Now that we no longer have Summer Nanny, we have to parent our own children. It’s not so bad because we “text-in-sick” way less than Summer Nanny. I tried to text-in-sick once, but Real Estate Dad didn’t buy it when I said that the mockingbirds in Glover Park formed a gang (MB-13) and chased me out of the neighborhood. The good news is we’re now front-and-center for the delicious hilarity that goes along with all-things-Stoddert-Elementary at drop-off and pick-up.
A few weeks ago, Real Estate Dad was standing on our postage stamp (you can’t really call it a front yard.) Our neighbor was walking down the street with her Mini-Me, who was saying, “I love soccer, I love soccer, I love soccer!” The mom stopped to tell Real Estate Dad how much her mini-me loves soccer. She said the teachers are so organized, they send out emails communicating everything, and she is super impressed.
Let’s just do a Mr. Roper direct-to-camera thing for a moment. Soccer is horrible. Much like a Taylor Swift Concert, falling into a street grate, or working for Calvin
douchebag Klein, who demands that everything is black – including file folders and pen ink (try writing on a black folder with black ink and tell me how that works out for you,) soccer is hell on earth. The entire weekend is hijacked with games. I now understand why calling someone a “soccer mom” is a thinly-veiled insult.
If you win the first game, you go on to a second game. If you win that guess what? You go on to a third game. None of the parents can make weekend plans because: soccer. If my girls were in soccer and we even made it to an early game, I’d be sitting my fat ass in a lawn chair drinking my fountain diet pepsi, rooting for them to lose. Losing IS winning. Losing means you can go home!
Back to the conversation.
Me: Princess Roundhead (“M”) and Chubs want nothing to do with soccer and I’m thrilled.
Real Estate Dad: Funny you should say that because there’s another part to this story. Earlier today, G’s mom came up to me – what’s her name?
Me: Drunken Santa. (That’s not really her name. She just throws a really good Holiday party in the alley behind her house.)
Real Estate Dad: Drunken Santa came up to me and she swears more than you. I didn’t think that was possible. She said ‘Are your girls in soccer?’ I said no. She said ‘My boys are and f*ck it is such a pain in the ass. They start these games at 8 a.m. on Saturday and we’re not even awake. Then we have to trek across town to another field for another game and no one told me this sh*t before we signed up so now I’m stuck. They email us all the f*cking time, it’s endless. I can’t stand them.’
(I normally would never censor anything but damn it, some of you work in places where my blog gets banned due to language.)
Me: You know how I bought that DSLR Camera on Black Friday that I have yet to use? I asked Drunken Santa if she would teach me how to use it because she has one. She said “Sure, with vodka.”
I need to be better friends with her.
Stoddert had the annual auction and Drunken Santa did not disappoint. She became known as the “mom in the shorts.” There were many notable moments – like when she got a little too close to the cupcake table and had to scrub some white frosting off her shorts while screaming, “WHO JIZZED ON MY SHORTS?”
But here she is at one of her finest moments that evening, ahem, raising money for the school.
The school year is coming to an end, thankfully. Drunken Santa volunteered to be the Treasurer for next school year. Brave lady. I was not at said meeting where this happened because I was showing houses to clients. But if I had been there, let me tell you what I would not have been doing. I would not have been volunteering for the committee I chose for this year. Staff Appreciation.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t love them. I do. Our elementary school has to have some of the best damn teachers and staff on the planet. But I thought it would be fun. I had visions of milk and cookie trucks and parties. But what I got was that literally everything is celebrated or acknowledged. I’m currently missing several birthdays that occurred in May that I haven’t acknowledged because two words: Realtor. Spring. In my defense, I was extra diligent for Nurses Appreciation Week. I figured I owed her since Chubs has single-handedly depleted her arsenal of bandages with the same freaking complaint all year: “My finger hurts.”
I can’t wait until Drunken Santa realizes how hard being the Treasurer is. Constant bank runs and writing checks. She is going to swear up a storm next year. I will be LOVING IT!
Oh, wait. I volunteered for a bunch of shit too. I’ll probably be swearing and drinking right along with her.