Last night, Monkey’s preschool had their annual art show; Or, the yearly occasion I like to call, The Preschool Prom. Kids aren’t permitted, they serve wine and appetizers, they have a silent auction, and we buy the elaborate art projects created by our little Fidel Castros Pablo Picassos. For the only night of the year, the moms I see 5 days a week, twice a day, shed their yoga pants, and their unwashed pony-tails as we get down as much as the parents of small children can get down – like the badass bitches we were before kids, and of course we have to be home by 9:30 because it’s a school night.
Despite the fact that most social situations have recently lost their luster to me (because: pants), coupled with the fact that both sets of grandparents were unavailable for babysitting, I needed to make fetch happen. It raises money for the preschool, Hubby and I get to drink two-buck chuck for a couple of hours with people in the same desperate kid situation, and he usually gets reality inebriated; thus biding on all sorts of silent auction shit. Mommy always needs new shit.
My man hit an all time high this year; and scored the family some lovely loot from his stealth silent auction tactics. We are now the proud owners of a basket of new baking supplies, a waffle machine (so excited I could cry) an awesome collaboration of beach things, and (unfortunately) for the 2nd year in a row, he won the fucking Play-Doh. If you’ve been here for a hot minute you know my deep-seated disgust of Play-Doh. At this point, I know he’s doing it on purpose. Don’t worry buddy, I’ll get even, eventually.
So I picked up all of our winnings from the preschool, loaded them into the car and trucked them home. The 4-year-old was more than happy to assist me in the unpacking of all the things.
And that’s when I lost my mind.
Whomever (and I’m sure I’ll discover the identity of this person on Monday after they read this) organized and wrapped up all the auction baskets decided to mount all of the items on… yes, you guessed it, sheets of silver glitter paper.
Yeah, because nothing says, “I hate you!” like glitter. It’s the anti-gift
I would have been happier if they sent me home with a straight razor blade and note that said, “Go kill yourself.”
As we all know, glitter is the red-headed stepchild of all things crafty. From the moment the ultrasound tech wrote penis on that screen with an arrow pointing a the protruding shadow, I thanked my lucky stars that my life wouldn’t be filled with glitter. But oh… after today, my initiation to the glitter club runs long and deep. If I’m ever rid of this pox on my house I’ll be surprised, because it’s everywhere.
Every-fucking-where!
Don’t believe me? The baby looks like he’s wearing glitter tap shoes, the 4-year-old looks like he just spent an evening out with Tila Tequila at the titty bar, my husband has glitter on his upper lip… AND HE JUST WALKED IN THE DOOR! Newsflash: There was glitter on the toilet seat when I went in the bathroom to hide from the glitter.
It’s glitt-a-poc-a-lypse up in this bitch. Glitter and Play-Doh, the makings of Hell.
Time to break out the vacuum, and the Xanax.
Dressed up Mama in her cleavage shirt and pencil skirt. It’s prom, bitches.
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