.
Nobody was there! On a free Saturday morning.
My faith was renewed. Everybody looked nicer on the way back home. Even Roly Poly Guacamole or whatever the fuck they were called, the bearded boy band singing outside the library. I almost shed a tear for their rendition of Joni's timeless classic, the "Circle Game."
Because it does go round and round. But kind of in a nice way.
At least until my loving feeling was all but obliterated by the Erica-endorsed Stone Park pony and face painting show! Surely a Park Slope Parents plot to sew (sow?) misery in the BREEDER population!
In today's edition of "thank fucking gawd I still don't have kids" I bring you a lovely missive from FIPS reader Tonya Vernooy, who blogs pretty darn hard herself (with some other bad assed mommies) over at Ad Hoc Mom. Tonya is, in fact a full-fledged Park Slope BREEDER, but she also doesn't seem above telling your kid to STFU if she's trying to enjoy brunch at Setee and can't hear anything over the chorus of "The Wheels on The Bus" from the next table over. She's got some pretty sage advice on parenting, though somehow I doubt she'll be guest teaching a course over at Kidville anytime soon. Oh, and she may or may not be dating Eminem. Obvies she gets the FIPS vote for best new up and coming BR-ALLER in the nabe.
You know how your mind wanders when strangers’ crappy-ass kids are totally taking you hostage at the sandbox?
Ok, maybe it’s just me then.
And, yes, I’m at that damn oversized cat box for kids because I'm a BREEDER. But, I like to think I’m BREEDER with a brain...a brain that tries desperately hard to go to its happy place when I’m sitting knee deep in sand dumped on head by someone else’s progeny. When it can’t find that fucking place, my mind likes to ponder the true definition of parenthood.
I think I must have read the wrong damn book. Stupidly, I thought being a parent was about boundaries n-shit. I mean, love, sure, but also rules, because really there are 4 major principles to the job aside from your undying connection to the fruit of your loins:
1) Keep the kid off the crack
Nancy Reagan was right about this one, people. There’s nothing that spoils Thanksgiving more than some skinny ass junky looking to hock your candlesticks for some rock (I’m looking at you, Whitney Houston).
2) Keep the kid off the pole
Even if they’re doing it to, you know, “put themselves through med school,” it ain’t right.
3) Keep the kid off the FBI’s most wanted list
Jesus, who needs those court costs, am I right? Not to mention, little Timmy is totally NOT going to pay for your retirement if he’s in the clink. You’ll be sending him $150 a month just to keep him in cigs.
4) Keep the kid far away from Supernanny
This one is pretty self-explanatory. If Supernanny has to come to your house to do the job you were supposed to be doing, then obviously the world has every right to see what an asshole you are on tv.
Here’s the thing, as I get duct taped to some broken down water fountain by a brat in le Petit Bateau, I realize that apparently I’m only one of a few who are trying to follow these basic tenets. It seems that if most BREEDERS' kids are boiling kittens, making repeated attempts to murder other children, or simply being assholes, instead of stepping in they give the cliched: “I don’t want to stifle his ability for free expression” bullshit. Really? Because I bet goddamn Robert Rauschenberg had parents that gave him rules. I’d ask him, but he’s dead.
Besides, your kid isn’t being creative he’s being a douchebag and it’s your fucking job to stop him. It’s like hanging raw meat outside your house in the woods and then wondering why the hell you’re surrounded by bears. Hello? Kids don’t come with motherfuckin’ moral compasses! If they did they wouldn’t be so annoying on plane flights.
Be a fucking parent, dumbass.
Yes, it’s that simple.
In case you're wondering what Tonya's dealio is, BAM: I do live in Park Slope. And I have a kid that's 2 1/2, who spends half his life in time out so as not to grow up and become a serial killer or a douchecanoe [ed note: Douchecanoe??? NEW FAVE WORD EVERRRRR ALERT]. There's way more over here on Ad Hoc Mom.