...the end of the world as we know it

When the day comes that I'm commonly referred to as "mommy," I will not succumb to certain pratfalls that define weaker members of my sex who also have children. They are, in no particular order:

1) Mom jeans. Take note: any denim I wear will not be pleated or tapered. If you catch me in Levis, Jordache, or Cherokee, please have me put out of my misery. If my pants do not fall adequately to shoe level or if they appear stonewashed or high-waisted, again, end my suffering, for the greater good. Same goes for: overalls, long denim or corduroy skirts, oversized t-shirts, t-shirts with any cartoon character imprint, sweatshirts or sweatpants in public, seasonal attire (i.e. Christmas tree earrings, Halloween pin).

2) Fanny packs. You will not spot me or my beloved husband toting any carrying mechanism (including bags, packs, briefcases, etc.) less trendy than a Juicy Couture diaper bag. To remind myself of the tremendous importance of aforementioned resolution, I will play Ben Fold's "For Those of Y'all that Wear Fanny Packs" on a regular basis (shit yeah it's cool).

3) Freako expressions. You know what I'm talkin' about here. It's like my mom (sorry, mom), when confronted with something she liked (i.e., a shirt or candle or figurine), would refer to such things as "spiffy." What the hell? The word shouldn't even exist, let alone be used on any kind of regular basis, unless mockingly. Oh, and things like, "Oh my stars." (Sounds more like, "Oooh mmyyyy staaaars." You gotta draw it out like that). Um...this kinda stuff makes me wanna pull my hair out. Call me crazy, but I don't think a kid is going to be particularly scarred by the occasional, "Oh my God." Or even by the occasional f-bomb (nods in Fufi's general direction). Maybe I'm wrong. I'll take that chance if it means I never have to utter, "Oh goodness" or "God forbid."

I'm not done yet...