There’s no such thing as a stupid question. Ehhhh. Wrong! There are lots of stupid questions as far as I’m concerned. Like when my husband asks me where the peanut butter is. Duh, it’s right there in the cabinet lying on its side behind the box of pasta because that’s the only place it’ll fit.
Anyway, the other day I’m running into my three-year-old’s school to pick her up and I’m rushing in and out like a madwoman because:
- My baby’s poopie diaper’s about to become a poopie onesie
- I have a Skype conference call in exactly eighteen minutes. (I hate f’ing Skype. I freelance so I can have conference calls and wax my mustache at the same time. With Skype I have to look decent and wear things like pants.)
- Because I have to look decent, I accidentally left my iron on at home. And by iron I mean flat iron. I haven’t used the iron iron for at least two decades.
Anyway, the plan is to get in and out of the school as fast as possible, but for some reason I pick this moment to ask the teacher a question.
ME: So, how is Zoey doing in school so far?
WTF?! Stupid stupid stupid. How am I going to rush out now? Anyone have any Pepto because I have a serious case of verbal diarrhea? It’s funny, I’ll admit that I have verbal diarrhea, but you’ll never hear me admit that I have regular diarrhea, unless I’m faking it to my husband to get some alone time in the bathroom with a new People magazine.
I stand there kicking myself because I know the answer to my question is going to take at least ten minutes, if not more depending on how lonely this teacher is.
TEACHER: Zoey? Easy peasy. She’s very talented.
And then she’s done. That’s it?! I scan the names on the coat hooks to see if there’s another Zoey. Is it possible she’s talking about a different kid? She must be. The Zoey I know at home is very talented—at spinning her head around 360 degrees, spitting green acid out of her mouth, and choke-holding her baby brother.
Which leads me to my main point. Shit, I spent a lot of time getting to my point, didn’t I? Anyway, my point is that my kid’s a schizo. Inside our house she’s a screaming, crying, belligerent (thank you spell check!) acid-spitting, future brother-murderer. But as soon as she walks out of our home, she turns into an angelic, tooth-achingly sweet, goody two shoes. Seriously, she’s two different people. Like I said, schizo.
P.S. I know schizophrenia is a very serious disease and I shouldn't be making fun of it, but I’m not. WebMD diagnosed her, and they’re always right. And of course she might have cancer too (WebMD says everything could be cancer).
P.P.S. Does anyone know how to start one of those fundraiser drives on Facebook so I can raise some money for her disease? Psychiatrists are really expensive. Plus, Coach has this new purse I really want.