Dear Mr. (circle one): Green, Gold, Greenberg, Goldberg, Silver, Silverberg, Greenstein, Goldstein, Silverman, Silverfeld, Goldman, Goldfarb, Feldman, Farbman, Klein, Stein, Levin, Levine, Cowen or Cohen:
You’ve made it to Visiting Day!
The mid-way point of summer!
I guess we should have printed you out a certificate or something.
Because as much as we hate to admit it, you’ve kinda been a good sport.
I mean, you just spent over ten grand to send your kid out into the pseudo-wilderness for seven weeks when you could have been partying like P. Diddy in (circle one) The Maldives, Necker Island, St. Barth, Portoferraio or Parrot Cay.
Of course, then you’d have to deal with all sorts of annoying things like packing and unpacking and figuring out where to park your yacht.
Mo’ money, mo’ problems, yo!
Plus how do you expect your kids to actually succeed at life one day if they’ve never lived 10 for 2 and therefore can’t properly short sheet a bed? Or swamp a canoe? Or build a fire that can actually burn through rope?
Don’t all fires do that?
Which reminds me.
Shout out to all my CFFs: Tracee, Stacee, Mindee, Marnee, Aimee, Jaimee, Randee, Sandee, Melissa, Marissa and Jenn with two Ns!!
Luv ya, bitches!!!!
And you know what the best part is?
There’s still three-and-a-half weeks left until the kids come home!
Can you say par-TAY?
I’m sure you can but you may want to hold on there for a minute frat boy.
Sorry to be a buzzkill. But three-and-half weeks is still half the summer, FYI. And even though we said that thing about you being a good sport, we meant to add under our breath that you’ve been far from perfect. Because we’re passive-aggressive just like our mothers, duh! And while we’ve mostly got this camp shiz under control, we could use a little backup from time to time.
I mean, it’s hard to write all these letters and emails and stalk the camp website while simultaneously trying to maintain our stick-straight manes and our toned, hairless bods. Plus we’ve got our raging fro-yo addictions to deal with and our teacup (circle one) Shih Tzus, Lhasas and Yorkies named (circle one) Sushi, Chanel and Manolo to pretend to still love and you know we have that (circle one) boob job, tummy tuck, full-body lipo procedure coming up next week.
Which is why we figured now would be a good time to establish some hard rules.
And no, we don’t mean that in a slutty Fifty Shades kind of way.
Sorry not sorry.
So onto The Rules, boys!
Here they are, in no particular order.
You know, except for the one we chose to type them in.
Rule #1: Don’t bogart the pictures. OMG we are SO SICK of talking about the pictures! I mean, we barely even look at the pictures anymore! They are like, sooo four weeks ago! Or at least that’s what we go around telling everyone. But that doesn’t mean we aren’t still stalking the camp website. We know this. And you know this. But if you tell anyone else, we will for real have to kill you. Also? Please don’t steal the laptop when we leave the room and start looking at the pictures before we do. That’s, like, so uncool. Especially when you start making announcements like “None of her again, today!” or “Looks like they went bowling!” or ”OMG Color War just broke!” This is totally unacceptable behavior on par with ruining The Sixth Sense by telling everyone that Bruce Willis was dead the whole time. And P to the S: This rule also applies to camp phone calls — which are for us, not you — and to rushing the mailbox every day to check for letters. Getting the mail is, like, totally the highlight of our day. So just back the fuck away from the box, ok?
Rule #2: Do not call us crazy. Because we are not crazy. But you know what IS crazy? Sending your kids away to camp for seven weeks. But it’s also freaking awesome. And yes we know we just totally contradicted ourselves. You wanna make something of it? Didn’t think so. See, we LOVE our freedom. But we MISS our mini-me’s. It’s like having the worst case of PMS on the very best hair day. Or being eight months pregnant while downing spicy tuna rolls dipped in vodka. Or like 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife.
If none of this is making any sense then you clearly need an Alanis Morrisette refresher course. But in the meantime, imagine that you’ve just suffered through the sixth day of a Excavation Level Blueprint Cleanse, only to realize it’s actually the seventh day and you can now break out the Champers and celebrate. You’re stressed, then ecstatic. Exhausted, then elated. Totally geek, then totally chic.
Sorry. We just mixed you up with Ronald Miller.
Because we’re completely batshit, that’s why. But don’t even THINK about mentioning it to us. Not even when it’s 8:46 on a week night and we suddenly realize we forgot to buy that case of Silly String for Visiting Day and omigod the store is closing in like fourteen minutes so you better go out get it for us right now. Just close your eyes and pretend it’s Y2K or whatever and you’re still totally obsessed with us. In which case you will not feel the need to sigh loudly or roll your eyes dramatically or ask us why the fuck we even need Silly String. You will simply hop in your car and just go freaking get it. Oh and could you stop and pick us up the new issue of Us Weekly while you’re at it? We want to find out who the best Karadashian is this week, even though we all know it’s always Kourtney because even when she’s preggers she’s totally the skinniest one.
Rule #3. Sometimes we want you to call us crazy. Wait, what? Ok so you know how we just said you shouldn’t EVER call us crazy? Well what we meant to say was that you shouldn’t ever call us crazy unless it’s one of those times when we WANT you to call us crazy. And no, right now is not one of them. Here’s a tip: If we approach you with big puppy dog eyes and a sad little pout and say something in a cute voice that begins with the words “Do you think…” then the answer we’re most likely looking for is: “What?! You’re crazy!” For example: Do you think my ass looks fat in these jeans? “What?! You’re crazy!” Do you my tits are too small? “What?! You’re crazy!” Do you think the kids are having, like, the worst time at camp ever? “What?! You’re crazy!” Do you think we should just rip off our clothes and have sex right here on the kitchen floor? “What?! You’re… oh wait a minute.” Mwaahhahahaha. You didn’t see that one coming, did you?
Rule #4: Just shut the fuck up and keep pouring. We’re assuming you know by now what our favorite drink is. And if you don’t, you might as well just stop reading and go make sure the pre-nup is intact. Or maybe hit the wine store — it opens at 9 am, you know! — and buy us a few bottles of sauv blanc or chard. And by bottles we mean cases. What? You don’t think we’ve been drinking too much this summer, do you? This is a trick question so you may want to think about it for a minute before you answer. “Drinking? I didn’t notice any drinking,” is what you should say, even as you follow us around the house making sure our goblet never dips below the glass-half-empty level. Do not even THINK about giving us a sideways glance or tossing off a snarky “Drink, much?” as we down our fifth glass of the night. Or when we spill our sixth. Or when we pass out with our seventh resting on our nightstand next to the ipad. Just quietly collect the glasses when you wake up in the morning, and then rinse them out and place them in the dishwasher like the whole thing never even happened. Follow these instructions and no one gets hurt, capiche?
And speaking of ipads…
Rule #5: Do not ask us to just put down the freaking iPad and come have sex. Like, ever. Like, EVER, ever! No. Freaking. Exceptions. Um, because it’s pathetic, that’s why. And because if we’re still holding the iPad, it means the pictures haven’t finished uploading.
And with that being said, those are the fucking rules.
Ignore them at your own risk.
But don’t come crying to us when someone goes all Brandi Glanville on your ass and slashes the tires on your black (circle one) Jeep, Range Rover, 911, Mercedes CLS or Audi R8.
And by someone, we mean us.
Luv ya, bitches!!!!