It's not like I'm Mary Louise Parker peddling a bag of weed or anything.

I’m getting pressure to join the PTA at my son’s school. Now that the Hubby is a teacher he has decided that all the GOOD families have parents (read: mothers) on the parent council and, you know, participate in some way. He is also feeding me some bullshit about there being a conflict of interest about him joining the parent council.

I’m not sure how that works exactly since he doesn’t teach at our son’s school, but he swears to god that is some kind of rule somewhere and he needs to follow it.

Here is the problem – we moved about five years ago to the other side of the city, and it’s kind of the wrong end of town.

For people like us.

Our neighborhood has three types of people:

1. Stay at home moms who are always draped head to toe in Lu Lu Lemon and can go grocery shopping at 2:00 pm on a Wednesday afternoon;

2. Families who love baby Jesus; and

3. Super old people with gazebos in their backyard who have lived in the neighbourhood since Kennedy was assassinated.

We do not fit into any of the above categories.

I make the Lu Lu Lemon moms super uncomfortable because not only do I have to work, like, everyday, I’m fat. Fat, working moms are not on their radar. At. All.

I make the baby Jesus families uncomfortable because I deliberately fuck with them whenever possible.

See, I have this ‘multi-faith’ calendar at work which alerts me to the various holidays being celebrated around the world on any given day. For example, today is the first day of Ridvan, the Bah’i festival that commemorates the 12 days that Baha’u’llah spent in the garden of Ridvan during his exile in Baghdad.

I know, right?

Now if I happen to see one of the Jesus families walking their dog while I’m playing with the kids outside after supper tonight, I’ll call out to them, “Happy Ridvan!” and wave fanatically.

As for the super old people – I irritate the shit out of them because aside from the standard mow now and again, I don’t really give a crap about the state of my lawn. The old people, however, will mow their grass, rake up the mowed grass, get this crazy looking contraption out and, I shit you not, VACUUM their lawn. They average about 3 hours a day on that mo-fo. It’s actually a nice wind down to the day watching them go through all that effort for a patch of grass. I just sit on my stoop and eat freezies.

Where was I originally going with this? Oh yeah, the PTA.

I have been avoiding joining the PTA because in my neighbourhood I’m the crazy fat chick with the brown lawn who worships satan.

Nobody wants that chick on the PTA.

But, apparently at some point in the not so distant past I indicated on some shitty little form I wasn’t really paying attention to that I would be willing to volunteer for school special events. Really? I’m pretty sure the Hubby suckered me into this one somehow, because I totally do NOT remember signing on for that. However, I got a call today, from the president of the PTA herself, inviting me to a meeting Thursday night to discuss planning the annual ‘Hoe Down’ the school throws in June.

I told her that she’s lucky the meeting wasn’t scheduled for tonight because it’s Ridvan, and work is traditionally suspended on days 1, 9 and 12 of the festival.

Then I told her I’d see her at the meeting and to keep an eye out for me - I’d be the chubby one in the WalMart 'George' label yoga pants with with blue freezie stain dripped down the front of her tank top.

Blue is the best freezie colour, hands down.

They’re going to LOVE me.

This is totally accurate and EXACTLY what happened.

I ran into an old friend at Wal Mart the other day. We’re ‘facebook’ friends, but we haven’t actually seen each other in real life in at least a decade or more. When I knew her she was very tall and strikingly beautiful.

She looks exactly the same.

Of course since it was just a quick Saturday trip to Wal Mart I looked like a homeless person.

This is how the conversation went:

Me – (cautiously waves)

Her – Smiling politely, waves back and stops in the isle, “Wow, I would have NEVER recognized you if we weren’t ‘friends’!!”

Me – “Ha, ha, How’s it going? These are my youngest, Jake and Lena.”

Her – “Oh, they are so cute! Where is the Hubby? Working?”

Me – “He’s at home, probably grading papers. He’s a teacher now”

(she didn’t know that because the hubby is super paranoid about putting anything on facebook and refuses to even acknowledge he’s my husband on there. So I started a blog. Heh.)

Her – “Oh, that’s nice. Your oldest seems like quite the firecracker from what I can tell from facebook!”

Me – “Yeah, she sure is.” So what have you been up to? Moved back, I see?"

Her – “Yes, moved back a while ago. It’s been great.”

Me – “It’s nice to see you again”

Her – “You too! Your kids are so cute. Better run. Bye!”

Me – “See you later!”


Isn’t that nice? Not really. Here is the sub-text transcript of this conversation:

Me: Ah, shit. There she is, looking striking and she’s coming my way. Doesn’t ANYONE else I know ever get fat? Fuck. I’m going have to acknowledge her.

Her: Why is that fat homeless chick waving at me? Oh, god! Is that,…..FoN?

“Holy SHIT! I could tell from your facebook pictures you put on a few, but I had NO idea! Is this for real? Seriously, are you really this fat or did Tyra Banks put you in a fat suit and hide a camera in your folds so you could record how people react to how totally HUMUNGOUS you are????”

Me: “Fuck you. Life hasn’t been a cakewalk and I eat my feelings, okay? Not everyone can be seven feet high and fifteen pounds you know.”

Her: “Yeah, I bet. I assume those two kids fighting over who gets to hold the mango are yours? Yikes. Good thing they’re cute. I assume you and whats-his-face broke up by now?"

Me: “As a matter of fact we got married and bought a nice little house in the south end. We both have great jobs and make a LOT more money than you. So, you moved back in with your parents after your marriage broke up, I assume?"

Her: “Yeah, but at least my kids aren’t saying ‘fuck’ every five minutes on facebook. You should be totally ashamed of your daughter. It’s too bad she can’t be like my kids. I’ve taught them to love Jesus and they are perfect in every way."

Me: “Well, your kids are 10 and 7, so call me when they’re teenagers and we’ll talk."

Her: “Hey, I gotta run and call everyone we knew from high school to tell them you’re a WHALE!! Bwwaaaahahahahahaha!!!!!"

Me: “Whatever. You’re divorced and poor”

THE END.