Why We Suck_ A Feel Good Guide to Staying Fat, Loud, Lazy and Stupid - Denis Leary [86]
Helicopter Moms fly in.
Jet Pack Moms fly OUT.
As soon as little Ashley shits her pants or toddling Todd erupts with vomit-Jet Pack Mom powers up and disappears. You want her to watch you climb up onto the couch? Sorry. Jet Pack Mom's out shopping. For shoes. For herself. You want her to teach you how to multiply two times two? Sorry. She's busy dividing up dumplings at a Best Friends Who Brunch At Barney's brunch. How about commiserating at the playground while you run and jump and skip and hop? Nope. She's hopped up on low-dose antidepressants to keep her fear of growing slightly older at bay. But when you might need a little extra oomph from the sidelines during your dance recital? If there are other moms attending whom talking to would help shorten or enhance her long walk up the society ladder, Jet Pack Mom will fly in and mingle with fury.
Helicopter Mom found breastfeeding to be a wonderful bonding experience.
Jet Pack Mom briefly loved her larger chest and contemplated augmentation and new dental bonding while the baby was bottle-fed formula.
Helicopter Moms fly in with hugs and extra pencils.
Jet Pack Moms pencil their kids and kid hugs in.
Helicopter Moms fret and worry about bullies and bad grades.
Jet Pack Moms worry about frown lines and labia reduction surgery.
Helicopter Moms dream long baby dreams and wake up thinking baby baby baby all day long.
Jet Pack Moms dream of appletinis and kid-free Caribbean vacations and ponder beachweather workouts all afternoon.
You know that dad you see doting over his daughter down by the plastic slide in the park every day?
He's not a Helicopter Dad.
He's just married to a Jet Pack Mom.
Here's the real deal: men are built for work, kids almost always want their mommies, if you decide to not have kids and just chase your career-hey, not getting promoted happens to almost everybody.
It used to drive me nuts when I was working in comedy clubs and some female comic would say something to the effect of "it's so hard to do this when you're a girl."
Oh really.
And standing up in front of drunken, combative assholes who paid twenty bucks each to get in and just ordered a round of tequila shots and beer that'll cost them another sixty-five bucks-which they think gives them the right to talk out loud while the person onstage tries to talk funny into an electric stick-which only makes THEM talk even louder-yeah, that's oh so easy for the rest of us.
It's a room full of morons who are shitfaced-it sucks for everyone.
It cracks me up when actresses have meltdowns leading to an increase in their medication because some edgy orange frock a wine-and-Klonopinswilling French designer convinced them to take a chance on led to getting named Worst Dressed Woman At The 14th Annual San Antonio Film Festival. Hey, I got picked as one of People magazine's Sexiest Men a few years back-which is a sign that either the apocalypse will shortly be upon us or Willem Dafoe absolutely refused to do the photo shoot-and within a few months the same magazine named me Worst Dressed Man At The Umpteenth Emmy Award Extravaganza. I guess a black shirt and red tie on the red carpet is grounds for getting slammed by Joan Rivers and the five gay men who help to hold her head up. Did I call my shrink? No-my brother saw it in the mag, called me up, we had a good laugh and I was happy they spelled my name right. Who gives a shit?
Women, that's who.
Every job has parts of it that are a giant pain in the ass-whether you carry a penis or a purse.
The Feminist Movement raised the expectations of almost every chick in this country forty-some-odd years ago and over the last few decades women have convinced themselves that men CAN and somehow HAVE changed and WERE willing to be different and more emotionally available and eager to work side by side with them and get paid