Growing Up
by Cherstin Haga
I brought a box-cutter to a kid's 6th birthday party because I wasn't really sure what to expect. I never carry a purse, so I tucked the box cutter deep into my back pocket, which was both obvious and cliché. I settled on duct-taping it to my calf: fucking ingenious. I popped two Xanax and we hit the road.
Their driveway and surrounding yard resembled a used car lot, mini-vans in every make, model, and color. I parked in a prime location. We reached the front door where my son handed over the wrapped gift in exchange for entry to their domicile.
In the backyard, the sixteen-foot towers supporting the inflatable bounce house did nothing to convince me that the boy's father wasn't suffering from erectile dysfunction. Brandon's mom was asked to leave after she supposedly made a comment about Chris's mom needing, quote, medication. Everyone knew that was bullshit. Chris's mom couldn't afford Lexapro even if she got a third job.
By the time the cake was served, Matthew's mom had been escorted out of the house. She broke the cardinal rule and whispered. The remaining moms made a pact and the hostess collected the plastic utensils. We finished eating cake by hand, leaning back periodically to glance at our children, who were playing quietly with modeling clay and bubbles. In the staging area, the women were still eyeballing their neighbors, fake plastic smiles matching fake silicone breasts.
When the lesbian's kid got hurt, things got bad. As if the kid's busted lip wasn't bad enough, one of the bigger kids decided to make the kindergartner cry harder by calling him names. Like sissy. And baby. Even fag. The kindergartner had no idea what a fag was, but his mom sure did. Lesbomom went ballistic on the name-calling second grader, only to be accidentally elbowed in the teeth by bald, impotent, cocksucking Gerald. I think there was some sort of irony there but, by that point, the Xanax had peaked and I was too stoned to catch it.
After the party, my son and I walked to our van, holding hands, when Kevin's mom pulled up alongside us, her window down. On edge, still expecting trouble, I opened my rear passenger door with the key fob, just like on TV, and instructed my son to climb in and put his seatbelt on. Sizing me up, Kevin's mom saw an opportunity. She parked her van and stepped out, engine running.
Instead of fighting, she told me about another birthday party coming up in a few weeks. Smiling, she nonchalantly moved her jacket aside to reveal the snub-nosed pistol tucked into the waistband of her designer jeans. She suggested, in a roundabout way, that if we carpooled, we'd have a better chance at getting out of the next party unscathed. For the next five minutes, we worked on our secret handshake. It was only kindergarten. I gave her my number and drove home in tears.
Cherstin is the happily-unwed mom your parents tried to warn you about. She loves frozen dinners, quoting lyrics, and all things caffeinated. More.
by Cherstin Haga
I brought a box-cutter to a kid's 6th birthday party because I wasn't really sure what to expect. I never carry a purse, so I tucked the box cutter deep into my back pocket, which was both obvious and cliché. I settled on duct-taping it to my calf: fucking ingenious. I popped two Xanax and we hit the road.
Their driveway and surrounding yard resembled a used car lot, mini-vans in every make, model, and color. I parked in a prime location. We reached the front door where my son handed over the wrapped gift in exchange for entry to their domicile.
In the backyard, the sixteen-foot towers supporting the inflatable bounce house did nothing to convince me that the boy's father wasn't suffering from erectile dysfunction. Brandon's mom was asked to leave after she supposedly made a comment about Chris's mom needing, quote, medication. Everyone knew that was bullshit. Chris's mom couldn't afford Lexapro even if she got a third job.
By the time the cake was served, Matthew's mom had been escorted out of the house. She broke the cardinal rule and whispered. The remaining moms made a pact and the hostess collected the plastic utensils. We finished eating cake by hand, leaning back periodically to glance at our children, who were playing quietly with modeling clay and bubbles. In the staging area, the women were still eyeballing their neighbors, fake plastic smiles matching fake silicone breasts.
When the lesbian's kid got hurt, things got bad. As if the kid's busted lip wasn't bad enough, one of the bigger kids decided to make the kindergartner cry harder by calling him names. Like sissy. And baby. Even fag. The kindergartner had no idea what a fag was, but his mom sure did. Lesbomom went ballistic on the name-calling second grader, only to be accidentally elbowed in the teeth by bald, impotent, cocksucking Gerald. I think there was some sort of irony there but, by that point, the Xanax had peaked and I was too stoned to catch it.
After the party, my son and I walked to our van, holding hands, when Kevin's mom pulled up alongside us, her window down. On edge, still expecting trouble, I opened my rear passenger door with the key fob, just like on TV, and instructed my son to climb in and put his seatbelt on. Sizing me up, Kevin's mom saw an opportunity. She parked her van and stepped out, engine running.
Instead of fighting, she told me about another birthday party coming up in a few weeks. Smiling, she nonchalantly moved her jacket aside to reveal the snub-nosed pistol tucked into the waistband of her designer jeans. She suggested, in a roundabout way, that if we carpooled, we'd have a better chance at getting out of the next party unscathed. For the next five minutes, we worked on our secret handshake. It was only kindergarten. I gave her my number and drove home in tears.
Cherstin is the happily-unwed mom your parents tried to warn you about. She loves frozen dinners, quoting lyrics, and all things caffeinated. More.
Brilliant, evil, and lovely.
Posted by: Joe Andrukitas | 04/18/2010 at 06:44 AM