Welcome to Planet Douche

Posted by: , April 1, 2009 in 6:03 pm


This is the tweet my friend Mel posted to her Twitter account the other day:  “So beyond tired of ‘my husband’-or-‘my dad’-is-a-dipshit-themed commercials, I think much less of the women picking those guys, honestly.”

I laughed out loud when I read it.  I so totally agree.  Not everyone married a douche. 

Sometimes Michael and I attend community events at the library and we marvel at how it’s as if there is a moron convention in town.  Dads stand around in a daze, looking as if they have been drugged.  They exchange quips about the ridiculousness of the activity.  They offer each other virtual chest bumps as greetings.  Yes, the majority of dads seem to hail from Planet Douche but not all of them.  Michael does not bow at the Alter of Guinness.  He did not pack on 25 lbs. after high school, yet perpetually wear Adidas running pants (as if he’s still all about fitness).  He doesn’t act like an asshat when we are together in public, degrading me or the way I parent.  His butt isn’t parked on the sofa for two weeks straight so he can take part in the madness of March.  He doesn’t grumble and grown about spending time with his family–or, use the term, “babysit” when referring to time spent alone with our son.

Unfortunately, as much as I agree with Mel’s sentiment about the absurdity of the “my-husband/my-dad-is-a-dipshit” commercials, I think there might be a little bit o’ truth to them, otherwise the majority of ad execs wouldn’t be so gung ho to use that angle in so many campaigns.

On the other hand, this misinformation attaches itself to moms, too.  When I read parenting magazines I am constantly wondering: Where the hell do their ideas of motherhood come from?  Who reads this stuff and associates with it?  First, I am not interested in what Katie Holmes is doing for Suri, are you?  Second, I don’t care to spend $ 12 on a tube of lip gloss because I deserve to feel pretty.  Third, I am not looking for ways to sneak zucchini into my child’s diet.  He eats just fine.  Oh, and about that pesky baby weight–I don’t have any.  I weigh less now than I did before I had a kid–so pleeeeeeeze stop hounding me with exercise tips and the healthy eating dissertation.  I can eat a 6-box of Hershey’s Golden Almond bars in less than a week and not gain a pound.  I am metabolismally blessed.  You can keep your pilates and crunches.

In the last year I’ve let all of my subscriptions to parenting magazines lapse.  I’m tired of seeing articles about how I can get my lazy, slob of a husband to help around the house.  He’s not a sloth.  I’m sick of being told I deserve a new Coach purse because the job of a stay-at-home mom is sooooo tough.  I’m not a diva.  I would give anything to find a parenting magazine for those of us who willingly signed on for adulthood.  This isn’t a frat house and being an ass doesn’t make you popular here.  This is adulthood.  Being a good model for you kids is mad sexy.  Being a character in one of those comercials my friend Mel spoke of in her tweet…well, that just makes you a resident of Planet Douche.


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