Shoutout to Flo Rida for rocking Flyers gear and patiently waiting while a loser mom gets the shot.
I would be the loser.
Being cool is about keeping your blood pressure steady. So no. Don’t be cool. Be passionate. Be dedicated. Be tenacious. Be uncompromising. Be pissed. Be happy. Be sad… I’ve made a career out of doing things that I should not be doing. I wasn’t cool about it. Because being cool would have meant I passed up on those opportunities. If you do that, it’s because you’re afraid. And what are you afraid of?
What she said.
In just one week, my husband and I will have been married for 15 years.
To which I say.
If you’re just tuning in, we got married on Halloween. And this little strip of photos — click here to see it bigger — is from a piece that was written about our wedding on The Knot where, as you may or may not already know, I worked as a fashion and beauty editor about a billion years ago.
Or back in 1998 when I got married.
Want some perspective?
Well too bad because you know I’m gonna give it to you anyway.
1998 was the year Seinfeld ended and Sex and the City began.
It was the year Viagra hit the market, Manhattan got it’s first W Hotel and Monica Lewinsky became the first bona fide reality star.
And if those last three things aren’t somehow related then I will, like, totally give you 50 billion dollars.
1998 was also the year I turned 28.
When I saw the age in print, I swear I literally gasped.
Because, well, was I ever really 28?
I had been living in New York for eight years, working as magazine editor for the last five. And unbeknownst to me, would be moving to the suburbs of Philadelphia in two.
Now here I am, 15 halloweens later, an almost 45-year-old mother of two, sitting in my suburban Main Line bedroom confirming tomorrow’s botox appointment and researching videographers for my daughter’s Bat Mitzvah.
Because I’m freaking old now, that’s why.
But you didn’t need me to tell you that.
So when’s the Bat Mitzvah?
Life is strange, isn’t it?
It’s also sad and beautiful and wonderful and it goes by in about three seconds if you don’t stop and appreciate every single moment.
And yes I probably just paraphrased Ferris Bueller.
But he grew up to marry Carrie Bradshaw so I’m pretty sure he knew what he was talking about.
Check out the new limited-edition Herve Leger Barbie.
I know, right?
She comes complete with signature red bandage dress, removable black harness belt, gladiator boots, and black and gold clutch.
And she can be yours for the bargain basement price of $150.
Pretty sure the fillers and eye job are sold separately, though.
Get in loser. You’re holding up the freaking car line.
So I have a confession to make.
I’m one of Those Moms.
The ones who cut the school car line.
Shut up I know.
But in my defense, it’s only because I think I’m better than you.
But I do cut the school car line.
Almost every day.
Because I’m not a regular mom, I’m a cool mom.
Or, you know, because car line can make normal people act like assholes.
Our school has three rules when it comes to dropping off your kid in the morning.
I know this because I write the weekly newsletter and am therefore possibly the only one who reads it.
So without further ado, here they are:
1) Stay inside your car. 2) Move all the way up in the line. 3) Children exit curbside.
Break these rules and there will be hell to pay.
By which I mean you will endure the death stares of about a hundred skinny bitches hopped up on green juice, but nothing of consequence will actually ever happen.
Case in point:
There’s this chick.
With a long blonde ponytail.
Let’s call her LBP for short.
Mostly because I have no idea what her actual name is.
There’s this chick.
And every morning she stops her car smack in the middle of the drop-off line instead of pulling all the way to the front, a move that effectively brings the flow of cars behind her to a maddening halt.
I know what you’re thinking.
Um. What’s the big deal?
I mean, LBP is far from the only mom who does this. We’ve all broken the rules from time to time, right?
But here’s the thing.
LBP highjacks the drop-off line every single day. And yes I sometimes exaggerate but no, I’m not exaggerating.
And this chick, along with the dozen or so others who follow suit, don’t just stop their cars briefly in the line, by the way. They actually park them there, GET OUT, and walk around to the passenger side to unbuckle their kids, help them out of the car and kiss them goodbye. And just when you think the show is finally over, they plant themselves on the sidewalk and — as an encore — stand there watching and waving as their kids walk away.
You think it sounds sweet, don’t you?
Then imagine you’re now stuck in one of the non-moving cars behind one of these chicks because, you know, you are actually following the rules. Meanwhile, the seconds keep turning into minutes, your kids are now officially late for school, you totally have to pee, and your chance of making the 9 am bikram is slowly slipping away.
Wait. Is that why they do it? So they can score the best spots at yoga?
Well played, ladies, well played.
Look, we get it. You love your kids. And this is how you choose to show it. But — newsflash! — you are not the only moms on earth who have ever had to, I don’t know, send their children off to school.
What you are, collectively, is the drunk dude who stumbles over to the blackjack table and hits on a 14 when the dealer is showing a 4, effectively killing the vibe.
And bitches, you are killing our vibe.
Crushing our school spirit.
Messing with the carline mojo.
So just freaking stop it, ok?
I get that drop off can sometimes be hard. Been there, lived that. But that’s why our school has a parking lot just a few feet away. Where you can, you know, actually park your car and walk your kid inside.
Here’s an idea.
Go freaking park there.
Otherwise I will just have to keep cutting in front of you, ensuring myself a first-place win in the Worst Example Set by a Mom category as I pull my car out of line, step on the gas, zoom past all the innocent bystanders and start throwing my kids’ backpacks out the window so they can get the hell out outta my car without being tardy.
And I’d like to thank all you selfish bitches who work so tirelessly to hold up the carline, without which I might never be tardy.
Obviously this was not so much a confession as a rant disguised as a confession.
But I’m a suburban housewife and passive aggression is how we do so just go with it, K?
I’m driving the 11-year-old to what feels like her 500th dance class of the day while simultaneously leaving a voicemail for a friend.
Because I’m awesomely multi-talented like that.
"Hey it’s me. Freaking phone tag. Call me."
Short and sweet.
From the backseat.
I hear the 11-year-old start cracking up.
“Phone tag! Omigod did you REALLY just say PHONE TAG?!?!”
"Yeah, so?" I tilt the rear-view mirror so I can get a better look at the amusement on my kid’s face, because I have exactly zero clue as to what she is finding so funny.
Only I can’t see her face because she’s got her phone in her hand and she’s looking down. At what I can only guess. A group chat about Dance Moms? Somebody’s throwback on instagram? Batdad’s latest masterpiece on vine?
"Ugh, Mom! Phone tag is, like, totally something OLD people say."
My first thought: Is she serious right now?
And then realizing she is, my second:
We arrive at the studio a few seconds later and my daughter grabs her dance bag and phone and hops out of the car, all long hair and tan legs and glittery braces where her cute rounded features, haphazard tendrils and missing teeth used to be.
"See ya!" She slams the door shut and I watch her walk away, remembering with a pang how she used to ask us to play "Tag, hear it!" instead of "Tag, you’re it" when she was a little girl because that’s what she thought it was called.
I smile at the memory while melancholy rides shotgun, then I put the car into drive and look up to see the 11-year-old turn and run back to the car.
"Mommy, waaaittt!!" She opens the door and hops back inside, then looks at me expectantly before reaching over to hand me a rubberband.
"Hey can you put my hair up?"
You’re it again.
At least for one more day.