Yet Another Adventure In Bad Mommy Land

Over the years I have tried and failed at being a "good mom". I did the bleached blonde, sweater set wearing, dinner on the table (3 courses with sides) every night with a cool crafty corner and play dates but it was about as comfortable as Vincent D'Onofrio wearing the Edgar Suit in Men In Black. When it comes to being a good mom and good wife, the only stereotyped chore I do well is vacuuming in 5 inch fuck me heels (and pearls.) I have a mouth that could make a trucker blush, my favorite hour is bedtime for the kids aka cocktail hour, and I enjoy a good tobacco product with said cocktails. I am pissed off that wrinkle cream is now in my skin care regimen, that my cocktails make my thighs bigger and that I can't hide behind ignorance to chain smoke a soccer mom's face off. I am not the sweet motherly type and I hold out little hope for growing up to be the sweet grandmotherly type. The best I can hope for is to have enough in savings to cover my children's therapy bills since, as Freud would tell you, everything that will go wrong in their lives will be solely due to riding an amniotic gloosh wave out of MY vagina.

So with all that said, imagine my excitement to attend yet another school program. Yes, I know, I should be excited to to watch my children shine along with 200 of their closest friends, rejoice in the other children learning how to play instruments and be utterly respectful of the hard work that went into creating that show all for parents and grandparents to enjoy. The nice part of me, that teeny tiny part somewhere in my grey matter does. But let's face it. Me nice is just not funny. Listening to twinkle twinkle little star off tempo, off key, with occasional screechiness is about as awesome for me as contemplating shoving bamboo chutes under my nails; my kid isn't even IN band. If given the choice, well, I have a nice bamboo plant sitting next to me here as I type; which reminds me, I need to water it.

So out of politeness, parents are forced to sit through 3 different grades of band, 3 different grades of orchestra (because we wouldn't want to, oh, combine that shit for adult mental health purposes) and then grades K-6 sing 3 songs individually. Now generally this happens twice a year that I grudingly go to out of parental obligation, hide the fact that I would rather practice S&M with my bamboo plant, whisper quietly in my husbands ear that there should at least be an open bar there, and console myself with the fact its only 2 blocks from my house so we will be home in time for Cocktail Hour. This particular program, however, the venue changed to the high school in the next town over. I figured we must be in for quite a treat (read CROWD, dripping sarcasm)to be at the high school. So, plotting out the schedule, it should turn out that I arrive right on time from work.

Life, as it happens, never goes as planned. This particular day ended up being 12 hours of occupational hell and chaos and knowing that I had not a cocktail to look forward to that evening, but my favorite event that goes a long with motherhood. I arrived nearly 50 minutes late and extremely hungry only to discover that although we were nearly an hour into the program, they just got done with the band portion. I was relieved to have not missed my kid's solo, but grimacing at the fact at this point said solo was at least an hour away. On a bad mood scale, at this point I was into negative numbers. At this point, thighs be damned, I had a one big mother of a cocktail and that bitch had my name all over it once I finally got home.

My grumbling stomach and my pissed off brain, all being carried on my sturdy fat thighs walked into the darkened auditorium and that's when I saw it on the program. There was going to be a drawing at the end of the program and we were all stuck, hearded like cattle in the slaughter house feed lot, with our offspring being held hostage until the end of this drawing. For pies. and a Kindle Fire. I could feel my brain spinning like my son's beyblade. All politeness I had left went flying out the window, if there had been a window in the auditorium. And the icing on the shit cake? This show did not really require it to be in the next town over, in fact I could not figure out why it was being held here.

What follows is an exact transcript of my brain at the time: I am starving, stuck in fucking TOWANDA, in a CROWD, with shrieky little kids everywhere. I think my kids are wonderful, sure. Other people's kids? Not so much. These people are rude bastards, possibly one of the most annoying of all parental obligations, and they don't even offer some complementary meth?! I mean, this IS the capitol for it. At least something disassociate us just long enough to tolerate these white kids singing multi ethnic songs. Oh, wait, I thought we were stereotypically singing songs from other countries and now kids bop is singing "'cuz we gonna rock this club, we gonna go all night, we gon' light it up, like it's dynamite!" I didn't realize we were clubbing with 10 year olds in the meth capitol. A good host always provides the right hors deurve to the meal; so, someone pass the X, the glow in the dark necklaces and glitter. How in the hell can I be expected to do my Kesha impression without some fucking glitter?!

So then this group of kids exits the stage, and the next arrive. With togas on. They begin to sing 'Faster, Higher, Stronger'. Aren't we a little young to be teaching the kids about Greek Style? Then, while still in the togas, they bust out "we go together like rama lama ka dinga dinga ding....and suddenly the togas are gone and it's poodle skirts. At this point I am cracking myself up so much I can't breathe from trying to stifle the laughter while still being cognizant of the complete inappropriateness of it all. It never would've happened if they'd had a damn open bar. And did I win a pie or a kindle fire? Fuck no. Because I am the anti-PTA mom. But, I can still vacuum in 5 inch fuck me heels and pearls, WELL. The end.