Disclaimer: The following is an attempt at SATIRE without harsh or hurtful intention. If the humor intended here fails to amuse, the fault is entirely that of the writer.
Listen, I know we are all here for the kids. I know. And every cent spent on the burnout velvet scarves and pecan-encrusted toffee and Bunco tonight is for the good cause of the school. God knows we love our kids and God knows all the hard-working, long-sacrificing mothers of our little elementary school who give one hundred and ten percent, day in and day out, are really here at the North Shore Women's Club dressed to the nines in sequins and spiky high heels just to show our kids how much we care.
In fact I'm wearing my high heel black boots (zipper on the outside, thank you very much, thirty bucks at Payless, thank you very much) and a skirt so short the wind is blowing (if you know what I mean) tonight just to show I care. And I schlepped these pinchy black boots all the way back to my car and all the way to the ATM just to get cash twenty minutes ago because to my great surprise you informed me, Drunk Mom At The Reception Table, when I first walked in that you did not take credit cards - but I didn't complain, did I? Did I? Did I? No, I didn't. I did not. Because I am here for the kids.
But my name tag is utterly unacceptable.
Look, Drunk Mom, my name is spelled with an "I" and a "Y" and an "E" and a "Y." Is that so hard to figure out? No, it is not. The "Y" in the first name comes after the "I" and there is no "A" in my last name, okay? I never said "A." I do not have an "A" in either one of my names. Not first, nor last. I will not say where you can put that "A" because I am thinking of my kids right now. Are you?
I am terribly, terribly sorry if I didn't register on-line ahead of time so I could get one of those pre-printed name tags that look all special and lovely and well-spelled propped up in rows like smiley pageant contestants.
But just because I'm paying at the door and just because I bravely, so very bravely, came by myself doesn't mean I should be treated like a second-class citizen.
I want a pretty name tag, not one with your messy blue ballpoint corrections inked all over my misspelled name. Is that too much to ask for, considering that I am going to be dropping, yes, double digits of cash for my lavender bath salts and an itchy wool knitted hat? Is that too much to ask?
And just so you know, I could not help but notice that you handed the last couple of pretty ladies a program and explained that it was a map of the vendors, but for some reason you neglected to do so for me. Is there a problem here?
And is there some reason that I am not aware of for which you did not say, "Have a nice time," or some other pleasantry, like you did for those other moms in front of me, that would have made my evening so much more enjoyable, and would have let me know that our transactions were finished and I could turn away instead of continuing to stand in front of you waiting, like a first time Trick-or-Treater who forgot her script? Hm? Hmmm?
Okay. Thank you. Thank you very much.
And where is the cloak room? This way? No? This way? Here? Here? Thank you. Thank you very much.