Wanna Hear Some Embarrassingly Comical Classroom Blunders?

Embarrassing & True - Comical Classroom Blunders @SoThenStories.com
So then…my Saddle Oxfords swing to and fro beneath my blue plaid skirt and white blouse, as I try mightily to pay attention to the teacher at SVA – that’s St. Vincent’s Academy, the all-girls Catholic high school.

We joke that SVA stands for “Saints, Virgins & Angels.” (cough cough)

Anyway, I strain to comprehend Mr. A, our physics teacher – because honestly, all science is a mystery to me. He might as well be speaking Japanese and drawing hieroglyphics on the chalkboard for as well as I’m understanding this subject matter.

Typically, I fare pretty well academically, but in this class, I’m skating by, strictly on the basis of memorization.

So when Mr. A begins discussing resistance of electric circuits — I get super excited that I actually know the answer when he asks the class, “What does “Z” stands for?”

Without even raising my hand, I shout, “IMPOTENCE! IMPOTENCE!”

Silence.

Mr. A’s shocked face.

Giggles and guffaws from the whole class.

Apparently the correct answer is impedance (pronounced “im-peed-ins”)

IMPOTENCE is something else all together.

And back in the days that I went to high school, IMPOTENCE is not exactly a word you heard commonly bandied about in an all-girls school, especially in front of our only male teacher.

Mr. A turns bright red.

He opens his mouth to speak, but dissolves into silent laughter.

He turns away and starts again – no words came out. Just more laughter.

He tries to write something on the chalkboard, but he laughs so hard, his hand shakes.

He tries yet another time to speak, but cannot contain his mirth.

Blessedly, the bell rings for lunch and we girls scuttle out of the classroom.

(Much later, Mr. A tells me that he went to the Teacher’s Lounge to eat his lunch and kept bursting into silent fits of laughter, while the other teachers looked at him oddly.)

I have no idea if Mr. A knows someone who suffers from that particular bedroom issue – or whether he just thinks IMPOTENCE is a hysterically incorrect answer for impedance, but I’m glad to provide him with such a hearty chuckle!

Of course, nowadays, formerly forbidden language is tossed around in daily discussion: “What’s with all the bathtubs in those erectile dysfunction commercials? Which reminds me, when you’re at the store for chips and salsa, pick up condoms. Great, thanks, pass the salt please.”

But back in my high school days, especially at a Catholic all-girls school, one simply did not talk about such things!

In fact, at our Junior Talent Show, my classmate and I served as co-MCs, so we’d take turns telling jokes as we introduced the acts.

On the first night, my co-MC asked the audience, “How can you recognize Ronald McDonald at a nudist colony?” Answer: “By his sesame seed buns!” Huge laugh.

But the school notified her that her MC services wouldn’t be needed on the second night!

Seriously! Booted from the show for a buns joke!

Four years later, my little sister Della served as MC for the SVA Junior Talent Show. In her enthusiasm, she stumbled on her words and announced to the whole auditorium of students, siblings, parents, teachers, and nuns:

“At intermission, please join us in the lobby for cocks and cookies.”

Cokes.

She meant Cokes.

Not cocks.

I never saw the nuns run so fast. To the lobby.

Ha, OK, kidding. The nuns did not run to the lobby – and they were not amused by my sister’s faux pas. But even they had to admit it was merely a mistake – and not a deliberate offer of penises. (peni?)

So between my sister’s cocks and my impotence, we’re obviously fabulous role models!

— Darcy Perdu

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(What words are commonplace now that you’d never have dreamed of uttering in the classroom when you were a kid? Ever embarrass yourself with a funny mispronunciation or wrong word?)

Who’s Singin’ the “How the Hell Is This School Project Gettin’ Done in Time” Blues?

So then…both my kids announce brand new huge projects that must be completed before the school year ends — which is just a couple weeks away — and I suspect these projects weren’t assigned today.

Of course, this reminds me of the School Project to End All School Projects, so I’ll share this here just in case any of you are singin’ the “How the Hell Is This School Project Gettin’ Done in Time” Blues!

That Special Joy When Another Mom Notifies You Just How Oblivious Your Kid Is -- Honestly, are ALL kids procrastinators or do some kids have a special knack for being COMPLETELY OBLIVIOUS? SoThenStories.com #funny

So then…she nibbles the walnut brownie I baked and comments on how nicely Tucker and her son Andrew, both age 11, are playing basketball in our backyard.

I beam. This is the first time Linda’s son has come over.  (I’d even tidied up the house and baked some “get-to-know-you” brownies.)

“They’ve had a great afternoon,” I say. “Thanks for letting Andrew come home with us after school. Tucker’s really enjoyed hanging out with him.”

Linda nods, picks up Andrew’s backpack, and heads for the patio door to collect her son. She says, “Yeah, I almost had to cancel though, because Andrew hadn’t made enough progress on his International Fair project yet. But he did a lot last night, so he’s in pretty good shape.”

My pulse quickens. What International Fair project? I ask.

She looks at me as though I’m joking. “The one that’s due Monday.”

Today is Friday.

“Oh, is that, like an optional project, like for a Science Fair, or something?” I ask hopefully.

She turns to me, backpack on her shoulder, and says, “No, this is the big 6th grade History project they’ve supposed to have been working on all semester. Surely Tucker’s told you about it?”

I’m sure I’m turning bright red from embarrassment – and bright white from panic.

“Um, no, he hasn’t mentioned it. What’s due on Monday?”

Well, now she sets the backpack down and turns her attention completely toward me, and braces herself to tell me some very bad news.

“OK, each child picks a country, then they need to write a report on 6 topics of that country, like climate, cuisine, politics, religion, stuff like that.”

I gulp.  Sweat forms on my brow.

International Fair Darcy Concern
“Each report has to be typed up and pasted on a tri-fold poster board with artwork and photos,” she continues.

“Well, um, OK,” I stammer. “I..I think we can work on that this weekend. I can run to the crafts store for the poster board. We can probab-“

“Get the flag materials there too,” she interrupts.

“There’s a flag?” I ask.

“Yes, and a costume.”

“WHAT?”

“Yes, this is why they gave the kids all semester to work on it! They need to make that country’s flag out of fabric and put it on a stick because they’ll carry it in the procession. Then they also need to wear a costume that’s native to the country – it can be homemade, or maybe you have a friend or family member who has something from that country, or—“

She stops as she sees me sit down, about to hyperventilate.

I whisper, “I don’t even know what his country is.”

She winces.

International Fair Linda Explains
“OK, look, I hate to keep going, but you should know the kids also need to cook an authentic dish from their country.” She blurts it out very quickly like she’s ripping off a band-aid. “And they need to have enough bite-size servings for 40 students because all the 6th graders and their parents are invited to the International Fair – which is Monday.” Then super-fast she says, “And it’s 25% of their grade.”

She picks up the backpack again and turns toward the patio door. She looks back at me and I see indecision on her face. Should she flee the scene? Grab her son and run away, kissing him all over for having the good sense to tell her about the International Fair project months ago?

Or should she stay and comfort a fallen comrade in the Mommy Wars?

Please, my eyes beg her. Don’t abandon me. Explain more about this International Fair of which you speak. Help me, guide me, tell me my son’s frikking country, something, anything, for God’s sake. What’s your son’s country? Can our sons choose the same country? Can my son join your son and share his flag and his tri-fold and his cuisine? I beg of you…

Of course I don’t say any of those words out loud. But she can see them in my eyes. So she pats me on the shoulder, opens the patio door, and calls for Andrew.

The boys come running in. Linda says a nervous goodbye to an oblivious Tucker, hastily thanks me, hustles Andrew out the door, and snags another brownie on her way out.

Bitch. She annihilates me AND still has time to take a treat?

I shouldn’t have thought that. Of course she’s not a bitch. Why shoot the messenger when there is somebody much more appropriate to receive my wrath?

As the front door closes, I turn to Tucker, narrow my eyes, and ask in a chillingly low voice, “Did you know there was an International Fair project due on Monday?”

He stuffs a brownie bite in his mouth and says brightly, “Yeah, but it’s like a Science Fair or something – it’s optional.

I grip the handles of the chair. “Tucker.It.Is.Not.Optional.It.Is.25%.Of.Your.Grade!”

He shrugs, says, “Huh,” and takes another bite.

I look at him with wonder that this truly carefree child emanated from the womb of a Type A hyper-organized, compulsive pre-planner like myself.

“Linda said the teachers have been talking about this International Fair all semester. Did you think they would spend that much time talking about an optional project?” I ask.

He screws up his face and lifts his shoulders in a gesture of Hey, who knows what’s on the minds of those crazy teachers?

International Fair Tucker Shrugging
I take a breath. “Tucker,” I say. “Do you even know what country you have? And if you chose a country, what did you think you were choosing it FOR, since you thought the project was optional?

He finishes the last bite of the brownie and says, “Oh yeah, I chose Mexico. I thought it was like ‘Hey, where would you like to visit if you could pick any country?’ And I picked Mexico because I love Mexican food.”

“Well, I’m glad you do, Tucker. I’m glad you do. Because you are going to be making Mexican food all weekend. And a flag and a costume and 6 reports! YOU ARE GOING TO BE ALL MEXICO ALL THE TIME FOR THE NEXT 48 HOURS!!”

And thus began one of the most painful, stressful weekends in the history of school projects.

Ay Caramba!

International Fair Tucker Color
— Darcy Perdu

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Original Illustrations for So Then Stories created by Shelly at Shell Graphics

(Any projects that snuck up on you or your kids? Any surprise tests? Or how about the “oh-yeah-I-need-36-cupcakes-for-school-tomorrow-Mom” at 9:00 at night? Share your Stories and Comments below! I LOVE to read them!)

International Fair Hearing the News Color

HUGE Funny Surprise When I Opened My Baby Book!

Mom cleaned her attic & mailed me my Baby Book!  Imagine my SURPRISE when I looked inside and saw...uh-oh  #funny #baby #babybook #pregnancy #humor

So then…I see the package on my front step and jump with excitement!

My older sister Dawn’s helping our Mom clean out her attic, so she’s mailing my Baby Book across the country to me!

What? A book about ME?

That’s my FAVORITE topic! I can’t wait to see the photos and notes my Mom penned about the mini-me!

I rip open the package and see a sweet little old-fashioned baby book.

ADORABLE!

I gently open the book to see my name lovingly inscribed there. Awwww.

I tenderly turn the pages – which are EMPTY.

COMPLETELY EMPTY.

What!?

I call my sister. “What the hell, Dawn?! My Baby Book is EMPTY!”

“Well, you were the THIRD child out of five,” she says. “Our parents were pretty busy.”

“Oh, easy for you to say. You’re the second. Is YOURS filled in?”

“Um…yes,” she admits sheepishly.

“Well, why’d you even bother to mail mine if it was EMPTY?”

“I dunno,” she retorts. “I’m mailing Mom’s attic stuff all over the country – I don’t have time to open everything! Just be glad you got a book at all! The 4th and 5th kids didn’t!”

It reminds me of the time my friend Angie confided a secret:

One night over drinks, Angie says, “I lied to my daughter.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Well, the damn teacher asked the kids to bring their Baby Books to school so all the third graders could ‘get to know each other,’” she says, sipping her mojito. “What the hell do they need to do that for?”

“Uh-oh,” I say, smiling. “Sounds like someone’s a bit defensive.”

“Damn right I’m defensive!” she says. “I never made a Baby Book for her! I have one for my first kid – it’s packed with all sorts of his photos and crap – but by the time I popped out the next kid, I didn’t have time for that! I was chasing a toddler and trying to grab my baby off my titties long enough to sleep for an hour!”

I’m laughing because she’s acting out her words, boob-pulling and all!

“So what’d you tell her?” I ask.

Angie looks guilty. “I told her it’s packed away and I’ll have to get it out later.”

“Um…okay?” I ask, “So how—”

“I bought a new one!” she says boldly. “Yep, I just marched into the store and bought a brand new Baby Book. I found some old baby pics of her and glued ’em right in.”

“You did not!” I laugh.

She nods emphatically.

“But how’d you fill in stuff like ‘What was baby’s first word?’ or ‘When was baby’s first step?’ How can you remember so long ago?”

“I just made shit up!” She slugs the last of her mojito and motions to the server for another. “First word? How about ‘ball?’ First steps? I dunno — a year maybe? So I put 11 months. She’s a go-getter so she was probably early. Why not boost her self-esteem a little?”

Angie dips a chip and continues her rant, punctuating her words by pointing her chip in the air:

“First baby food? Sweet potatoes! Favorite baby food? Apricots!”

“Apricots?” I interject. “Are you sure that’s a baby foo—?”

“Shut up, Darcy! She’ll never know!” she laughs. “Favorite toy? How about a green ARMADILLO!?”

I gasp-laugh. “What if she asks to SEE the green armadillo!?”

She says mournfully, “It was accidentally sucked out of our minivan window when we made a sharp turn into Disneyland.” She makes sorrowful puppy eyes.

“You just made that shit up right now!” I accuse her.

“Yes, yes, I did. And I’ll tell her the same thing if she asks me. ‘Cause I love my daughter — but I didn’t have time to create a damn Baby Book back when she was a baby! And I’m sure as hell not gonna let her walk into that classroom empty-handed! So I made the whole damn thing up and passed it off as totally real – and she bought it – hook, line, and sinker!”

Angie looks me straight in the eye, defiantly – almost daring me to object to her deceitful little ruse.

I clink my glass to hers, smile, and say, “Honey, you’re an AWESOME mother!”

— Darcy Perdu

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(And yes, I’ve changed her name for this post — and her daughter does not read my blog, so the secret is still safe!)

(Speaking of secrets, here’s the HORRIFYING & HILARIOUS SECRET everyone knew but me…)

(Did you make a Baby Book for each of your kids, with the exact same attention to detail? Would you “fudge” some things like Angie?  Do you still have your OWN Baby Book? I have mine. It’s empty. Did I mention that? COMPLETELY empty. I’m not bitter or anything. Cough. Should I mail it back to my Mom so she can make up some shit about me?)

Is This Tutor Messin’ with Me? Oh yes. Yes, he IS, that little…

Am I paranoid?  Or is this guy totally messin' with me?  #funny #tutor #homework #humor

So then…my son Tucker slips through the dining room door into the kitchen and whispers, “Mom, I think the tutor’s asleep.”

I look up from the crockpot and whisper, “What?”

We both tiptoe to the dining room door, ease it open a crack, and peer through to see the Biology tutor sitting at the table before an open book, chin on his chest, head down, eyes closed.

Tucker and I look at each other and suppress a giggle. We ease the door shut, then scurry to the opposite end of the kitchen to confer.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I dunno. He was kinda quiet so I looked over and he was sound asleep!”

“Did he just doze off in the middle of a sentence?”

“No, no, he was explaining something, then I started filling in the worksheet, and the next thing I knew – ‘’ (he mimes shutting his eyes and snoring, getting progressively louder and more dramatic with his snores)

“Stop that!” I say, laughing softly. “You’re gonna wake him up!”

“Well, shouldn’t he be awake if he’s going to help teach me Biology?”

Hmm, good point.

“OK,” I say. “I’ll go wake him up. You stay in here and pretend to get a snack or something. I don’t want to embarrass the guy!”

Tucker happily invades the pantry for a snack.

I ease open the door and clear my throat.

Nothing.

I don’t want to startle him. He’s a very nice man. He teaches science at a school in another district during the day – plus he and his wife have 3 kids, including a new baby — AND he tutors after school – so he’s probably exhausted.

And let’s face it, Biology is not exactly riveting.

If I were a Biology tutor, I’d fall asleep as soon as you opened the Biology book, much less if I had to discuss it!

In fact, I’d fall asleep as soon as you said the word, “Biolo— ” Zzzzzzzzz.
See? It just happened.

Now if I were a tutor on the “best TV series to binge-watch” – or the “relative composition of Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream Flavors by deliciousness of ingredients” – or the “statistical likelihood of Ryan Gosling’s car breaking down outside my house, in a rainstorm, and needing immediate medical attention and a warm bath” – I’d be WIDE AWAKE for the entire session!

So I certainly don’t blame the guy for falling asleep, but I should wake him.

So I cough.

Nothing.

I tiptoe out of the room, then walk back in, very loudly clicking my shoes on the floor. The tutor does not move.

Good God, I hope he’s not dead.

That’d be incredibly awkward.

I have delicious French Dip beef simmering in the crockpot, more homework to supervise, then a slew of shows on the DVR. Tonight’s schedule is not ideal for an untimely death in my dining room.

Next Thursday, sure. But tonight, no. Definitely not.

I approach the slumbering tutor so I can call his name, but then I realize I don’t KNOW his name!

That may sound odd since he’s been tutoring Tucker for about 6 sessions or so.

But he has a very thick accent and when he introduced himself, I thought he said his name was Farooq Malik.

But then the next time he came, I could swear he introduced himself to my friend as Marooq Falik. Or maybe it was Malik Farooq?

I’m terrible with names anyway, especially if the names could be interchangeable. If you tell me your name is Henry James, I’ll likely call you James half the time and Henry the other half!

Two of my friends both have a “v” in their names so I’m constantly calling them by each other’s names – and I’ve known them for years!

I once knew a Carla that I routinely called Sharon because oh-my-God-you-guys, she just seemed like a Sharon, you know?

So whenever I try to address the tutor, I hesitate, stumble, or mumble. I think he’s on to me.

Recently, I asked him something, and said, “Right, Malik?” and he corrected me by saying “Farooq.” And I could swear he’s corrected me the opposite way too. And he’ll smile mischievously, like he knows that I can’t keep his name straight.

So now I don’t know if I just have a bad memory –

or if he’s just Farooq-ing with me.

My son comes back in the room with chips and sits down.

I cough and say, “Mister…Malik? Farooq? Hello?”

He opens his eyes, shifts in his seat, glances at the book, then looks at Tucker and calmly says,

“And that’s the difference between prokaryote and eukaryote organisms.”

Wow. Didn’t even skip a beat.

Nicely played, Farooq.

Or Malik.

Or whatever the Farooq your name is!

— Darcy Perdu

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(Are you terrible at remembering names too? Any funny tutoring stories? IS he just messing with me? And should I serve strong black coffee whenever he tutors?)

Welcome to So Then Stories: Hilarious True Tales

Do you enjoy Hilarious True Tales about embarrassing kids, exasperating coworkers, vexing relationships, and the ever-perplexing public?  Then you'll LOVE SoThenStories.com!  Come laugh with us!  #funny #kids #office #husbands #humor

Hey, pull up a bar stool and let’s swap funny stories about our embarrassing kids, exasperating coworkers, vexing relationships, and the ever-perplexing public!  This is where I share my bodacious blunders and hilarious true tales – and invite YOU to share YOUR related experiences – so the laughs just keep rolling!

“Hmm,” you may ask, “Are you really funny?”  Well, not to brag (omg, I’m TOTALLY bragging!), but I won 1st Place in the 2014 Nat. Society of Newspaper Columnists competition (Blog Category under 100,000 monthly visitors) – and I won 2 Humor VOTY Awards at BlogHer in 2013 & 2014.  I was even named Humor Writer of August 2014 by Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop!  Woot! Woot!

So pull up a bar stool and start laughing! 
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TOTALLY Embarrassed in Front of Dr. Fancypants! HILARIOUS True Tale #doctor #medical #embarrassing #funny #teens

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Telling His Teacher a Big Fat Juicy Lie!  #funny #boys #teacher #school #humor

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BOOBIE-trapped -- LITERALLY & Hilariously! True tale when my boob got trapped in...well, you gotta click it to find out! #funny #embarrassing #mammogram #fireman

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Oh, She Did NOT Just Say That! #funny #school #drama #volunteer #pta #pisces #cosmetics #hair #humor

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Thanks!  Darcy Perdu

AWKWARD! Mom Forbids Me to Do This Unless A Nun Approves!

AWKWARD!  Mom FORBIDS It; Makes Me Ask the NUN for Permission!  #humor #school #backtoschool #teacher #student #Bible #earrings #funny

So then… she says “Absolutely not,” with an air of such finality, it would stop Attila the Hun in his tracks.

Because when my Mom says, “no,” she means “NOOOO!”

But I’m a 16-year-old girl desperate to have my ears pierced.

I’ve been lusting after the earrings at the mall for weeks. They have little gold knots – and darling little hoops – and butterflies! Dainty little gold butterflies, people! MUST HAVE.

Attila ain’t got nothin’ on me. I shall not cease my relentless campaign! I shall scourge the earth and annihilate all obstacles until VICTORY IS MINE! – and those precious butterflies adorn my earlobes!

I follow my Mom into the kitchen, where she’s preparing dinner.

I set the table and say, “Mom, WHY can’t I get my ears pierced? I saved up my babysitting money – and I’ll make sure the piercings won’t get infected – and the mall is just—”

“It’s against the Bible.”

“What? The Bible says I can’t get my ears pierced?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says.

(I’m no theologian, but I don’t remember either of the testaments discussing ear jewelry!)

“Where does it say that?” I ask.

She stirs the spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove and says, “The Bible says it’s a sin to self-mutilate.”

Self-mutilate!? I’m not mutilating myself!”

“Well, you want to cut holes into your ears, don’t you?”

“Mom, that’s not the same thing! The Bible just doesn’t want you to hack off your hand or something!”

She arches her eyebrows in that “you say potato; I say po-tah-to” sort of way and returns to her sauce.

Seriously! It’s not that she’s a religious fanatic – I mean we go to Church every Sunday, but she’s not a zealot. But she was raised in a pretty strict Catholic family, back in the days when the Mass was said in Latin.

Lots of hellfire and brimstone in those days.

Lots of hard and fast rules – with clear cut consequences leading straight to eternal damnation.

Pierced ears = self-mutilation = grievous sin = loose morals = immediate downward spiral into prostitution, pregnancy, tattoos, heroin addiction, and *gasp* — skipping Easter Mass.

So I beg and plead and debate and beg some more.

She is resolute. It’s like trying to move Mt. Rushmore just a couple inches to the left. She will not budge.

It’s a sin. It’s a sin. It’s a sin.

I insist that the self-mutilation in the Bible DOES NOT refer to pierced ears! Did.I.mention.the.butterflies.Mom?The.earring.butterflies.are.ADORABLE!

FINALLY, she agrees to CONSIDER it – IF and ONLY IF I consult with a priest or nun to CONFIRM that ear piercing does NOT qualify for Biblical self-mutilation.

Ahhhh! The clouds part, the angels sing: HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH!

Quick! Get thee to a nunnery! Find the youngest, hippest, coolest nun you can find!

All night long, I rack my brain to think who I can ask. My very life depends upon it.

Should I ask our parish priest at Mass on Sunday?

Should I ask one of the nuns who teaches at the Catholic school I attend?

Do I choose the youngest nun – the nicest nun – or the nun who teaches the class with my highest grade?

Finally, I settle on Sr. Rita. She’s not young, but she’s an awesome teacher and I love her class.

All day long, I fidget in my blue plaid skirt and white blouse, my legs shaking a mile a minute.

Finally the last bell rings. The rest of the students file out and I stay behind to timidly say, “Sr. Rita, may I please ask you a question?”

She looks up from her papers and says, “Sure.”

Suddenly I lose my nerve. Maybe my Mom is right! Maybe this IS a sin! I don’t want Sr. Rita to think poorly of me.

“Um…um,” I stammer, looking at my shoes.

“What is it, child?” she asks.

“Well, um, my Mom says that something I want to do is a VERY BAD SIN – and that I had to ask your permission before I could do it,” I say.

Sr. Rita raises her eyebrows, crosses her arms, and stares at me intently. “What’s the sin?” she asks.

“I want to…I want to…get my ears pierced!”

Sr. Rita suppresses a grin, her eyes crinkling, as she sighs with relief.

In retrospect, I now realize she probably thought I was going to ask about having sex — or doing drugs — or committing homicide!

In comparison, piercing ears hardly makes a “ding” on the Sin-o-Meter!

She pats my shoulder and says, “Yes, dear, yes. You may pierce your ears. It’s not sinful at all!”

I beam from ear to ear – (soon to be punctured ear to ear) – and thank her profusely!

I fairly explode with happiness! I share the good news with my Mom, who, trooper that she is, lives up to her promise to take me to the mall now that we have a religious blessing.

And I ensure that Sr. Rita is one of the first to see my darling little earring butterflies!

(Of course, I still end up a coke-addict junkie whore – but that’s completely unrelated to the pierced ears.)

Ha! OK, just kidding! Fear not, Sr. Rita, where ever you are: your decree was sound and just. I’ve not squandered your blessing. My pierced ears and I will see you in Heaven one day. (It may take some pretty heavy-duty negotiating to get me on the admit-list, but I aim to rock & roll up there in the Great Beyond!)

— Darcy Perdu

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(Anything YOU wanted as a kid that was impacted by parental reluctance, outright disapproval, or religious beliefs?  Do you remember back when you got YOUR piercings?)

When the Popular Chick Finds Out Your Secret!

When the Popular Chick Finds Out Your Secret!  #embarrassing #funny #school #bathroom #popular #humor

So then… I glance nervously at my watch as this bathroom line of high school girls inches its way slowly toward the stalls. Our Marching Squad Captain only gave us 15 minutes for a break before we need to perform our routine at halftime at the football game.

As a lowly freshman, I’m eager to follow the rules – especially since I’ve already received 3 demerits at past games – twice for being late and once for forgetting to wear my gold bloomers under my gold Marching Squad skirt. (Don’t worry — I wore UNDERWEAR, people! They just weren’t gold!)

This Louisiana stadium bathroom is hot and humid, filled with chattering girls, including the super hip and cool SENIORS on the squad. I try not to let my geeky awkwardness radiate beyond my personal space.

It’s so hot and time is so short, I almost abandon the mission, but I “gotta pee like a Russian racehorse,” as they say, so I hang in there until – THANK GOD – it’s my turn to enter a stall.

But as soon as I close the door behind me, I see that the toilet paper is not on a roll – it’s little tiny individual square sheets!

Senior Senior

Do you know the kind I mean? They’re almost like miniature tissues. You pull one out, but it’s just a tiny square, then you got to pull the next one out – and it takes FOREVER – especially since I have to encase the ENTIRE toilet seat with paper before I can sit down!

I know the other girls are also anxious to make it back before halftime, so I don’t want to be the annoying freshman that takes FOREVER.

But I can’t possibly let my virgin derriere touch that toilet seat because I’m certain I’ll end up pregnant – or I’ll contract some hideous disease that will necessitate a butt-amputation – and won’t THAT be awkward.

So I frantically start pulling out the little tiny sheets to cover the seat, often losing some in the bowl in my haste. I can just IMAGINE the Seniors are out there, all whispering about why it’s taking me so long – and I have half a mind to yell out, “I’m not pooping! I SWEAR I’m not pooping!”

FINALLY, I create an impressive criss-cross pattern of sheets to covering every inch of the entire seat, so I can safely sit. I pee quickly, flush, and pop out the door.

The line of waiting girls is still long, hot, and impatient.

As I walk to the sink, super popular Senior Claire Markam passes me to enter my stall.

At that precise moment, I realize that I forgot to push all those little toilet paper squares into the bowl before I flushed!

I freeze at the sink. My eyes wide, my heart thumping – OMIGOD, HOW EMBARRASSING! I need to RUN AWAY right now!

Just then, Claire opens her stall door and calls out, “Hey, Darcy!”

Time stands still. In slow motion, my head turns toward her.

Is she going to mock my toilet “shrine” in front of all these Seniors — and burden me with a humiliating nickname that will follow me all 4 years of my high school career?

She grins at me, gives a thumbs up, and says, “Thanks!”

What!?

I suddenly realize she’s GRATEFUL that I’d taken the time to create a paper seat cover that she could use too!

She wasn’t going to ridicule me for my hygiene habits – she was going to do the exact same thing! And I saved her time by doing it for her! I guess she didn’t mind sharing paper with my little bony ass as long as she avoided contact with a public toilet seat!

So now, instead of feeling mortified – I feel PROUD!  

That super cool Senior admired my toilet-seat-wrapping skills!

I beam as I wash my hands.

But then I glance at that line of girls who are all looking at me oddly. They have no idea what’s in that stall.

They only know that Claire walked in my stall, then poked her head out to say, “Hey, Darcy! Thanks!”

Now they’re all wondering what I left in that stall for Claire to see.

A note?

A gift?

An amazing poop sculpture?

As I exit, it takes every ounce of willpower for me not to shout, “I didn’t poop. I SWEAR I didn’t poop!”

(Of course, you guys might know I do have some amazing talent in that field, as evidenced hilariously right HERE.)

— Darcy Perdu

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(Are YOU a dedicated seat-coverer? Terrified to poop in public too?  Any funny stories from your high school days?)

Is This a Playdate Fail by Dad — or Perfectly Reasonable Behavior?

Did this Dad Make a Playdate Faux Pas? Is this a funny blunder or WHAT?  #humor #playdate #dad #baby #embarrassing #funny #kids

So then…I plop on the hotel bed, moving my files over so I can chat with my 9-year-old daughter Chloe back home.

Me: I’m so happy I’m almost done with my business trip! How was your day, honey?

Chloe: Great! After school, I went for a playdate at Maggie’s house!

I furrow my brow. That can’t be right.

Me: You mean Layla’s house?

Chloe: No, Maggie’s house.

Me: You mean Ashley’s house?

Chloe: No, MAGGIE’S house!

Me: You don’t mean the Maggie whose mom just had a BABY?

Chloe: Yes! Today was the first day they brought the baby home and I got to meet her!

Me: You had a playdate at Maggie’s house the SAME DAY HER MOM BROUGHT HOME HER BRAND NEW BABY?

Chloe: Yes! It was great! The baby’s so cute! I got to stay for dinner!

She prattles on and on about the baby –

and of course I make all the appropriate responses to share in her glee.

But the whole time I’m thinking: What the HELL?

When we finish, she puts her dad on the phone.

“Um…did you know you accidentally let Chloe have a playdate at Maggie’s house the same day her mom brought home the new baby?I ask, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Oh, that was no accident,” he says proudly. “Chloe asked if she could go see Maggie’s new sister, so I dropped her right off!”

“Did Maggie’s parents know about it first?” I ask.

“I dunno,” he says. 

“David! Don’t you think the last thing a sleep-deprived, just-endured-childbirth mom wants to see at her house on her first day home is someone else’s kid?”

“Oh come on,” he says. “It’s her 4th baby. She probably didn’t even notice our kid was there.”

Oh my God.

David’s a terrific dad, but sometimes I wonder if he understands basic social graces.

When someone has a new baby, you drop off a casserole.

Or a gift.

NOT your kid.

And CERTAINLY not for dinner!

To be fair, David’s the type who wouldn’t mind at all if the roles were reversed. If HE popped out a baby, he’d probably invite the whole neighborhood over as soon as we pulled in the driveway so he could proudly display his creation: “Tap a keg, grill some burgers, look what I just pushed out of my hoo-ha!” (or he-ha, as the case may be)

He was raised in a free-range neighborhood where kids constantly meandered in and out of each other’s homes, mooching meals whenever they were hungry, and everyone was cool with it.

I was taught that you don’t even call someone’s house before 10 am or after 8 pm – and never during dinner time – MUCH LESS just SHOW UP at their house!

Consequently David’s fine with anyone coming over anytime no matter what’s happening at our house. It’s practically like this:

“We’re having construction done at the house today – but come on over!”
“Sure, the kids all have the flu — but that’s ok — pop on by!”
“Don’t mind the termite fumigation tent – we’ll just barbecue in the backyard!”

OK, maybe not quite that extreme, but you get the picture.

And as moms go, Maggie’s mom is very chill.

When my kids take a tumble and bleed – I rush to console them, disinfect the entire limb, bandage it carefully, and mollycoddle the child endlessly, while surreptitiously checking WebMD on my phone to insure no signs of sepsis.

When her kids report scrapes and cuts, Maggie’s mom just says, “You know where the band-aids are.”

And damn, if her kids aren’t much more resilient and independent than mine!

(I’ll be bandaging my kids’ paper cuts when they’re 45 and still living in my basement.)

Maybe it’s the large quantity of kids that makes these moms so chill?

As soon as I return to town, I drop off a beautiful gift, coo over the darling new baby, and make apologies for the awkward timing of the surprise playdate.

Maggie’s mom just smiles and shrugs – no big deal. The new baby in her arms starts to fuss, so she shoots her a look, like “Hey, you know where the boobies are.”

— Darcy Perdu

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(Who’s more observant of social graces – you or your spouse? Any funny examples? Am I crazy to think HE’S crazy for letting her have a playdate on Bring-Home-the-Baby Day?)

The Funny Secret the Nun Told Me

Funny Secret the Nun Told Me #humor #sing #church #nun  #school #kids

So then…I perk up as soon as I hear the opening notes of my favorite song. I immediately stop fidgeting with my blue plaid Catholic school uniform.

I grin widely. I love this song! I LOOOOVE this song!

I straighten my shoulders and stand proudly amongst the other 5th graders in our pews in Friday morning Mass.

Here it is, here it is! I joyously sing the awesomely odd lyrics to my favorite hymn:

Sons of God, hear His Holy Word
Gather ‘round the table of our Lord

Eat His body, Drink His blood
Now we’ll sing a song of love

Allelu
Allelu
Allelu
Allelu-u-ujah!

Of course it doesn’t even occur to me that the song’s a bit morbid…
and perhaps even a bit cannibalistic…
what with all the talk of “eating His body and drinking His blood.”

But to a 10-year-old, it makes perfect sense that we’d gobble Him up – then “sing a song of love.” Nom nom nom. La lala lala.

And you have to remember that “Twilight,” “True Blood,” and “Vampire Diaries” had not yet burst onto the scene with their lustful carnal blood-suckery

so this was all just common, everyday slurpin’ up some Jesus juice.

Nothing bizarre here, folks. Just a friendly invite:

Gather ‘round the table of our Lord
Eat His body, Drink His blood
Now we’ll sing a song of love

It’s really just like saying, “Hey everybody, come on over to my house and pull up a chair. Let’s eat Swanson chicken pot pies and drink some Tang – then break out the guitar and sing Kumbaya!”

I smile happily at all the students and teachers crowded into this chapel at our school.

My brunette curls jingle-jangle as I boisterously belt out the chorus of the song.

I LOVE the “Allelu’s.”

I’m really getting’ into it – hips swayin’, face scrunched, eyes closed, crooning away.

Now granted, I possess much more ENTHUSIASM than TALENT –

and, in fact, it’s widely known in my family that I’m tone-deaf –

but I still roar that tune LOUDLY and PROUDLY.

As we file out of the chapel, one of the nuns sidles up next to me, puts a caring hand on my shoulder, smiles kindly, and whispers gently, “You know, God loves the lip-synchers too.”

Oh.My.God.

Did she just say that to me?

Yes – yes, she did!

Is she an Angel of God? My own personal Celestial Messenger, with a note from above –

“The Lord hears ya, babe, and while He appreciates the effort – please remember He is omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent – so no need to actually VOCALIZE your tribute – He can hear you telepathically. So go easy on the eardrums of your fellow humans and just THINK the lyrics, mmmkay?”

At least, that’s how I interpret her remark: “You know, God loves the lip-synchers too.”

Of course at age 10, I don’t realize how hilarious this is – so I just nod piously, with big eyes. I harbor no ill will toward the dear old nun – she is, afterall, the music teacher, quite elderly, with sensitive ears, and seated directly next to my boisterous bellowing at the chapel.

I pledge a secret vow of silence whenever singing is required at Mass – which lasts exactly one week until the next Mass – when I gleefully and loudly rock out to…

Allelu
Allelu
Allelu
Allelu-u-ujah!

— Darcy Perdu

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(Are you a wonderful warbler – or musically-challenged like me? Regardless of your skill level, what’s a song that you blissfully belt out with joyful abandon? Any teachers/coaches offer you some “helpful” hints when you were a kid?)

Please Moms…Stop Working the Pole!

Please Mamas - Stop Working the Pole! (aka the Mother-Son Dance!) Can you BELIEVE these mamas? #funny #schooldance #Humor

So then…I smile when I open the colorful invitation to the Hawaiian Luau-themed Mother-Son Dance at the elementary school –

but I do a double-take when I see the large words at the bottom that say:

Please Moms – No Bikini Tops!

What the what?

I email Tina, one of the school moms organizing the dance:

Me: I love the invitation, Tina. But why does it say “Please Mom – No Bikini Tops?” I don’t even wear a bikini top in the privacy of my own home – why in the world would I wear one in public – – at a mother-son grade-school dance?

Tina: LOL! Believe it or not, some of the moms NEED that guideline. You missed last year’s Disco-themed dance when moms showed up dressed like hoochie mamas and danced like they were on the pole!

Me: Oh.My.God. They were dancing with their sons like that?

Tina: No, they were dancing with each other like that. They barely interacted with their kids at the dance. You know the moms I mean.

Yep, I DO know the moms she means.

On the night of the Hawaiian Luau-themed dance, I see lots of tight, low-cut tops and super-short skirts on those moms, but so far it looks like everyone followed Tina’s invitation request to avoid bikini tops.

But then, just as my son and I exit the dance floor to grab some cookies and punch, I see a mom shimmy through the crowd –

She’s wearing a bikini top OVER a black TURTLENECK sweater.

I shit you not.

I about spit out my punch I’m laughing so hard.

On the one hand, I’m glad Tina’s invitation reminded moms to try to keep it classy — and NOT tart up this grade school function.

On the other hand, I gotta give props to that chick for “stickin’ it to the Man” by refusing to adhere to the dress code – but ensuring she won’t get any flack for revealing too much skin.

That’s pretty damn funny.

Of course, a bikini-clad mom might be “smokin’ hot”…

But in a crowded, poorly-ventilated gym full of sweaty 5th grade boys and moms dancing full force — I can only imagine that a bikini-and-TURTLENECK-clad mom would merely be “hot as hell.”

But rock on, li’l mama, rock on.

— Darcy Perdu

 

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(Do you have any of “those” moms at your school? Would you ever wear a bikini top to a 5th grade dance? Any funny stories about school moms, dances, or bikinis? Do tell!)

Shut That Sh*t Down!

Shut That Sh*t Down!  The amazingly ANNOYING - yet HILARIOUS - things moms say to teachers!  #funny #teacher #backtoschool #parenting #school #classroom #student #kids #humor

So then…I gratefully grab a seat in a tiny chair in the 1st grade classroom, along with three other Moms who also missed last night’s Back-to-School event. The teacher, Mrs. Tomasino, has graciously agreed to meet with us for a few minutes after school today to fill us in.

I exchange smiles with everyone – and conduct a quick appraisal of the other three Moms. One looks like she had to miss Back-to-School night for kid-care or work reasons, like me – the other two look like they missed it due to a conflict with their Bellydancing Class/Hot Stone Massages. (Judgy much? Why yes, yes I am.)

Mrs. Tomasino welcomes us to the class and holds up a list of items she’d like to quickly review with us.

But every time she tries to impart information, these two mamas interrupt her with questions specific to their kids.

Mom 1: “Are you doing Reading Circle in this class? My kid loves Reading Circle.”
Mom 2: “What kind of field trips are you having? My son really doesn’t like museums.”
Mom 1: “Do you serve cheese at the holiday parties? My kid is lactose-intolerant.”
Mom 2: “I hope there isn’t much homework; my son has lots of sports after school.”

Poor Mrs. Tomasino’s getting flustered.

Mom 3 and I exchange a couple looks.

Mrs. Tomasino starts to share the subjects the kids will cover each day when Mom 1 interrupts to ask:

“When is the Father-Daughter Dance? I think it might conflict with my daughter’s dance recital.”

The teacher looks surprised by this non sequitur and says, “I’m not sure of the date, but it’s months away.”

Mom 1 says, “Yes, but could you go check right now? I’m really thinking it might be the same date.”

So Mrs. Tomasino gets up, goes into the little side room of the class, shuffles through some papers and reports back the date. Mom 1 turns to Mom 2 and says, “Thank God! It’s a different date.”

Mom 2 says, “That’s a relief!”

Mom 3 and I exchange a glance like “What the hell?”

What if it HAD been the same date? Would Mom 1 petition the school to CHANGE THE DATE of the Father-Daughter Dance? I survey Mom 1’s carefully-groomed, well-toned, designer-clad tough-as-nails exterior and think, “Yep, she probably would.”

Meanwhile, I got kids to feed, work to do, and heels to take off, so I’m hoping we can wrap up this little meeting quickly. I’m eager to hear the info that the teacher wants us to know, but Mom 1 and 2 keep interrupting — which makes this meeting 10 times longer than it needs to be.

Then Mrs. Tomasino says, “Also, in 1st grade, we prefer that you don’t bring treats in for your children’s birthdays—”

Mom 1 interrupts to cheerfully say, “Speaking of birthdays, I heard you have three other kids in class who have the same birthday as my daughter! How did you get FOUR kids in your class, all with the same birthday!?

The teacher looks at Mom 1 like she’s an alien.

Mom 3 and I look at Mom 1 like we want to punch her in the tits.

Honestly, the look on the teacher’s face is priceless – like “What the HELL are you talking about? ‘How did I get 4 kids with the same birthday in my class?’ Do you think I PLANNED that? Do you think I REQUESTED that? Who the hell cares about the birthdays? I’m trying to EDUCATE your kids here – I don’t have time to figure out whose birthdays are on the same day!”

By this point, Mrs. Tomasino’s patience is so thin, she just stares back at Mom 1 in dumbstruck awe.

Mom 1 keeps waiting for a response, but none is forthcoming. Her smile falters and she begins to squirm in her seat. She looks to Mom 2 for support. Mom 2 shrugs helplessly.

Mom 1 glances at me and Mom 3. We give her the cold-eyed stare of “You gotta be kidding me.”  The multiple-birthday thing may be an interesting observation to make — but at a different time and place — not here and not now.

Mrs. Tomasino lets out a looooooong, dramatic sigh.

She rustles her paper with the meeting notes.

She stares pointedly at the list, then back up at Mom 1.

She authoritatively addresses the next point on her list, “For supplies, your children will need…”

And Mom 1 and Mom 2 do not say another word for the rest of the meeting.

You go, Mrs. Tomasino, you go!

Being friendly and accommodating is one thing.

But some people will take that inch and drag it into a painful country mile from here to the moon.

So you gotta shut that shit down.

Nicely done, Mrs. T, nicely done.

— Darcy Perdu

For more funny posts, pop your email address right here.

(Have you witnessed other parents interrupting teachers or coaches to ask specific questions about their kids? Any tips how to deal with the time-wasters and me-focusers? How do you teachers out there handle those parents you want to stab with a No. 2 pencil?)

Teacher’s Most Creative Punishment EVER!

Teacher's Most Creative Punishment Ever!  Hilarious Consequence Imposed by the Teacher!  #funny #school #teacher #kids #punishment #humor

So then…I accidentally overhear my daughter and her pals talking about a school incident. Now I don’t mind freely admitting that I frequently and deliberately eavesdrop on my kids – (gots to make sure they’re not cookin’ meth or prank callin’ the Pentagon) – but in this particular case, it really is accidental.

I’m in the pantry, with the door closed, all the better to sneak a snack – but I can’t find the damn Double Stuf Oreos. (And BTdubs, Oreos brand manager, buy another “f” for God’s sake – that “Double Stuf” is just the white trash snack name equivalent of “Brandi with an i.”)

I could’ve sworn I hid them in the crockpot, but they’re not there.

Did I forget where I hid them – or did someone discover them and re-hide them from me? Between my poor memory and my crafty kids, this pantry’s like one big Where’s Waldo? of Sweet Treats.

Just as I’m peeking inside the rice cooker, I hear my daughter and her 8th grade friends tumble into the kitchen outside the pantry door:

Daughter: Did you see how mad Mr. Briggs got in class today?

Friend 1: Oh yes!

Friend 2: Wait, I was with my advisor so I missed class today — but let me guess – was it Danny?

Friend 1: Yes! It’s always Danny!

Friend 2: Danny drives Mr. Briggs crazy! He’s always talking and disrupting the class.

Daughter: Yeah, so you know how the teacher sends him out of the classroom for a few minutes to calm him down?

Friend 2: You mean to calm the teacher down?

They all laugh.

Daughter: Yes! So today, Mr. Briggs sent Danny outside the classroom and told him not to come back inside until he “finds a pregnant ant!”

Friend 2: WHAT!?

Friend 1: Seriously! We all heard it! “Don’t come back until you find a pregnant ant!”

Friend 2: Omigod, that’s hilarious!

Hilarious? That’s GENIUS!

The girls tumble on through the kitchen back up to my daughter’s bedroom.

I find the Oreos behind the pasta boxes and chow down on the tasty treats with a cool glass of milk.

I have a new-found respect for Mr. Briggs.

What a creative consequence for disruptive behavior!

What a daunting challenge to give a rambunctious 13-year-old boy!

So many things to think about:

1) Surely Danny could locate some ants on the blacktop sport court outside the classroom – but how would he know which are pregnant?

2) How could he even determine if the ants are female? (I can barely tell the gender of most pets or lizards, so I’d need a high-powered microscope and a high-res anatomical ant diagram to determine that li’l insect’s sexual category!)

3) Did Danny rush out of the room, shouting “CHALLENGE ACCEPTED!”

4) Or did he spend hours hunched over the blacktop picking up ant after ant, looking closely, then placing it back down? “Nope.” “Nope.” “Oh, MAAAAYbe? Aw, nope.”

5) More to the point, what if Danny walked back into class with an ant and CLAIMED that it was pregnant? How could Mr. Briggs disprove it?

(Would they have to wait the average gestational period of an ant to see if indeed it did give birth!? I picture all the students and Mr. Briggs gathered around the lab table, intently staring at the ant waiting for it to pop out baby ant eggs! Perhaps wagers would be placed – DID Danny find a pregnant ant? What’re the odds? Will she give birth before class gets out? Perhaps kids belt out guesses as crumpled dollar bills and candy bars change hands.)

I quickly Google “ant pregnancy,” almost spilling my milk in the process, cheeks still full of Double Stuf(f) goodness.

“Ants go through complete metamorphosis: egg, larva, pupa, adult. However, only the queen ant lays eggs.”

Holy Shizznit! Danny has to find the QUEEN ant!?

“The queen ant stays in the nest. The worker ants walking around are all sterile females.”

Oh for God’s sake, now Danny has to find the NEST where the ONE PREGNANT QUEEN ANT is hiding out, with her feet up, watching “Ellen,” eating Double Stuf(f) Oreos – while her sterile female servants are out doing all the work?

Does Danny know this? Of course not! They probably cover this in Science class, but he’s too busy being thrown out for talking!

I wish I could text Danny this info. This is critical intel for him to have if Mr. Briggs gives him this assignment again!

I’m so worried about Danny, I corner my daughter later and grill her about the situation. She assures me that Danny’s not being picked on, has no issues, and is only sent outside for a few minutes at a time to gain composure and quit goofing off in class. I’m relieved.

(If he’s tasked with this again, I hope Danny’s clever enough to ask all the pregnant teachers on campus, “Do you have nieces or nephews?” If yes, he can grab her by the hand and introduce her to Mr. Briggs as a “pregnant aunt.” He’d surely get points for creativity!)

Meanwhile, I am PRAYING someone is disruptive in our next staff meeting. I CANNOT WAIT to throw out a similar challenge to one of our employees! “Kevin, step outside this moment! And don’t return until you find a pregnant ant!”

or
“Don’t come back until you find a diabetic turtle!”

or
“Don’t return until you find a dyslexic squirrel!”

“Huh? What?”

Oh, the look on his face would be PRICELESS!

— Darcy Perdu

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(What’s the most creative punishment you’ve heard from a teacher, parent, or babysitter? Any clever ones of your own? How would YOU find a pregnant ant?)

I Don’t Mean To Be All Judgy On This Chick, But REALLY…

I Don't Mean to be all Judgy on this Chick -- But REALLY! #funny #moms #class #kids #students #school

So then…the kindergarteners sing the last note of “You Are My Sunshine” and the classroom erupts with applause from the parents sitting on little chairs in the back.

The teacher announces, “OK, parents, that concludes our parents’ program. It’s noon, so you can just take your kids home with you now – or let them stay at school until 3:00.”

Who SAYS that? Right in front of the kids?

That’s like telling a 5 year old, “Here’s a BRAND NEW PUPPY JUST FOR YOU! – unless your Mom says no.”

So now kids are tumbling over to their parents asking to go home now – and many of the Moms are wearing that conflicted expression of “Ahh! I had hoped to have another 3 hours of peace and quiet – but I’ll be the worst mom ever if I don’t take my kid home now.”

The air is thick with guilt.

Some of the kids are clueless, though, like my daughter, who’s happily pressing Valentine’s candies into her cupcake with her friends. She knows I need to return to the office and she loves her school pals, so I’m good to go.

Meanwhile, I overhear this exchange:

Mom 1: Are you taking your son home now or having him stay ‘til 3?

Mom 2, blowing nose: I don’t know…I’m sick today, so I was thinking of having him stay.

Mom 1: Oh – well, if you don’t feel well, why don’t you take my son home with you too – and he can keep your son company while you rest!

Mom 2: *?*

Who says THAT?

Seriously! Not “since you’re sick, why don’t I take YOUR son home with ME so you can rest” — she actually suggested the sick mom take another kid home with HER!

Just what a sick mom needs – TWO 5-year-olds running around her house creating havoc!

Not to mention, why would you want to send your kid to someone’s house when they’re sick? (We generally try to avoid close contact with sniffling, slobbering, sneezing people so we don’t get sick too.)

I try hard not to be judgy of Mom 1, but I am literally thunderstruck by her audacity.

And she’s not backing down. She’s telling Mom 2 that the kids will have so much fun together at Mom 2’s house! She’s really selling it! Very enthusiastic! Mom 2 wavers, looking uncomfortable.

As mentioned, I have to get back to the office, so I can’t even offer to take Mom 2’s kid off her hands for a playdate – and I don’t know either of the Moms well enough to interject with an alternate plan (or a swift kick to the rear).

So instead I flash a look at Mom 2 that says, “Ermagerd, she is cray-cray if she thinks yer gonna take her kid home too – you stay strong, gurl, don’t let this chick railroad you into a forced playdate!”

Just then, Chloe zips over to show me her candy-cupcake creation, so I don’t know how the situation resolves between Mom 1 and Mom 2, but I hope that mama stayed strong!

Have you ever?

— Darcy Perdu

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(Honestly, I was stunned by this woman. How about you — any similar situations where you just thought, “I can’t believe they just said that!” Any funny stories about Moms, playdates, school parties, or teachers who sell you out in front of your kids? Do tell!)

SPONSORS WE LOVE

Birth with Balance teal logo
I’m delighted to welcome Birth With Balance as a sponsor of So Then Stories! The lovely Chelsea Ann Wiley has created a warm, wonderful website chock full of amazing birth stories from women all over the world. These true accounts of birthin’ babies include stories that are hilarious, suspenseful, touching, heartbreaking, and joyous. As a labor and delivery nurse, Chelsea noticed that many women entered the maternity ward not knowing what to really expect — or clinging to a birth plan that unfolds a bit…differently than planned. Chelsea created the Birth with Balance website so that “through storytelling, active discussions, and supportive listening, we create a collaborative opportunity to connect women around the world and contribute to positive childbirth experiences.”  Naturally, my favorites are the funny ones like “Ready or Not Here I Come” and “Childbirth Advice.” Click those links, then poke around on Chelsea’s site to find more great stories — then ADD YOUR OWN! Be sure to share the site with others, especially moms-to-be! Thanks, Darcy Perdu

She’s SO Wrong – But Oh, How I WISH She Weren’t!

So funny!  My tween suddenly discovers a SHOCKINGLY HARSH TRUTH!   #ohtobeyoung!  #humor #college #weight #sothenstories

So then…she pops a Parmesan Bread Bite in her mouth and says, “I’m so mad!”

I pop a couple Bites myself and ask, “Why?”

“Well,” says my tween daughter Chloe, “You know how everyone talks about the ‘Freshman 15’ that happens in your freshman year of college?”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” she says, “I just found out it means you GAIN 15 lbs!”

I nearly choke on my soda. “What did you think?!”

“I thought it meant you LOST 15 lbs! I’ve thought that for years! I was so excited!” she says, waving her Bread Bite around. “I had all these plans to pig out the summer before I went to college! I was gonna eat pizza and donuts every day, knowing that I’d lose 15 lbs. as soon as I got there!”

She looks deeply aggrieved, like we’ve all been in on this conspiracy to deliberately mislead her.

I’m dying laughing. Could you imagine?

(If the “Freshman 15” means you LOSE 15 lbs., I’ll enroll in college again right now! Then I’ll deliberately fail all my classes so I can re-enroll as a Freshman every year!)

I smile and shake my head as I gaze upon this crazy little daughter of mine.

She’s actually quite bright, but sometimes she says embarrassingly hilarious things like this that make me wonder if I dropped her on her head too many times as a baby. (How many times? I dunno. Why are you being all judgy?)

But I suppose she comes by it honestly. I remember when I found out everyone in the WHOLE WORLD (except for me) was in on a HILARIOUS, HORRIFYING SECRET!

Yep, we’re two peas in a pod, just tryin’ to navigate the harsh realities of life…one Parmesan Bread Bite at a time…

— Darcy Perdu

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(Did you GAIN or LOSE the “Freshman 15?” Did you or your kids have any similar misperceptions about common sayings or concepts? How many Parmesan Bread Bites can you eat in a single sitting?)

7 Funny Reasons the Teacher Sends My Son to the “Thinking Chair”

7 Funny Reasons The Teacher Sends My Son to the Thinking Chair #school #teacher #discipline #funny #backtoschool #humor #kindergarten #preschool

So then…I rustle through some files looking for a document, when I stumble upon a note that I wrote to my son’s pre-school teacher back when Tucker was an “energetic” 4-year-old.

Only it’s not a note. It’s a poem.

And it’s written from my son’s point of view.

And as much as he and I both loved that pre-school teacher, Tucker had some very specific thoughts about THE THINKING CHAIR.

Maybe you can relate…?

THE CHAIR
A poem for Ms. Hopkins, written by Darcy on behalf of her son Tucker, a spirited and energetic young pre-schooler

When I wash my hands – AND my friends
By squirting soap outside the sink,
You cock your head, you purse your lips,
And send me to the Chair to think.

When I can’t sit still or listen well,
Or grab cookies quick as a wink,
You roll your eyes, you sigh real loud,
And send me to the Chair to think.

When I refuse to share my toys,
And start to act like a fink,
You snap your head, point a finger,
And send me to the Chair to think.

When I talk loud at circle time,
And paint the table top bright pink,
You close your eyes, you say a prayer,
And send me to the Chair to think.

Well, Ms. Hopkins, I thought and thought
While I was sitting there,
And most of what I thought about
Was… “I do not like this Chair!”

So I will try so very hard
To do what’s right and good and fair
And hope that in Kindergarten,
There IS no Chair in there!

Thank you for your love, lessons, and discipline, Ms. Hopkins!
Love, Tucker

(Ms. Hopkins laughed out loud when she read the poem, knowing full well that Tucker’s cute little butt cheeks probably left a permanent indentation on that Chair from his frequent visitations there!)

— Darcy Perdu

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If you’re wondering if I ever needed to write the school again when my son grew older, you’ll love hearing about the big, juicy lie he told his teacher!

(Do YOU have a spirited and energetic child? Have you or the teachers ever had a Thinking Chair – or a similar technique for youngsters to “ponder their actions?” Any favorite teachers?)

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