Dear Mrs. Cleaver,
You’ve had your eye on me since November when I missed the purchase date for the Holiday Wreath Fundraiser. I appreciate that they were organic, Grade A Balsam Fir that you delicately weaved into a wreath and perfectly placed glittery poinsettia leaves through it, but unless I can wear it as a thong, with mistletoe, I’m not shelling out seventy-five bucks for a door swag.
It doesn’t make them more marketable when you don them with colored lights and red bows and zip tie it to the front of your minivan. It’s still a seventy-five fucking dollar tree branch. Now, while we’re on the subject, I’m still not apologizing for hot gluing those airplane bottles of fireball to your “hood wreath.” Consider it a gift. That was the most action your car has seen since the last Trunk or Treat for Halloween and besides, the police uniform wasn’t the scratchy kind from Party Fair you are used to.
You act like I’ve been dodging you for the last six months at drop off and pick up, which isn’t entirely accurate. For the month of November, yes, I chose not to park in the orange coned drop-off/pick up lot in front of the school. Maybe I like parking in the church lot three blocks down; the holly bushes are very festive.
Seriously, at 7:15 A.M. you are in the first parking spot, fully dressed, hair done, makeup on WITH mascara! Do you camp out in front of the school? I roll up in sweatpants that are on inside out, a slipper on one foot and a flip flop on the other, drinking coffee out of a water bottle and think I’m the shit because I have a bra on.
It’s like you have radar for the moms that have not purchased for the fundraiser. You aim your red laser and come in for the kill. The minute you see me, you begin to wave and shrill “Morning, there’s still time to get your holiday wreath!” Have you ever heard yourself speak? Before the caffeine kicks in? Do you know what inner strength it takes not to wring your Botox injected neck when you open your mouth?
Listen, I know you’ve got a reputation to uphold, especially since the travesty of last year’s pickle-flavored candy cane sale. The school would have broken records if you would have sold puke bags instead; green and red ones with skull and crossbones in the shape of the elf on a shelf. Shamefully, I am still laughing inside when you sent the leftover dill canes to the troops for St. Patrick’s Day and they sent them back and call blocked you.
We do support the school and try to participate in many of the pillaging fundraising activities throughout the year. To date we have four first aid kits, enough wrapping paper to conceal a small she-shed and the mailman is still pissed because I’m the only one on the block he has to try to stuff magazines into the mailbox in between the puffy envelope from the “Razor of the Month Club.” Let’s not fail to give an honorable mention to the two specialty cheesecakes that exceeded the weight and size limit in my refrigerator, and cost as much as food shopping for the week, so now I have room for the peanut butter and jelly.
Unfortunately, your daffodil sale comes along right after the Girl Scout Cookie sale, and well let’s be real, after three cases of Do Si Dos and Tagalongs, I can’t afford a chia pet on sale at the Dollar General. Your bright yellow signs are delightful and if it’s any consolation, all that happiness reminds me to go home and take my Prozac, so thank you!
If I may make a suggestion: maybe a Mojito Madness fundraiser would be met with a little bit more enthusiasm. How about something practical? We have enough school logo shirts, gloves, hats, umbrellas, and car decals; how about selling babysitting cards so we can go out with our significant others and get lucky without hiding in the pantry?
Please if you would, stop glaring at me as we cross paths in the cookie aisle, and the pasta aisle, and again at the deli while you hide behind the gluten-free wrap display. I’m sure it is purely coincidental that we pick up our dry cleaning on the same day, at the same time and I always run into you while you’re walking your labradoodle past my house. Don’t think those little daffodil emojis you put on my Facebook posts go unnoticed, either. Now that I think about it, I am getting a little nervous; I’ll take three of those yellow blooms of fear you are pushing, now leave me alone until September.
The Blacklisted PTA mom
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