Yo, She-Bitch . . . Don't Piss Me Off

I'm sitting here in a St. Louis Bread Company (known as Panera Bread elsewhere) trying to get some work done while Matilda is taking a summer enrichment class down the road.  Bread Co. has free WiFi and decent coffee.  It's a no brainer.
 
Today, sitting next to me is a group of "business people".  Now, I don't mean to mock all people who might fall under this classification, but these people are a breed of humans that fall well below that of fully evolved.  One, for example, is wearing braided leather suspenders.  Another is using a tablet PC which, normally I would think is cool.  However, he's handling it like the gorilla in the old American Tourister commercial.  Respect the technology Professor Luddite.
 
They've been discussing their work in a very animated manner using only buzzwords and jargon.  In the half hour I've been forced to listen to this meeting, I've heard nothing substantive until . . . The She-Bitch in the mauve suit with the too short skirt started talking about her pregnancy.  No, normally I wouldn't complain about a too short skirt.  But when you have the cute tummy pooch of a five-month term, it's unbecoming.  In fact, it smacks of a woman who thinks pregnancy is not important, only a speed bump in the road of her self-centered existence.  It's clear by her demeanor and actions that this kid will be raised by proxy and probably saddled with an unfortunate name like Clay or Trent. 
 
What rankled me, however, was when she started talking about making her husband stay at home with the kid.  She was laughing at the idea.  How absurd.  "He could be Mr. Mom," she said, laughing as she sipped her half-caf double soy mochafrappalpacino. 
 
Suspender guy responded, "That would be so emasculating."
 
Yes, Mr. Mom.  Emasculated.  That's how we are viewed.  Us stupid fathers. We are sperm donors who should remain emotionally detached from the family unit.  God forbid we take an active part in the raising of the child.
 
Or worse.  God forbid we embark on some sort of journey that allows us to pursue a personal career (making more money that we did in an office) that offers the flexibility to take care of the children, or take a day off to go swimming with the kids and that allows our lovely wives to pursue their very successful and rewarding careers.
 
But She-Bitch and her harping little cronies don't understand.
 
It's not emasculating.  It's freeing. 
 
I know my wife and kids better than I ever would if I spent my day far away from them.  I've learned things and have been given opportunities that they will never understand because I've chosen to chart my own career.  And it involves coffee.
 
I feel sorry for this woman, her husband and these men.  They view children as a burden.  Like a boil on their ass that will hang around for eighteen years and seriously impede their ability to go see the next Annie Lennox concert. 
 
That's fine.  They can mock people like me, who have the freedom to work quietly from an Internet cafe while waiting for my lovely daughter to finish her enrichment.  They will never know the joy of riding home while she performs her parts in the summer play in the back seat, or watching her reprogram the TiVo so that it forgets that I'm a 31 year old male and it starts recommending material suitable for a nine year old girl.
 
So, when my daughter is a world-renowned physicist accepting the Nobel Prize, their kid will be dealing oxicontin to other disaffected youths who have been publicly abandoned by their parents and raised by their Game Boys and iPods (both of which my daughters would love to have, and use properly). 
 
So, She-Bitch, be careful while you and your cronies are planning to discuss things "offline" and you develop your "action plan" for "distribution among the ranks" while avoiding the "pitfalls of micromanagement".  Because this scalding hot cup of Joe is about to be poured down suspender Boy's back if he laughs raucously about men who have decided to do "women's work". 
 
At least I'm not a slave to cliches.  And while you're eating the crappy catered lunch and spouting out more buzzwords, I'll probably be taking a break in my back yard, tossing around the ball with my daughter and our dog.
 
And at the end of the day, when you're drooling over your copy of Maxim magazine, I'll be home with my gorgeous flesh and blood wife discussing my emasculation.  And guess what?  I'll still clear more money that you and your stupid braided suspenders.
 
Viva la Eunich!