By now y’all know me well enough to think by that title that I’m losing it.
And I am. I want to pull my own hair out.
But I also want to pull some other women’s hair out.
Yes, women. Plural.
Pursebricks all around the head.
It is Jumping Bean’s 11th Birthday.
I’ve made and delivered to her class red velvet cupcakes.
I’ve attended with Stanley (AKA the Burgermeister Meisterburger)
Merlot’s class performance on their ancestors.
And I’ve worked.
And I’ve been to Target.
The people identified as needing interventions today are the other moms.
Oh and one teacher who assigned my 7th grader to make an
ornament representing the holidays in the Netherlands in lieu of a mid term exam.
Yes, he has to make a craft.
I have to go to Michaels.
I’d rather have a rectal exam and I’m not kidding.
And then these other moms.
I had to send 25 inedible individually wrapped items
for goodie bags in Merlot’s class.
I spent 10 minutes and $15 at Target on this.
WTF. Your kids are not going to die from a Hershey’s Kiss.
And if you don’t agree with me, KISS MY ASS.
And then there is the one with the laugh.
It is like a donkey’s bray but high and shrill.
And constant. She is an attention-seeker.
I could go on but I am out of time. I have to go to fucking Michaels.
Stanley and I are doing family dinner for JB’s Birthday.
Help me Jesus that I run out of pursebricks.