There are some things that really bug me. For example, I hate it when you’re in the men’s room, like Senator Larry E. Craig and you go into a stall and your foot “accidentally” brushes the foot of the guy in the stall next to you. Repeatedly. And then, when you wave your hands under the stall in an up and down motion, letting him know you’re ready (and willing and able), he flashes a badge at you and then arrests you. All because your foot brushed his. I mean, come on already! It was an accident. My foot is always wandering when I’m sitting on the can in a public restroom. You know you’ve done it too; we’ve all done it. So give the guy a break. It happens
Or when you’re in the restroom and some woman is using the “diaper free” method of potty training and allows her baby to pee in the sink. Thanks to Nancy S., I got to see that tidbit on the internet. Now I know urine is sterile, but geez people! I don’t generally wash my hands in the toilet! If I catch you letting your kid whiz in the sink, I’m going to follow you home and whiz in your sink. If I can get my knees to bend.
I hate it when someone asks you to take an innocuous sounding position on the PTO and you are stupid enough to accept it, trusting that the vague description of “Oh I think you have to write some letters” is accurate. After it’s too late, you discover that you have actually volunteered to assemble decorative treat bags for every teacher in the school to commemorate his or her birthday. I hate making treat bags. It makes my hair stand on end. But today I assembled forty of those f*****s and tied them off with curling ribbon. Never accept a PTO position without a full, written job description, including financial statements.
I hate when my husband tells me Monday night that he is going to an optional dinner meeting on Tuesday night. I hate it when I tell him he can’t go because we have too much happening on Tuesday night and he goes anyway. So he went and had a free dinner at Thai Emerald. I got to go to a high school open house, with all three children. I had to leave in the middle of it to take Amy to soccer, even though it was lightning and they were playing on a field surrounded by trees and it was likely to be the last practice she ever had of anything. Then I raced back to the school. It’s a three story school and John has classes on all three stories. I hiked up and down the steps, cursing Tim all the while.
At 8:00, we left the school, I rushed to McDonald’s, then rushed them home, then rushed back to the soccer field to pick up the charred remains of my daughter. On the way, I aspirated a french fry and wet myself copiously as I tried to hack up the rehydrated, trans fat laden, reconstituted potato. By the time I got to the field, my throat was sore, my seat was wet and I was ready to join the Foreign Legion. Anything to get away from the madness that is my life.
I am going to bed now and I will dream of diaperless babies peeing on my treat bags while I watch in horror as I choke on a french fry, powerless to stop the babies. Maybe it’s time to up my medication.