Pinheads. (The Frontal Lobe Analysis of Pinterest)

In my Thankful post, I gave a hearty shout out to Pinterest, the new darling of the social media.  For those of you unaware, Pinterest describes itself as:  "A virtual pinboard that helps you organize all the beautiful things on the web".  People use pinboards to decorate their homes, plan their wedding and organize their recipes.  In an nutshell, think of it as a scrapbook for your thoughts and inspiration, all in one handy place.  I love it. I ooh, I ahh, I pin my little heart out, often at the neglect of nine million other things I should be doing. While perusing the site one day, (to find out if you could possibly pin for a living so I could quit work) I uncovered the "Etiquette" section.  In the Etiquette section, I am reminded that "Pinterest is a community of people who have personal tastes, and I am requested to be respectful in my comments and suggestions".

 OK, I say.  I can play nice. I'm a nice girl.

But it's a little challenging for me to play nice day in, day out.  I try, but bottom line is I am just not that nice of a girl.

I need some relief from nice, which leads me here, to my safe, comforting, filterless place.  The Lucky Strike area of my head.  I need to unload some baggage, because that "Pinterest community of people" tend to flip my snark switch, like whoa.  Pinheads, I have named them.  And now, because I'm so nice, I will break it all down for you.

Hmmmmm. 

Where to start? Kind of difficult, because it's a somewhat lengthy list of snark we have here.  What category to choose?  I think I will start with "It's All About Me" for 500, Mr. Trebek.

  Oooh!  How about: Your Wedding Day?  And so it begins:

Now seriously.  What man would do this?  And if he did, are you that desperate to be married?  To him? I pray this fiancee will post this on her Facebook page, so his friends intervene before he tumbles farther into girly-dom.  As much as I wish for a bit more romance and emotional pampering in my life, this would freak me out, big time.

Onwards.

SAVE THE DATE!
Translation: Everyone!  There could be nothing more important in your whole world than my wedding day.  Stick a big red circle around it and make sure you take the day off work, get a sitter, kennel the dog, buy a dress, get your hair did and most importantly, write me and the Mr. a big fat check.  Save the date, because from today on, it's all about ME ME ME!

In case you forget, here's a reminder:

Aren't we adorable?  Have a magnet. Of Us.

(Note of irony:  that bottom picture happens to be Bill and I's anniversary. I hope they didn't taint it too badly).

Pinterest also gives you suggestions on Wedding pictures, how to ask a Bridesmaid to stand up for you, (it involves a gift, for God's sake. Doesn't anyone just talk anymore?), how to make a video montage of (what else) you (wonderful you) and oh yeah, the Groom too.  Some days I have to sit on my hands so not to bust out my "this is a wedding, not the second coming of Christ" commentary. 

Still, I play nice.

And then one day, our couple becomes two and a half...

reminding you that you can save not only a date, but a whole month in honor of a baby that may nor may not decide to show up in June, 2012. Lord knows my own children had no sense of due date.  We will cover the prosaic hand heart later, rest assured.

Side note:  Did you know a Sperm Whale is pregnant for 16 months?  Have mercy! Yet you never hear a peep from her.  Likewise, the Sperm Whale will not be found hosting this ridiculous event:

Behold the "Gender Reveal Party".  Something I never knew existed pre-Pinterest.  Something I live in fear of being invited to.  Something I know I will never be invited to again if I do elect to attend one.  Because a girl like me can only shut her yap for so long.  Especially after I had to endure having this genre of pictures shoved in my face for the last ten years:

Wurd.

The countdown commences, the shower comes and goes, the "Name Reveal" (yes, they have those too) happens and one day the text message comes (because nobody ever talks anymore)...

 Baby's Here!

And she is perfect.  The pregnant belly deflated, the gender revealed, the name awarded, the trilogy of hype completed.

Yet you cannot go a single day letting her be her gorgeous, perfect, bald headed self, because you slap one of these on her head at every opportunity:

while you contort her into unorthodox positions:

and put her in a straight jacket flat on her back:

Poor, sweet baby. I feel you. Your head needs to be warm, not decorated.  Your hands need to be by your face so you can mess around and do baby things like suck your fingers.  You need to be held, not obnoxiously propped.  You, little Baby, are deserving of a Pinterest free infancy.

I am still trying to play nice, but I am losing the battle, baby advocate that I am.  

My comment fingers tremble with fervor, yet I press on, only to be rewarded with this nonsense:

Introducing Mommy's new little helper; the Elf on the Shelf.  Creepy, creepy little Elf that "watches you" to be sure you behave, and "reports back to Santa".  He bargains with  Mommy and Daddy, exchanging discipline for bribery. He gets into mischief and shows up in places that little sinister dolls have no business being in.  He's watching you, Little Baby that is now a preschooler.  And when you grow up living in terror of Santa and Christmas (along with a whole lot of other things), you can blame it on your Mommy and her macabre Elf.  

Stupid Elf.  I am so glad he wasn't around when my kids were little, because my Mother surely would have bought into that fiasco.

As I proofread all this, I realize that all of this venting makes me edgy.  I should probably exercise.  Lucky for me, Pinterest is right there, shaming me with pins like this:

  

Well, dammit I am busy. I am busy on Pinterest. Reading about exercise. On my ass.

Maybe I should keep calm?  There is no shortage of Keep Calm and.... pins on Pinterest.  This one is my favorite:

Thank God snark is not limited to just me.

I love Pinterest.  Really, I do.  But speaking of done to death, if I see another version of this, I swear I will vomit.

Heart Hands be gone. The timer is going off.  You are finished.  Please never come back.

Speaking of done; I am.  Almost.  I leave you with the final wonder of Pinterest.  It begs the question: Who the hell decided that these are the rules, and furthermore, who put them in numerical order?

Who is this rule maker?  I demand you step forward.  Because we need to chat.  You do not get to make my rules.  I make my rules, and I opt not to number them, because the rules are subject to change at any time, for any reason, including and certainly not limited to my hormone levels.   

I'm nice.