Why I hate the Mayans.

It is in my expert opinion that the Mayans are the original creators of "mother's guilt."

Now, this morning I awake (am woken), pop out of bed (dragged out in a champion tantrum), am bright eyed and bushy haired. I whistle through my morning tasks in a Mary Poppins-esque fashion, and by that I mean I had a spoonful of sugar with my meds. I log onto my "other world" and see nothing but post after post regarding doomsday. According to the intellect on BBC, our world will end on December 21st, 2012. We must all tunnel into the ground, armed with foil chapeaux, and burdened with emergency kits... though this, to me, seems wholly ironic as what good are canned goods and mascara when the world has ceased to be?

Anyhoo, I love a good bout of mass hysteria as much as the next gal, but there is just no way I'm putting my faith in the ancient "tweets" of a society without the foresight to realize that their own over population will become their demise. Maybe you should've spent less time chucking virgins into volcano's and thrown a few rode-hard-put-away-wet mothers in there instead? What a waste of a perfectly good volcano. These people should've put down the ritual knives, and war paint and worked towards things like running water, penicillin, and Thursday night programming. I've painted my nails by window light to appease the napping masses, and let me say... not a fan.

I refuse to put stock in the fact that some old bag of skin, drunk on fermented honey wine and stoned on homemade coke, was predicting the future. I've talked to those in an "altered state" and find it doubtful that one deduced that, following not the first, but the SECOND collapse of an un-invented stock market, and the swearing in of a black president, and the replacement of a core judge on American Idol, the world will end. Trust me, I have a Mayan calendar t-shirt I got on vacation and there is no tiny mushroom cloud of doom in sight. It just ends. Some dope fiend was smoking his ritual pipe and said, "Dude, I'm bored. Let's just forget finishing this calendar and go kick a virgin into the flaming abyss!". See. Not so smart.

So, you may ask, how does this become mother's guilt? Easy. ALL of those who, for eons, have put faith in the fact that the world will end in slightly more than 3 years are trying to keep me from a night on the town!!! "You should spend every moment with your family, we don't have much time!", "Don't go out drinking, your family will be obliterated soon!", "Why waste this precious time on primping and preening? Your kids don't care if you're a fugly hag!". Why? Why? BECAUSE MOMMA NEEDS A DRINK.

I will NOT let the end of the world hone in on my good time! I NEED this! I'm gonna bathe, I'm gonna pluck and shave and spackle and sand and grind and hammer until I resemble some form of human. I'm going to put on too tight, pudge squeezing jeans and over priced, foot pinching shoes, spray on entirely too much perfume, and I'm gonna take my 22+7 year old ass dancing! I won't think of kids, or money, or husbands (mine or otherwise... a girl's gotta keep her options open!) or what type of lip gloss to put in my Armageddon bag. I will drink myself into that blissful haven between sad, pathetic old lady in a bar and sad, pathetic old lady ON the bar. I will squeal with delight and throw my hands in the air at any and every song I recognize. Any tune involving booze, fat butts, food, or crappy relationships is "my song". I'll fool myself into thinking those youngins are staring at me in shock at my mad sexiness and dancing skills, and not my age and muffin top. Perhaps I will have doomsday in the back of my mind, for I'll be dancing like there's no tomorrow.

I feel bad for mothers that watch programs on National Geographic, and The Discovery Channel and then directly equate it to their lives. Are we going to be eaten by lions too? So you watched a television show where someone else pasted together crackhead theories about the end of days? I watch Fringe and fully believe that I could capture Joshua Jackson's heart if I ever actually encounter him. Delusion? Yes. On all accounts, though... I'm an opportunist. That means, should the opportunity arise to take JJ against his will, I shall seize it! You cannot base your life around predictions fed to you via television. I don't even get to watch tv without interruption (let alone try and type on this blog.. thus the choppy train of thought!) what if you've missed out on a crucial tidbit? What if, say, they are telling you "This is ---child screams at you that he wants syrup on his corn on the cob--- NOT the end of days, ---- you inform child that syrup is for pancakes, not corn... though you give in to his whim--- this is they day that it will rain money and Botox will become an over the counter product." See, interruptions can take things completely out of context for you. Not Armageddon, Heaven on Earth! I don't relate to everything I see on tv... I've ALWAYS known when I was pregnant, and I don't think the "Real World" exists at a spring break destination point.

So, I'm punk-ing the Mayans. I'm ruining their sick joke and not succumbing to the mother's guilt. The world isn't going to end because I want to kid myself about how cool I am. I'm heading out. My lamplight manicure is only slightly horrendous, I'll take my 4 minute after dinner shower, slather on some makeup with the delusion that it'll make me pretty, and pay the nice man for my drinks. I'll laugh, and dance, and there will probably be some talk of our kids... but nothing over the top. It'll be fun, it's ALWAYS fun to get out once every 43 years!

And you know what... there won't be a Mayan in sight. Because they're dead. All of them. Bet they didn't see THAT one coming!