So I’m getting out of my car to pick up kidlet from kindergarten and my phone beeps. I figured it would be a return-joke from Jonohs because I had threatened him with an invasion by Gozer if he did not remember to get himself sushi today (he told me yesterday something along the lines of that it was my responsibility to make sure he did, and I enjoy following orders) so I waited until I’d cleared the curb and was already standing around with the other parents waiting for the teacher to let our kids out before checking on it.
I flipped open my phone in this crowd of moms with bump-its in their hair and men in business polo shirts and it was a text not from Jonohs but from Special K, complaining about the odor of the orchestra room at her school, a smell with which I am sadly intimate from doing my own time in there:
So I snort and laugh, of course, and everyone turns to look curiously at me. I just smile as graciously as possible and shake my head, flipping the phone shut with a snap as if to say, Oh, that’s okay, PTA moms and dads, do not mind me over here with the dutch braids and the flannel snap shirt — I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at a poop joke. I am a class act. And soooo put-together that every day I wait for the call to become the new principal of that place, cause I know they are all just super-impressed and dazzled by me and my obvious organization and decorum. Awesomesauce! Dig me!