All I Want for Christmas is a Nap
1. The passive-aggressive Preschool Teacher: This woman is a piece of work. (Seriously folks, I’m going to need a wagon to bring in all of the stuff this woman is demanding for the Christmas party tomorrow.) I don’t know why this pissed me off so much, but last week, she handed out rewards to the kids whose parents purchased products from the crappy and overpriced school fundraiser (btw–preschool costs $100 a month) as a thank you for supporting the school. She called these kids up one at a time in front of the class to receive their prizes, like some kind of preschool Oscar ceremony. I didn’t purchase any of these crappy and overpriced products, so Gwennie didn’t get this reward. And of course, because Gwennie is four, this was a problem. Now, I’ve volunteered in the preschool classroom, I’m a room mom, and I’ve participated in the other fundraisers. So where is my kid’s Oscar? I feel like the talented black actor who gets screwed by the academy year after year (or like Johnny Depp). Ultimately, the reward was a little plastic Christmas cup, which I found at The Wal for a quarter, but still.
2. My mother-in-law: I’ll have the pleasure of seeing MIL at my sis-in-law’s Christmas bash on Saturday. So, the combination of my 12 years of anger at MIL (who I’ve diagnosed as a narcissist and a pathological liar), my current state of sleep deprivation, and the free-flowing alcohol at the party ought to make me even more vulgar and difficult than MIL already says I am.
3. Morty (taken from “morte”): the squirrelchipmouse who comes into my attic whenever it rains (which it’s been doing here in NE Ohio for days) and keeps me awake with his scratching. So far, I’ve had the position that dealing with Morty is a boy job, and Reg has some experience with a famous Houdini cage trick involving a couple of raccoons. Reg did call Jerry the trapper and made an attempt to deal with Morty. This attempt, however, has proven unsuccessful, and I’m this close to getting the plastique and going all Caddyshack on the little fucker. And I won’t be sorry.
