Driving carpool on Thursday is the bane of my existence.
Well, to be honest, I have more than several other banes, but this is the one I am going to whine talk about today. So, the kids are let out at 4:00, but you have to show up around 3:00 to even get a spot that’s remotely close to the doors (which is always fun in the winter when I’m standing with my snotcicles and my frozen lady-bits)
Now there are some moms, the ones with the “north of 7” hair*** who are dressed in lululemon head-to-toe, who are carrying the identical Coach bags and their completely unnecessary blackberries, who use this time for a colossal coffee-date. They all show up in their giant-ass SUVs and their venti coffees and they hang out for an hour, probably discussing which purse they are all going to buy next.
(and let me just interject for a moment to say that although I will stand behind lululemons and I continue to pimp their magical ass powers, I will tell you that buying them in a size 6 and squeezing your size 10 ass into them, cancels all magic. Not even lululemon is going to be able to make that work for you, hon.)
Then there are the mom jeans. There is not much more I can say about the mom jeans. Then there are the dads and the grandparents. Then there are the few moms who actually terrify me. They are 6 feet tall and wear skinny jeans and tall boots even though it’s in the 70s and they have a good 3 inches of black roots growing in under their bleached blond hair. and don’t get me started on the bling. HOLY BLINDING BATMAN.
Then there is ME. the one who races out of work early just to be able to grab a spot in the lot. the one who is wearing heels and my office attire and my seriously-why-can’t-they-come-up-with-a-better-system-for-this look on my face.
I grab the kids, one by one, and then we sit. and wait. for all the coffee daters to slowly make their way out of the clusterfuck that is the school parking lot. I’m kind of edgyslashstabby, because I am thinking about the rapidly wasting away minutes I have left to drop off four kids, pick up Isabella, and bolt over to Vibe for dance at 4:30.
and then yesterday, a mom in a giant blackÂ SUV cut me off. She didn’t put up her hand in that sort of half-wave that says, yes, I made a dick move but thanks for not ramming into my expensive car. But she made eye contact. And then I made bird contact. I really couldn’t help myself. Along with my middle finger rising, something else was rising. It may or may not have started with a “b” and ended with an “h” and had an “itc” in the middle. But, i’m not saying.
just don’t ask the five kids who were in the car with me. they are sworn to secrecy. just like they won’t tell you about the impromptu lollipops they sometimes get and that time I put on the Spring Awakening soundtrack without realizing there’s a song with the words, “it’s the bitch of living…the bitch..just the bitch” and an even worse song that says “there’s a moment you know…you’re fucked” lalala. move along now. but not before you hand my my trophy for being carpool mom of the year!
So, I pull into the Vibe parking lot and guess who is behind me in her giant black SUV?
I know, right? why do these things only ever happen to me?
Thursdays, man. I’m telling you.
*** just a note for all of you non-Toronto people out there. 7 is a highway. North of 7 is the suburbs. THE SUBURBS. so, north of 7 hair is suburban mom hair. (you may be familiar with the “brown football helmet” reference in Steel Magnolias? it’s something like that…with a little flat ironing thrown in there)