Skip to main content

(S)mothers Strike Again

It's fundraising time at The Rabbit's nursery school -- planned for the last 3 months by an intrepid bunch of (s)mothers who I swear make me twitch every time I am around them. At one meeting I was asked point blank "What do you do and what can you get for free?" 'bout nothin'. Does nothin' work?

I admit. I am not very good at asking for donations. What I have done though? I have baked cookies for endless bake sales (as readers of Mothers know....), sold hundreds of dollars worth of scary chocolates that were probably made in 1999, and brought umpteen snacks, donated art supplies, etc... for her class and her school.

But did I get a credit on the little booklet that has been emailed to us all? Nope. Only the (s)mothers who actually contributed to this specific event got their snippy names in print. Forget the Mothers who baked the Cookies that paid for the Coffee the (s)mothers drank while they all congratulated themselves for planning the event.

Watch. The next time one of my homemade chocolate chip cookies appears in that school it will be tucked into The Rabbit's lunch box. As for the bake sale in two weeks to cover the printing costs for their brag books? (Oh yes, they've already alerted me....) My Kitchen Aid's in the shop.


MM - we have to hatch an evil plan. Those (S)mothers are utterly ghastly. Nobody gets away with being mean to my friend MM. Nobody. Are you listening, (s)mothers? Vengeance WILL be mine.

(I can't believe they didn't even give you a baking credit, the witches). Seems to me they're emotionally stuck in a cheerleader camp timewarp - actually, maybe that's punishment enough...
Manhattan Mama said…
Seriously. The idea of pompoms really frightens me. But I'm liking this idea of an evil plan -- LOVING it. Let's plot!

Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…


Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …