Meow!

I pretty much knew that when we decided to send the kids to the Shmancy School on the Hill (SSOTH), we would be among the poorest people there. I also knew that when it comes to money, I'm totally judgemental of those who have it. I also knew that my chances of being friendly with the "haves" was going to be slim to none - because as a "have not" I can't keep up with the Cohens and nor do I want to.

Occasionally, however, it's just unavoidable that I'll run into one of these people and will have no choice but to deal with them. A couple of months ago Mum at ballet approached me and said, "Oh, I didn't know DD2 was going to go to SSOTH next year! In fact I didn't even know she was Jewish!" Oh, sorry - did I forget to stitch the yellow star to her leotard? This same Mum was then lucky enough to be the Helicopter Mum I discussed earlier. So she was already on 2 strikes with me, and it was only a matter of time before she headed for three. It didn't take long.

This week SSOTH celebrated the Jewish holiday of Purim (think of it as the Heeb version of Halloween.) Each class had a colour theme, and for DD1 it was black. Apparently while we were away, a parent organised for all the girls in the class to dress as black cats...but nobody bothered to contact me about it. Since we've been back, being a black cat is pretty much all DD1 has talked about - and I checked with her MANY times to be sure that the parent in charge knew she was part of the group.

The event was this past Monday. The Friday previous at about 3pm I got a voice mail from the two strikes Mum, letting me know there was a "miscommunication" about the costumes. Hmmm. I called her back...and in the course of this conversation I heard that she didn't know how to contact me while we were away (it's called email, bitch!) and she wasn't sure if DD1 wanted to participate (it's called a phone, bitch!) and that she didn't have an extra costume for her (it's called bad planning, bitch!).

She went on to tell me that the costumes (and by costume we are talking ears, a tail, and a necklace thingie which she made herself) were *very* expensive, purchased from two different shops (both in high streets, uuuff coouurrrssee) and that there were none left for me to go and buy even if I wanted to. Great. You totally fuck my kid over and then call me to gloat about it? Nice move, that. Apparently out of the goodness of her heart she managed to make my DD one of these infamous necklaces, but didn't bother to send it to school with the other costumes since she still did not know if DD1 was part of the group or not. So then we entered into negotiation about how to get said necklace to me (not hard, our kids are in ballet together, right?) (It's called being a decent human being, bitch!).

Then she has the balls to ask me WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT THIS, EMZEE? I'm pretty sure she asked me that no less than a half dozen times. "It's FRIDAY at 4pm! Where on earth will you find a costume for her by MONDAY? It took me *weeks* or searching and getting it organised and you will *never* find something for her. What are you going to do?"

I don't fucking know, bitch, but I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be friends with YOU any time soon.

And no, I don't know why I did not just hang up the phone in her plastic surgeried face right then and there. I just answered back a half dozen times, "I have no idea what I'll do, but I'll figure it out." (But it's FRIDAY AT 4pm emzee!!) (No shit, I know you left it to the last minute just to piss me off. Can we hang up now?)

So I did what any other mother would do. I wandered into a local craft store, found my kid black ears, tail, nose and bowtie, and paid a whopping $3.5o for it. My kid looked totally and utterly cute and loved every second of her costume, meowing all over the house and feeling entirely fabulous.

And since I know you want to know... the infamous necklace made it to ballet by some miracle. It was a piece of black elastic onto which she had threaded a piece of shit tiny bell and a little heart onto which she had texta'd my kids' name. Good thing she worked out how to SPELL DD's name, because that would have been the final straw. It was a pathetic piece of costume crap, let me tell you.

Since I can't end this post without a "and then what" conclusion, I tucked DD1 into bed on Monday night and asked how it all went. "Well," she said, "Mum, all the other girls' cat costumes were different to mine. But I didn't mind, it just means I have my own special style."

...and that's exactly why my kids will ALWAYS kick your rich kids' little perfumed ass, bitch.