Or what time it is. Because you know what’s smart? Packing up your house and moving into another one right before the holidays. Nothing says, “Merry Christmas, honky!” like having all of your possessions sealed up in a cardboard box just waitin’ to be put on a truck. Here’s just a sample of the madness:
The bad news is I don’t know which one contains my underwear. The good news is I do know which one contains my coffee filters and stapler.
But I’ve actually learned a lot about my family while cramming their worldly possessions into boxes. For example, I now know that my son Jack has a lot of Silly Bandz, my son Sam has a lot of football cards and my husband Chris has a stockpile of 4,000 backpacks and therefore might be a secret whack-o survivalist who’s going to make me hike to the Utah desert and live with inbred uranium miners until the Rapture comes. See? The things you learn!
I’ve also met a lot of interesting people throughout this process, like the toothless floor refinishers and the new lawn guy who calls me “Mrs. The Lady.” (And who is replacing my old lawn guy Chainsaw Jesus.) But my favorite person has to be the swarthy gentleman who filled up the propane tanks at my new house. Tell me if you think this is funny: “For a propane guy, you sure don’t swear very much!” Yeah. That asshole didn’t either.
(Idea: A propane company called “Profane Propane.” Slogan: “We Bring The Fucking Heat.”)
(Don’t even think about stealing it.)
Besides all of the moving drama, this is also the time of year when the Idiot Room Mom is called to duty. Yes, there’s no bigger month for the Idiot Room Mom than December when teacher gifts, door decorating and holiday parties abound. And, believe it or not, I’m totally rising to the occasion. Totally. In fact, I even told the other parents to call me with any questions and concerns and so far, they haven’t had even a single one. Or at least I don’t think they have. I had my home phone service disconnected a few weeks ago.
But even though I’ve been doing a stellar job, I will come clean and admit that I didn’t really help my co-Room Mom decorate the classroom door with the assigned Nutcracker theme. I mean, I totally would have, but a) I’m scared to death of The Mouse King b) the administration wouldn’t let me include even one picture of a kid being kicked in the groin even though it’s THE NUTCRACKER, hello? and c) I’m allergic to felt.
At least I redeemed myself via helping her choose the Tropical Holiday theme for the class party. Of course, “Tropical Holiday” isn’t nearly as genius as my rejected party suggestions of “Tarts & Vicars,” “Disco Baby Jesus” and “Each Kid Gives Mrs. Aarons $20 Or She’ll Keep Writing Mean Things About Yo Mamma on Facebook.” (Note: I’m just kidding about that last one. Like I’d stop the trash talk for less than $100.) So now, not only am I in charge of coordinating Hawaiian-ish food and beverages for the kids’ party, but I also have to get the students a little holiday gift even though I have absolutely no time to go shopping. But that’s okay. In fact, I’ve already figured out what I’m going to give each and every single kid in the class: a backpack.
And maybe a cardboard box filled with ladies underwear if they’ve been extra good.