her able hands

I’m late to the party with this but I’m going to post about it anyway. Even though a whole bunch of other bloggers already covered it thoroughly and I’m just saying the same bloody things. I’m still pissed after watching the video clip on Friday of Melissa Summers talking about cocktail play dates on NBC. Or I should say, not being allowed to talk much about cocktail play dates. Being edited down to the role of questionably competent mother because she, God Forbid, has a drink in the middle of the day with her friends, and save her soul, does it in front of her kids.

What a load of horse shit. Why the hell wasn’t there a father on that show being grilled about his drinking practices around his children? I’m thinking of my father, who didn’t ever not drink when we were in his care. I’m remembering Monday nights, the three of us kids huddled around the Pac Man console at Anthony’s Charcoal Pit, circa 1983, waiting for the waitress with greasy handprints on her black pants and apron to set the greasy mushroom pizza down on the greasy tabletop next to our greasy fingerprint-covered glasses of ginger ale, while dad sat at the bar with his buddies from the job, watching whatever game happened to be on the v-hold impaired TV mounted in the ceiling corner, socially sipping his way through several shots of Dewars on ice before driving us home. That was visitation day.

Why wasn’t a father on the show being compared to a babysitter by two privileged women who have so much money pouring out of their hind ends that they have a babysitter on call for their nanny? Do they not realize that the rest of us tend to have a 15 year-old from the neighborhood to babysit for $5 an hour? Not that I’m suggesting that said 15 year-old doesn’t have a taste for Chardonnay, or that she doesn’t like to take it to a rave in a sippy cup.

A babysitter. The everloving hell. A short list of things that Chris and/or I do when our children are in the house that I would not appreciate a paid babysitter doing: work (at something other than caring for the children), have sex, have a drink or two—hell, even three on occasion, talk on the phone for a whole hour while the kids watch a movie, did I mention the sex?

Sputter sputter sputter! I’m not building much of a thesis. Because really, what’s the point other than to point out once again the fact that the culture we live in lives to make women—and more specifically, mothers—into hopeless cases who need the vigilant attention of everyone around them, including the so-called journalists of our time, the over paid media moms of daytime television, and especially the sober male in the house. Because goodness knows, nothing says responsible parent like a daddy at home in front of the football game tossing back a few brewskies while the kids keep busy in their rooms.

What is the big, sudden deal?

It pissed me off to no end listening to Meredith Viera side with that automaton Janet Taylor with her one stock, television career enhancing response to everything—that women need to find other ways to relax and relieve stress. Oh, really? Do we? Because listening to her made me want a martini more than anything else in my day had, and it hadn’t been an easy day. Meredith, who co-founded ClubMom (nice one, Meredith! way to get the conversation going! way to support mothers in a concrete way!) just adding to the layer of bullshit we have to punch through every day just to live in a way that feels true to us. That’s right. Let’s give Americans another reason to watch mothers’ every move and judge them for something that in many other westernized cultures is a given. People get together. People have an alcoholic beverage (or more!) if they choose to. Life rolls along. Sometimes people make bad choices and drink too much. That doesn’t mean the rest of the people shouldn’t be allowed to do it.

And how is this a new trend? I had afternoon luncheon play groups in Park Slope back in the early ’90s, and sisters, we drank wine. Our kids are all teenagers now, and they’ve seen us drink responsibly their whole lives. They’re becoming functioning members of society even though we drank a glass of wine or two at a play group.

I remember when Melissa first wrote about her Momtini Playdates. Part of me cheered. Part of me cringed and thought, oh no, don’t say it out loud! Duck and cover, Melissa! They’re going to crucify you. It’s not worth it!

But I think I’m wrong. They’re already crucifying us on a daily, insidious basis. Whether we sip chardonnay out of a grotesquely giant glass while trying to guide our toddler down the dangerous slide (did you watch that video of the playdate? Those wine bottles were positively phallic, pornographically large, the best emotionally slanted visual ever) or choose bottle over breast, divorce over marriage, work over home (and all the vice versas) there is always a squadron of squawk boxes howling at us about how wrong we are, how we’re endangering our children and how we’re what’s at the root of the unraveling of the very fabric of our society.

Is it time for a Million Mom Martini March to the capital, kids in tow? We’re here! We’re buzzed! We didn’t bring the Huz!

Bla bla bla. Fuck the women who cowtow to the patriarchy to keep their bank accounts so full that they can buy their way out of the very issues they foist on the rest of us schmucks who are just trying to live a decent life. Meredith and Janet, I’m looking at you.

Bookmark It