Five Reasons My Kid WIll Never Attend an NYC Prep School

When the last episode of "Real Housewives of New Jersey" ended, I felt like a heroin addict whose dealer had just been sentenced to hard time.
Then I saw the first episode of "NYC Prep."
Six ridiculously rich kids (read Perez Hilton's latest paychecks), some Upper East Siders, some West Siders (do I detect the WASP version of the East vs West Biggy/Tupac rivalry? Will there be Lincoln Town Car Drive By Incidents?) sashay around New York, Blackberries in hand, set to conquer the world. And by "the world" I mean the 13-mile long island that is Manhattan, with occasional jaunts into the Hamptons.
Typical teen angst issues abound. Why is a designer dress "so cheap" at $300? What's a 16-year old to order for dinner when her parents drop by her apartment? (said 16-year old decided to move out of her parents pad in the Hamptons so she could pursue a singing career.)
To be fair, the dress was kinda chintzy looking. And that girl does live with her 18-year old brother. So that makes it ok. To let your 16-year old decide to move out. And live on her own. In a city of 1.6 million. To pursue a career.
Makes total sense.
I give you my five reasons I will never let my kids attend an NYC Prep School.
1. Because 80's surfer hair is evidently a requirement for boys. Sebastian and his asshole friend Gabriel look like younger, yuckier versions of Stef from "Pretty in Pink." My son will never have hair that requires a hand flip to get it out of his eyes. Though I will give the two douches points for their creativity in developing the hair system of girl radar (flip to side of the girl you want to take). I dunno what hair stylist those two go to, but whoever it is clearly got his cosmetology degree from the Barbizon School of Styling, class of 1986.
2. Because the word "stylist" is forbidden in my house, unless we're watching reality television. Jessie, who looks permanently like someone just hit her over the head with an aluminum bat, has been seeing a stylist at Barney's since she was 13. I find it frightening that she has to pay money for someone to help her look like an extra in one of Joan Jett's videos. Back when Joan Jett was popular. Again, 1986. It's hard to take fashion advice from someone who says, with all the seriousness of a heart attack, "You don't wear all your labels at once and I think it's very important to mix and match." Seriously? Seriously????!!!?
3. Because I don't want my kids going to school with someone named P.C. In the case of the show, P.C. stands for Peter Carey, but it might as well stand for Perfect Craphead. Or Partial Cock. It sure as HELL doesn't stand for Politically Correct. That went out the window when he referred to his "best friend"Jessie as a "cunt" (Bravo dutifully bleeped it out, but it was easy to read those cocky, ass-smelling lips).
4. Because the words "life plan" shouldn't be a part of a 16-year old's vernacular. Preppie Camille (think Blair from "Facts of Life" with two poles up her ass instead of one) needs to smoke a J. I'm certainly not pro-drugs (at least not amongst minors), but this girl is a poster child for the medical marijuana movement, in this case the medical issue being ass-doucheyness. "First, I will go to Harvard,” she says. “Then I will be the business head of a genetics firm. Then when I’m 40 I will have a husband and two girls.” I definitely want my son to have goals when he's a junior in high school. I'd just like them to be more "I hope I do well on next week's math test" and less "Crap! I'm sixteen! I need to begin plans for genetically engineering my offspring!" Camille, you need to hang with Matthew McConaughey and his bongos once in a while.
5. Because no one in my house is dumb enough to take part in a reality show. Seriously - these kids are, according to PC, "the elite of the elite." Dick-for-brains certainly showed us his definition of elite by throwing a water bottle at his ex-girlfriend and then snapping his fingers and commanding her to "Make it happen. Make it happen." in response to her offering to find him a date. Sebastian gives us his thoughts on what it is to be amongst the aristocrats when he says, "I hook up with two or three girls a night." Honey, put down the hairdryer and pick up a dictionary. Blow up dolls and fake vaginas don't count as girls.
Does NYC require its private schools (and one "top" public school) to teach the class, "How to Make Yourself Look Like an Ass In Front of Millions With Little to No Effort?" This year's instructor must be Kelly KILLOREN Bensimon (DON'T forget the KILLOREN!).
My family may not be in the top half percent of the wealthiest people in the U.S. like Camille, and we might not have two houses in the Hamptons like PC, but we are smart enough to keep our mugs off the telly and out of Perez Hilton's grasp.
PS - August, mommy was as excited seeing you roll from tummy to back yesterday as PC's mommy will be when he gets out of jail after serving a sentence for cocaine possession in 20 years. You rock. And roll!!

Doody doo doo

Dude, we've got to work on this crapping your pants thing. You are 9 weeks old now and enough is enough. While I will admit that the explosion of poop and gas your butt created this morning was awe-inducing (and got a good giggle out of your dad and me. Mature.), the resulting doody-foam that coated your thighs and back was not sexy. Little man, there was even doody behind your ear. Your ear! How does that happen? Is that some kind of baby gang right of passage...instead of being jumped in, you are poopy-smeared in? Should I expect to find fingernail files hidden in your diaper? Is that stuffed dog really playing baby music or is there some cryptic baby gang message behind the blinking lights and lullabies?
I gotta tell you, it's enough with the poo poo and pee pee. You might be able to cute your daddy and I into wiping your ass (chubby thighs and gummy smiles are mean, mean weapons...how can I get mad at you for peeing all over my white blouse when you're goo-goo-ga-ga-ing with dimply cheeks?), but you will NOT get a date smelling like Desitin and poop. Trust me, the ladies ain't turned on by diarrea stains on onesies.
It's time to clean up your act, son. You're a handsome guy with a lot going for you. You've got a winning smile, cute baby-muscled arms, even a full head of hair. You're gonna make some baby girl really happy...if you can just keep the crap out of the equation.
I love you,
Mama