This is a fact

Anybody who drives a Mercedes Benz station wagon is a douche bag. Period. End of discussion.

What a fucking waste. How fucking stupid.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood . . .

A perfect Sunday to read the paper on the deck and enjoy a quiet, temperate Sunday.

Not in MY neighborhood.

In my neighborhood, you get to listen to packs of screaming children on either side of you. The little darlings on one side playing ball and hitting the ball into your yard so they have to climb the fence. And even though it is a very high fence on their side with a chain link number on our side and it's anything BUT a safe thing to do, the little fucker ignores me AND his mother and is coming on over. You just KNOW if he falls and hurts himself his parents will sue us for some damn reason. Perhaps for Not Taking The Necessary Time Out of Our Day to Watch Their Child.

I don't begrudge the little monsters time and place to play, I just wish -- that since they are home the whole damn week -- that there could be SOME time left for us to enjoy some peace and quiet on the weekENDS. But I know that's not even close to realistic in the Suburbs where you live 16-20 feet from your neighbors and where most of your neighbors are yuppie pukes with 2-3 children aged 3-6. Darling perfection, every one.

I need to find a place to GO.

The Cart in the Restaurant

We were out to dinner last night at Guapo’s in Northwest Washington. It’s one of our favorite Mexican places. The food is good, the atmosphere is nice, the staff usually pretty good and always friendly. We get a table in a lovely corner, not too far from one of those large tables with about three couples and their three or four darling little children who ought to be off in bed somewhere not – at 8:00 on a Saturday night – out at some damn restaurant.

We hesitated a bit and then decided not to ask for a different table, because it seemed they were finishing up, judging by the empty plates, scattering of sippy cups and other assorted detritus left on a table when a family with children dines out. And sure enough, it wasn’t long before they left. And so did the family of four – mom, dad, darling daughter and smashing son. We settled in for a nice, quiet Mexican dinner – our night out for the weekend. Our reward to making it through Another Week in Business.

Well almost no sooner had we received our drink order – which we sipped while we watch the busboy have to take a freaking BROOM to the floor underneath where the group table and the Movable Kindergarten had been – than the Woman With the Baby Carriage comes through the dining room. This wasn’t a little stroller, either. This was one of those fucking Winnebagoes that seems necessary these days for carting the Little Ones around. Only marginally smaller than a Mini-Cooper and just about as easy to maneuver in a crowded restaurant.

Probably something not unlike the one that illustrates this post – a $400 job I found on Froogle. It was BIG, Ok? You get the idea. Too big for a crowded Mexican Restaurant on a Saturday night in Washington, D.C.

But undeterred, she steered around, bumped and banged into every available table and finally settled in next to us. Where she proceeded to re-arrange the chairs at the neighboring tables to make room for the Winnebagoe and her infant. Said infant positioned, of course, so both she and Dad – when he arrived with cell phone in hand could gaze fondly throughout dinner at the newest gift to the entire fucking world.

Let’s review real quickly. This woman brought a God-damned baby carriage into the dining room of a restaurant. Why not just bring in your fucking bicycle?

He, of course, set the damn cell phone open on the table so he could fiddle with it and look at it as well as the baby, and it wasn’t long before they ordered a pitcher of hot water so they could heat a bottle.

And that was when I ordered another beer.

As I was saying . . .

As I was saying, I don’t actually hate the suburbs. I grew up in Springfield, Virginia. The land of military men, FBI agents and Wives Who Didn’t Work.

And growing up in Springfield – then – actually wasn’t too bad. We had woods and creeks and streets safe enough to ride our bikes on and there were plenty enough mothers who were home that it was cool to simply run allover the fucking place doing whatever you more or less wanted.

There was little league in the summer. And every community pool had a swimming team for those fools who wanted to spend a good part of their summer vacation at a 7 a.m. swimming practice in cold pool water. Me, I always summer vacation was meant for sleeping late. If I was up before my father left for work, the day was pretty much a failure.

But frankly, I could do with fewer fucking little kids around.

Oh, I have nothing against children. I have two granddaughters I love and assorted nieces and nephews, most of whom I am very fond of. I just don’t like having to spend as much time around them – and their, for the most part, pin-headed parents – as I have to.

I work all week. Pretty hard most of the time too. Owning a small advertising agency isn’t easy. Not by a long shot. There is plenty of stress to go around there, just trying to make a living and be happy doing it. So when I get home in the evening and when I wander around on the weekends, I want some peace and quiet. I don’t want to find a fucking bike or toy in my front yard. I don’t want to see fucking chalk drawings on the sidewalk in front of my house and I sure as hell don’t want to listen to fucking screaming, yelling children all around.

Sorry, but I just don’t. I guess I don’t subscribe to the “it takes a village” approach to child-rearing. I don’t ask you to participate in my life and I damn sure don’t want to participate in yours. I don’t think everything your child does it cute.

Feel free to go on and raise them without my participation.