What’s worse than waterboarding? More cruel than the rack?
Words can’t express how grateful I am to never have been subjected to this most heinous of all forms of torture. When I received an email from one of my girlfriends, we’ll call her “Sally,” I was ready to fly to The Hague to report the crime to the United Nations myself. Here are some excerpts from Sally’s email:
When my sons played high school soccer, we were expected to create a page for them to be included in the scrapbook, as well as attend weekly Scrapbooking sessions.
Weekly scrapbooking sessions? Add this to the soccer war crimes tribunal.
I declined this “opportunity” and was hounded by the scrapbook mom who was in charge. She said, “how disappointed my boys would be if they didn’t have a personal page ” in their book.
Really? Two teenage boys? Last time I checked, the only thing that could disappoint teenage boys in this manner was teenage girls.
The book was ridiculous. Over 100 pages long, to remember every single moment in a short soccer season of six weeks. “Look! My kids eating pizza!” Photos of parents sitting in the stands. And the best pages? Pictures of everyone’s car driving them to practice. (Yep, mine was the dirtiest car, had not been washed in weeks.)
Now, my daughter’s team just announced they wanted a scrapbook page by next week.
Next week? Cruel and unusual.
This is the team for which my daughter often played ten minutes out of an eighty-minute game. Should I just send her a picture of my daughter sitting on the bench, as that pretty much summarizes the season?
Any way to get out of this? Sam (Sally’s husband) thinks I should just bite my lip and do it…but I do not want any memories of this soccer season (nor did I take any pictures and the season is now over.)
I don’t scrapbook. My photos are in boxes, bags and in several different files on the computer. It is my major weakness that I haven’t documented my children’s lives in an artistic fashion and although I don’t want to screw up the team’s eighteen scrapbooks, (we’re expected to make eighteen color copies), I could care less if my daughter is included. (She’s trying out for a different team next year.) Or should I just go ballistic and say, “ARE YOU CRAZY? MY DAUGHTER BARELY EVER PLAYED AND WE ARE TRYING DESPERATELY TO FORGET THIS MISERABLE TEAM AND TYPE A PARENTS! ”
OK, I feel better now. Just tell me I’m not crazy.
No my dear friend, Sally. You are not the crazy one. Can you imagine? Forced Scrapbooking. Eighteen color copies. All this after enduring an entire season of soccer, which in my experience, is its own form of torture.
I told Sally she should send Scrapbook Mom some stick figure drawings, or maybe just cut and paste words from magazines and newspapers, like a ransom note, with a thinly veiled threat, perhaps telling Scrapbook Mom her crime against humanity will not go unpunished.
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