Valentine’s Day is a celebration designed to make woman feel bad about themselves, their significant other or a combination there of. That’s why I believe that cupid is really an angry baby Satan with a case of advanced diaper rash. Just look at any picture of cupid, that nude bottom has extreme dermatitis written all over it or at the very least a medical grade case of chapped skin. This is why I’m urging women to boycott the adult version of Valentine’s Day. By all means embrace the kid fun stuff – the cards, the heart shape cookies, the class parties – all good. The pressure for the day to be a significant romantic milestone or even a day of mild passion in your marriage, that part you can toss in the trash.
The problem with Valentine’s Day is that it’s become a competitive driven event as in who got the best Valentine present? Who got the biggest (read expensive) bouquet of flowers delivered to work? Who’s husband did the most adorable romantic thing? Who’s spouse spent the big bucks declaring his undying love for his wife. It starts out when we’re young. Even as grade school girls we would sort our Valentines into a boy stack and girl stack and then with our friends examine and discuss in detail the ramifications of each Valentine given to us by a boy. Did the Valentine with the cat saying, “Hey Valentine you’re really cool” mean something more than a Valentine you got from another boy who said, “Hope your Valentine’s Day is really cool.”
Jump to our adult years and we’re essentially still doing the same thing comparing and contrasting our Valentine’s Day. I dread school drop off and pick up on February 14. There’s always that mom who comes in gushing about the incredible gift that was waiting for her when she woke up. One year a mom came to school on V.D. driving a brand new Mercedes she said her husband gave her for Valentine’s. Her story was her hubby kissed her and said, “Hi, gorgeous why don’t you take that adorable self of yours and get up and look out the window and see what Cupid has left you.”
Oh, you guessed it, sitting in the driveway was that new car with I Love You spelled out in rose petals on the hood. As she was screaming, “Oh my God, I love it, I love it”, he came up behind her and hugged her and whispered in her ear that he gave her the car because she still “revved his engine.”
Okay, first ick on the whole revving the engine thing and second, that story was a fairy tale. I know the woman and she had been looking at cars for close to two months and the night before – Valentine’s Eve, while making a carpool drop off I saw the car in her driveway and she was in it without a rose petal in sight. So high-five for the awesome ride, but really did she have to weave that tale of faux romance?
A couple of years ago, I hit my Valentine threshold and did something that, to this day. still embarrasses me to think about. One morning at my son’s school one H.E.S.M. (hot elementary school mom) was crowing about her “unbelievable” romantic hubby and how she spent her Valentine’s morning. To say I dislike this women would be an understatement. Most days it took everything bit of self-restraint I had not to haul off and smack her. She was always name dropping and talking about incredibly obnoxious things like flying “private” which I, at first, thought meant, flying somewhere and not telling anyone, because you wanted to keep it, you know, private. I, being a Southwest Airlines type of girl who is not above engaging in hand-to-hand combat for the aisle seat, was baffled to learn it meant not lowering yourself by (gasp) flying in a commercial jet with strangers. She’s also a size double zero and would punctuate every conversation with a comment about how fat she is, so, of course, everyone would tell her “No, no, you are sooo skinny.”
She, for sure, hated me as much as I hated her. Back when our kids were in kindergarten together I, after listening to another one of her “I’m so fat” comments felt duty bound, in the name of double-digit clothing wearers everywhere, to speak up and share with super skinny, that she really wasn’t “fat at all, just mis-proportioned, big-boned, especially in thighs, but I’m sure it was just heredity and there was nothing she could do about it expect maybe surgery.” This, as I had hoped, freaked her out. I’m talking about a woman so skinny she has no butt at all. You’ve seen these women. The ones, who due to zero body fat, are ass-less. Her backside was so flat it could, in a pinch, be used as a desk or maybe a picnic table for one.
I tried to avoid her to the best of my ability, but our kids were always in the same class so there was only so many evasive maneuvers I could practice. On this Valentine’s Day I, along with about 8 other moms, were tortured with her story about how she woke up and discovered that her husband, sometime in the middle of the night had clasped a diamond necklace around her neck. She couldn’t believe it, but then when she walked into the bathroom to check out how it looked on her, she found a diamond bracelet and then when she walked into the kitchen, oh my God, diamond earrings right there by her Lamborghini limited edition coffee maker! (Seriously, there is such a thing.) She had piled on her Valentine jewels and was wearing them as she told her story. Caressing the necklace, touching her earrings and twisting her bracelet around and around her wrist.
I knew, without a doubt, that her “jewels” were “el fakeos.” Primarily because they were too big. They diamonds were size of what actresses wear to the Oscar’s and have security details assigned to them to keep the jewels safe. As far as I could tell our phony little Valentine was security free. When adorning oneself in bogus jewels it’s best to stay in the vicinity of medium. Medium gives the illusion of a genuine stone. When you go too big you’re compromising the creditability of your man-made gems and these “gems” looked like they were purchased, probably with a coupon, at a Sam’s Wholesale Club. Now, while I wholeheartedly endorse knockoff’s and coupons, I don’t cotton to folks who noisily parade their counterfeits around like the real thing. That’s why I muttered under my breath, cubic zirconia, and then coughed a little when the woman standing next to me asked me what I had just said. Well, little Mrs. Super Skinny/C.Z. heard me and to get even asked what my husband had given me for Valentine’s Day?
My husband, hmm, let me see, he had gotten me, oh yeah, I remember now – nothing. But, that was my own business and I was in the mood to do a little damage control. It was also at this point that I went temporarily insane and committed a grave error in judgement. I looked at Mrs. C.Z. and asked, “Do you really want to know?”
She answered back in a sugar laced sarcastic voice, “Of course. I’m sure you got something really great.”
I said,” It was great alright but it’s not something I feel that comfortable taking about at an elementary school.”
She wouldn’t let up and came back with “Oh, was it a kiss?” and then did a giggle.
I think it was the giggle that caused me to plunge into an abyss of filth. To do a pre-emptive strike and defend my character before I share with you what happened next you need to know a couple of things about me. I’m a prude. I don’t like talking about sex and never ever would I even mention something as private as my own romantic interests. I’m a great friend if you want to talk about your kids, your job, your medical issues – any of life’s up’s and down’s I’m there for you, but if you start talking about sex I get very uncomfortable. I blame my mother one of the 20th century’s greatest Puritans.
Now, with that out-of-the-way, here’s what happened next. I slowly walked over to Mrs. C.Z. and whispered something beyond disgusting in her ear. It was so depraved that I will not write it down because I don’t want perverts who are doing google searches to have my blog pop up. Let’s just say I doubt two people could do what I whispered unless they were excessively limber, abnormally double jointed, owned a Pilates reformer and were charter members of Cirque du Soleil. It was that crude. Basically, what I did was take every dirty joke I had ever heard, every exercise move I had ever seen and the floor routine from the Chinese Federation of Olympic Gymnasts and combine it into one very offensive coupling. It took about three minutes to verbalize and when I was done Mrs. C.Z’s face had turned a bright tomato red and she started doing a coughing/gagging thing that caused her to double over, I think, from pain. As she was trying to will air back in her lungs I backed away from her and said within hearing range of everyone else, “Now, that’s a great Valentine- right?!”
As if on cue the bell rang, our kids ran into their classrooms and I skipped out to my mini-van secure in the knowledge that I had bested the “maybe they were diamonds, but I’m betting my children’s college fund they were cubic zirconia” Mom.
Seven hours later I show up back at school to get my kids and everyone, I mean everyone is staring at me. No, not just staring, it was more of a jaw drop, stare, point and whisper move. Oh sweet Lord in heaven, I thought, Mrs. C.Z. has shared my faux sexcapades with every mother at the school.
I swallowed my panic and quickly go and gather up my children. The stares are so obvious even my, then young son, notices and asks as were walking out of the school, “Mommy why is everyone looking at you funny?”
Just as I’m trying to explain to my son that no one is looking at me funny I walk right by Mrs. C.Z. and she gives me a smirk, like she’s taught me a lesson or something along those lines. It was insufferable, I had no choice, but to shame myself more. I stop, look at her and very slowly, utilizing a full tongue extension, start licking my lower lip. She gasps, so I can’t stop myself. It’s like she’s daring me to go on. I then take my left hand and do a circular rub on half of my very ample butt cheek. For an encore, I bite my lower lip and wink. She made a retching sound, like she might throw up the 30 calories she had consumed that day, and I kept on walking. I figured if I was going to be prime gossip material for probably weeks, if not the rest of the school year, I was going go all out. One thing is for certain, no one at that school every mentioned Valentine’s Day to me again and as you would expect, I was shunned by some mothers, play-dates were understandably cancelled and there was a small group of parents that tried to get my ousted from the P.T.A. board. I didn’t care. It was worth it, every filthy little bit of it.
For all thinks wonderfully Snarky go to www.snarkygear.com where you can find T-shirts, ecards for Facebook and my brand new book – Snarky in the Suburbs Back to School. Here’s a little ditty about it:
The Spring Creek Elementary School PTA board (a coven of Mean Moms dressed in Uggs, yoga pants, and dermal filler) is up to no good. Wynn Butler (middle-aged, uncool, and not bringing sexy back) is determined to find out what’s going on. With help from her two kids, a Roomba vacuum turned mobile surveillance drone, and a few good friends, Wynn launches a covert investigation that leads to the “mother of all revenge capers” at the school’s annual Fall Festival.
If you’ve ever fantasized about smoke bombing the idiot parent who has yet to master the fine art of the school drop-off lane, or standing up and shouting, “Liar, liar, Botox on fire” during a PTA meeting, then this delicious tale of payback is for you.
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