Pointless, thanks, and you?

I'm not by nature a punctual person. Which is not to say I'm terminally late, either--in fact, I'm more often on time for appointments than not. And I'm even better at getting my kids to their various activities in a timely manner than getting myself to my own.

But I chafe inside the boundaries of tight structure, be it the expectations of a "real world" job, or the reinforced steel girders of your average "foundation garment."

I've been out of the work force for a long-ass time. The last time I drew a regular paycheck, Bill Clinton was newly elected to his first term, and Monica didn't even own a blue dress. I was in my mid-twenties, teaching in a private school in a very "weeds and seeds/crunchy granola" town not far from where I still reside, wherein "structure" was a relative concept. I wore loose, comfortable clothing that only had to be clean and un-torn to be considered presentable. I kept my hair in a horse-tail down my back, and make-up was for Saturday nights, if I had the energy.

And even then, I chafed. I had to BE there at a certain time, you see, whether that time was convenient for me or not. And I had to stay until the clock said the day was finished. I couldn't eat just because I was hungry. Bathroom breaks required coverage, because I was alone in a classroom with anywhere from ten to twenty children at a time. Tragic, huh? Real sweatshop conditions. Quick, somebody call OSHA. (insert eye-rollage)

Intellectually, I knew I had no good cause to suffer, but suffer I did...just as I had suffered at my previous jobs in retail and office management and food service and...

Slowly but surely, it began to dawn upon me that a "regular" job and me would never be best of friends. Luckily, I didn't HAVE to work. I'd been conditioned to want and expect to use my education and my two good hands in pursuit of...I dunno. SOMETHING. Fulfillment, I guess. But I had this guy at home who came equipped with both a good job of his own and a kid who wouldn't be miserable if I was there to meet the school bus at the end of the day.

So I chucked it, got married, pumped out a couple more spawn, and have been wearing the badge of the stay-at-home-mommy ever since. It works for us, and I lay no judgment on anyone else. You gotta do what works. And while there are things about THIS gig that aren't perfect (can you say MONOTONOUS, NEVER-ENDING DRUDGERY THAT NEVER ENDS? But only on some days...) I can't imagine going back to the "get up/get ready/get out/spend all day thinking about getting back in" hamster wheel.

Plus, you know, the WRITING TIME. Which I'm not sure how I'd pull off if I were working outside the home. Big props to those of you who do it. Big props to anyone, actually, who DOES get up and get out every day. The world keeps turning because of you. You are my husband, and my sister, my brother-in-law and my very good friend. :)

All of which is in preparation to say this:

To the bitch who rode my ass in her shiny silver Range Rover this morning as I was driving my children to school,

Slow the fuck down. Those "SCHOOL ZONE" signs? Are there for a reason. The nice, middle-aged lady in the orange vest? Her name is Margaret. She's been crossing kids at that corner for at least fifteen years, and you can honk and swear all you want, she's not moving for the likes of YOU. You saw how she ignored you? How does it feel to know you're not worth the notice of a lowly village volunteer?

Turn OFF the cell phone, put DOWN the coffee cup, stub OUT the cigarette and quit taking yourself so seriously. I know you've got only twenty minutes to make the drive into the city, and traffic will be a sonofabitch when you hit the hill, but maybe if you hadn't spent so much time on your hair...

I have your license plate number engraved upon my memory, cutesie vanity act that it is, and if ever I encounter you trying to pass on the right in that particular school zone again, I will call the sheriff on your Yuppie ass. I'm pretty sure Margaret will back me up.

And here's a tip for the road: if I can see your lipstick in my rearview mirror from a hundred feet in front of you? Consider toning it down some, for the love of GOD.

Sincerely,
A concerned Mom with a lot of unexpressed hostility