Ten New Rights For Twenty-Ten

Winter break is officially over! Now that Doug is back at the office and the kids are out of the house and enjoying school's nurturing atmosphere, I can finally get back to my hobbies, which alternate between running around and running around maniacally. Since this is Minnesota and, for the next two months, the temperature will rarely crawl above 25 degrees, the running is pretty much limited to errands and kid-related crap. Once it gets nice out, though, I'll get busier and the crazy people will start to surface, pasty-white legs and all. In order to keep these outings as pleasant and stress-free as possible, I have decided that since I'm not making any New Year's resolutions, I needed some new rights.

1. If I am behind someone that is driving more than ten miles under the speed limit, weaving between lanes, failing to accelerate at a green light, sitting at a stop sign with no intention of proceeding, or basically being a shitty driver, and this person is obviously texting or talking while simultaneously trying to fetch French fries off of the car floor and shove a double cheeseburger into their mouth, I have the right to honk at them no fewer than five times. Gestures are also acceptable as long as there aren't any kids in the car with me.
2. When another shopper at Target or the grocery store repeatedly gets in my way, and they're talking on the phone, I have the right to say "Excuse me" in a voice louder than necessary, while simultaneously giving them a look that says: "You're an inconsiderate moron. Get off the fucking phone."
3. I have the right to not have to love all of my neighbors, especially the one that specializes in using loud yard equipment after 9pm.
4. If, while at the park, someone starts talking to me about potty training, ECFE, moms clubs, sleeping habits, or is bitching about their spouse, I have the right to say: "Those topics bore me. Go away." If, however, the person compliments me on my cute flip-flops, shares details about a little-known happy hour, or wants to rip on the mom who is talking about potty training, I have the right to ask her to move in with me.
5. If a teenager that doesn't belong to me shows up in my backyard at noon for the 16th day in a row this summer, I have the right to ask him where he's having lunch and say, "Sorry, but we're all out of food."
6. If someone gives me a backhanded compliment, I have the right to not always accept it gracefully and with a smile.
7. If a little kid with a giant booger hanging out of his nose asks me for help on the monkey bars while his mom sits her bib-overalled butt on the park bench talking about potty training, I have the right to say: "NO! I'm busy. Go ask your mom."
8. When some skinny bitch fishes for compliments by saying that she "looks fat" and is "getting lines around her eyes," or asks me, "Does this Brazilian-cut bikini make me look fat?" I have the right to agree with her and answer "Yes, it does."
9. If unattended kids are throwing fistfuls of rocks at the park, and my daughter is in the direct line of fire, I have the right to yell at someone else's unattended kids and/or throw rocks back.
10. I have the right to grill more steak, less chicken, and drink more vodka.

Feel free to add to this list of rights, or use some of them for yourself as needed. After all, sharing is fun, even though I always reserve the right to say "No, it's mine!"

Just Feed Me To The Lions

I've had the pleasure of living in my taupe-hued suburban neighborhood for 11 years, have had kids enrolled at our local elementary school for the last nine, and have six more years ahead of me. So far, I haven't volunteered for the PTO, Worker Bees, Art Enrichment, Popcorn Popper (I'm not kidding, it's something you can volunteer for), or any of the too-many-to-count fundraisers. I'm not saying that I never help out, but I don't need to commit a decade of my life to organizing carnivals, stuffing envelopes, and hanging out with people that annoy me in order to feel useful. One thing that scares the shit out of me even more than being a Popcorn Popper for 15 years, though, is being a member of a Mom's Club for even one day.

I've managed to dodge multiple invitations to various Mom's Clubs (hereinafter referred to as "MC"), using excuses like "it's against my religion," "Zoe is really introverted and doesn't enjoy groups," and "I'm suffering from the Ebola virus." This year, though, there's an MC being organized that is frighteningly similar to a junior high clique. "We can invite Kristen, Tammy and Samantha. But don't tell Julie because she's boring and always talks about current events at the front door. And I think Barb reads fiction written for adults, so don't invite her either. And Mary is skinny, so obviously she's out, too." The ring leader of this MC, Fanny, is a woman that I had never met before, and was hoping to keep that way. Then I had to go grocery shopping because my damn family expected me to cook dinner, and I was out of chips.

I spotted Fanny once in produce and again in aisle four, and after lurking behind the bananas and paying special attention to the Honey Bunches of Oats, I thought I was free and clear. While hauling ass to my car and whistling a tune of victory, I heard a voice that sounded eerily similar to Mrs. Butterworth.

I think she said "Excuse me! Aren't you a mommy from A.M. kindergarten?" but it sounded a lot like "Are you enjoying my thick, rich, buttery syrup?" Fanny planted herself next to my cart, hiking up her mom jeans to heights that appeared uncomfortable.

This was one of the few times in my life that I wished I was being mistaken for someone else. "Oh. I guess I am." Shit. You caught up to me.

"Well. Some of the other mommies and I were talking about how we don't have anything to do in the afternoons after our pancakes get out of school, so I started a Mom's Club. We do all sorts of planned activities and group outings. Would you be interested in joining?"

She might as well have said "do you want to put on a jogging suit made of ground beef and hang out at the zoo for a while, petting the nice kitties?" At least then I'd have death to put me out of my misery.

I stood in the parking lot, still holding the handle of my cart, trying to figure out a way to get out of this conversation without sounding mean. I thought about screaming like a psycho while I rammed the cart into her kneecaps, but I didn't want to risk getting any blood on my chips. So, I took a more civilized approach.

"Those planned activities sure do sound fun! But I'm afraid my afternoons are all booked up. Between the martini lunch, happy hour, drinks before dinner, and writing about weirdo moms like you, I just don't see how I'd have the time. Gotta run! Gettin' shaky!" Plus, the smell of syrup makes me gag a little.