Well, people, it’s finally happened. After 10 years of screaming, “No f*#@ing way!” and crouching in bathroom stalls like a toothless hillbilly on the run from Walmart security, I’ve been caught. Yep, lassoed like a premenstrual goat. Corralled like a wrinkly sheep. Tasered like a…OK, this is clearly getting worse by the second, so I’m just going to stop and say this: I, Wendi Aarons, have just officially become the fourth grade Room Mom.
Praise the lord and pass the ammunition.
It’s Go Time, wankers.
My first clue that this was a moronic idea was that the person who asked me to do it is also the person who got me to sign up for the famous triathlon where I almost met my maker wearing bike shorts and a discount sports bra. You’d think that after that fiasco I’d have this person’s phone number and email blocked and a restraining order against her, but nooooo. Not me! Not Jackass Aarons! Because I’m just too freakin’ nice, my friends. That’s what my problem is. Too freakin’ NICE. I blame my stupid Norwegian blood and North Dakota upbringing for that bullshit.
The second clue that this was a moronic idea was that the school had to do a background check on me to make sure I wasn’t a convicted felon or something. Because everyone knows that convicted felons are just horrible at organizing birthday cupcake day, right? And despite my high hopes, OF COURSE I passed the dumb background check with flying colors (See: Too Freakin’ Nice, Wendi.) Of course I did. And that pisses me off to no end because lord knows I’ve had plenty of opportunities to break the law over the years. Pluh-enty. For the love of God, I worked in Hollywood for seven years—I should have been selling eight balls to Matt LeBlanc! Helping Wesley Snipes commit tax fraud! Cheating the cast of Blossom out of their life savings via my “Magic Penis Growing Beet Juice” Ponzi scheme! But no, no I decided to be “law abiding.” Decided to not become a fence for my hairy neighbor’s stolen television sets. Decided to not tell FEMA I lost a Picasso in the Northridge earthquake. I know—what an idiot. Now I don’t have even the slightest criminal record, so guess what? I get to spend my February locked in a dark room decorating 2,000 crappy tissue boxes for the Spring Fling. Well played, Wendi. Well played.
But you know what? You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to make the best of this gig. Yep, I’m going to just suck it up and deal with it. I’m going to be the Best Room Mom this fourth grade class has ever seen. The Uber Room Mom. The Super Room Mom. The Acts Like She’s On Lots of Meds But Really Isn’t Room Mom. And those little kids’ heads will be spinning from all the efficiency and elan I bring to their big field trip to the Alamo. “Who wants another organic juice box and gluten free cookie?” I’ll say. “I bet Davy Crockett would have hated high fructose corn syrup, too! Ha, ha, ha! Your nose is running again, Ethan.”
And then in 12 years, when I get the kids’ thank you notes saying, “If it wasn’t for the awesome way you decorated our classroom door, I never would have gotten into Harvard Law, Mrs. Aarons!” well, my nine months of blood, sweat, tears and homemade box wine will have been almost worth it.
So that’s why I’m sending out a email to the rest of the parents in our class today introducing myself and telling them of my big plans for the year. I’m including this picture of me to show my competence and ease around children:
(Me, at Great Wolf Lodge. The wine in my hand was for medicinal reasons. The wolf ears show that I’m “fun” and “friendly to animals.”)
In my email, I’m also going to tell the parents that I need to collect money to use for classroom parties and teacher gifts this year and that they should each write a $50 check. Made out to “The Bellagio Casino, Las Vegas, c/o Wendi Aarons.”
Oh, is that illegal?
I sure hope so.