True story: my therapist yawned today. It was somewhere in between telling her about my kid's totally normal, average, uneventful birthday party and talking about how I STILL don't know what I want to be when I grow up. Okay, maybe it wasn't so much a yawn as a barely audible sigh, but I could tell I am boring the shit out of her and she's only still seeing me because I look like a dollar sign. And I'm only still going because I'm not assertive enough to tell her that I probably don't need to see her anymore (And if she's reading my blog, "Hi!" also, we should probably revisit my "fear of confrontation" issues). Before going this morning, I asked friends on Skype to make up something for me to talk about because I am fresh out of material. The best anyone could come up with was to tell her that I eat toilet paper (thanks ANGIE, glad you guys are so creative). Aside from a general malaise brought on by six months of shit weather and raising three sons that make me want to eat Xanax like Altoids, I'm freakishly normal from a mental health perspective. But that sigh? That hurts. Because therapy? It's like a cocktail party. I am there to entertain. And eat all the pigs-in-a-blanket.
When she sighed, I knew it was time to up my game. Haul out the big-guns. Really blow her away with the depth of my insanity. So, I blurted out, "Last week I paid $10 for Shrinky Dinks. For Haiti."
Have I mentioned that I am shit under pressure?
"You bought Shrinky Dinks? For Haiti?" She wanted to kill herself right then and there. I could tell. But when I commit to something, I see it through. So I spent thirty minutes telling my therapist about my hatred of the local Home School Association. That's the PTA, by the way. But here they call it the HSA. Because it's apparently classier to use a name that makes NO FUCKING SENSE.
I hate the HSA for multiple reasons including their fund-raiser abuse, their ridiculous committees, the expectation that every woman in town should want to put in 40 hours a week on meaningless projects for NO PAY, and the fact that it's a small-town social power play in the guise of "helping our over-privileged children." I hate them because they use the meetings as an opportunity to make other women cry. I hate them because last year at ONE SCHOOL (there are four in the district) they raised $110,000 through fund-raisers, of which the school got to keep $30,000. The rest went to pay for the shitty chocolates and over-priced wrapping paper they made our kids pimp out. I hate them because they're too crappy at math to realize that if each family sent in a check for $100/year they could do away with these stupid-ass fundraisers. I hate them because since I got home from therapy, I've gotten three e-mails asking for money via new fundraisers. (Except the one about the fundraiser at a bar. I can get behind that). But mostly I hate them because they made me buy Shrinky Dinks. For Haiti.
My therapist might as well kill herself. Or drink before our sessions. Because I am going to ride this HSA crazy train for weeks.
How about you? Is your PTA an objectives focused organization? Or a social clique machine? And does anyone else have one called the HSA? What does that even mean?
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3 comments:
Mine is called the CPTG (School-Name Parent Teacher Group), and I refuse to become one of them. There is a pervasive sense that if one isn't active in the group, it's proof of your shittiness as a parent. Lots of jockeying to prove who cares about the children the most by being the most "involved." The schools do benefit from the funds they raise, but I'm with you. I'd rather write a check and skip the power struggles and cattiness.
Hilarious, Audrey. I love the connection between your "shrink" and the "Shrinky Dinks." I'd ask if the Haiti thing were "true" -- but knowing how some people are, I'm afraid of the answer. Hang in there, sista.
Newave, It is true. The Shrinky Dinks weren't actually "for" Haiti, but they had our kids color Shrinky Dinks, then sold them to us outside at school pick-up for $10 to raise money for Haiti. And anyone who didn't buy their kid's artwork risked child meltdown and adult stink-eye.
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