Douchebag Patrol: Halloween Edition

How can you avoid looking like a douchebag this Halloween? Ask yourself these questions before getting ready:

• Am I putting on makeup to darken my skin? 

Then yes, you look like a douchebag. In fact, not only do you look like a douchebag, you look like a racist douchebag. You can portray someone of another race if you'd like to honor that person, but using makeup to darken your skin seems like you're putting on blackface. Which has horrible, racist overtones that haven't disappeared just because our President happens to be African-American. 

• Am I portraying someone who has killed teens or children recently? 

Then yes, you look like a douchebag. If you think George Zimmerman is a "funny" costume, why don't you dress up as the guy who killed all the kids in Sandy Hook - still funny? 

• Does the label on the costume have the word "sexy" in front of it? 

Then yes, you look like a douchebag. Look, it's great that you want to be sexy. But can you seriously not think of anything sexy on your own? Or find a costume that is already sexy, like slave Leia or something? Nurses, for example, have to deal with enough crap without Halloween costumes that fetishize their professions. 

• Is my child doing any of the things mentioned above? 

Then yes, you look like a douchebag. In fairness, though, you probably ARE a douchebag, so don't worry about it. 

And speaking of douchebags. . . .

Virtual Slap Monday: Douchebags

You know you're a douchebag who deserves a slap when:

• You can only understand the importance of things if they directly affect you. For example, you think the government shutdown is no big deal because you aren't employed by the Federal government. Toddlers are also rather famous for this kind of mentality. 
• You think wearing the right clothing is much more important than doing the right thing. 
• You still buy Chris Brown albums. 
• You are an Oakland Raiders fan. 
• You write open letters to other celebrities. 
• You think forming your own militia/emergency supply system/training force is a better idea than supporting the government you have, but you don't have the ovaries to move somewhere without a strong central government (Somalia?) to see if your militia will really work. 
• You keep casting Dane Cook in movies.
• You do not cast Louis C.K. in movies. 
• You are the CEO of Barilla pasta. 
• You have uttered the phrase, "She was asking for it." 
• You wear Uggs and Daisy Dukes. 
• You think God cares about your football team. 
• You are offended when people swear, but not when they use racial slurs. 
• You aspire to be on Jersey Shore 2: Gym, Tan, Beach Clean Up. 
• You don't think Tina Fey is funny. 
• You speed on cul-de-sacs. 

What traits did I miss? 

Ticked Off Tuesday: A Douchebag Dad

Last year, our Y sponsored a "Healthy Kids" Day. We went because it was free and the weather was crappy. The kids had a great time - there was an obstacle course and a climbing wall and a dance party. Also, there was hardly anyone there. The kids went around and around the obstacle course and the boys were total stars on the dance floor.

I don't know who took over media relations for the Y, but whoever it was did a much better job promoting this year's event. It was packed. Which made it kind of suck.

We had to wait in a huge line for the obstacle course. The group in front of us, which doubled in size while we waited, was an assortment of parents and kids. Two of the boys wrestled each other, which the parents ignored.

During the wrestling, they knocked into Ironflower. I didn't see it, distracted by the mom behind us, whose daughter had gone to preschool with Lovebug and whose name I can never remember until five hours after I see her (FYI, yes, I remember it now).

Instead of apologizing, one of them bumped her again. Hot Guy looked at the Dad, who said, "He's a hockey player, that's what he does." For real. No apology. Hot Guy exhibited massive self-control and did not demand an apology, thereby avoiding a fight in the middle of the Y.

I mean, I suppose the guy thought that explaining that his son was a hockey player was an apology.

So, maybe, if I ran over him with my car, I could tell him that I'm a racecar driver? Or maybe I should have let Hot Guy punch him, and then explained that Hot Guy is a boxer?

And we wonder why high school athletes can turn out to be entitled assholes. I mean, this kid was no more than 8 and he was already being trained that other people don't count. When Hot Guy updated me on the whole situation, it was all I could do not to start yelling at the Dad myself. Lovebug has friends who play hockey and their parents would NEVER let them knock into someone else without apologizing, unless they were ACTUALLY playing hockey at that moment.

Of course, I shouldn't be surprised - the dad was wearing basketball shorts, despite the fact that it was 36 degrees outside. His sweatshirt and baseball cap matched. He never spoke to his daughter. He might as well have had a sign saying "Douchebag" around his neck.

If I could, I would let him know that many hockey players are perfectly polite people off the ice. That they don't go around checking people, especially people who are just standing there minding their own business. That the hockey players I knew in college - some of whom won medals in the Olympics and some of whom played professionally - did things like apologize when they bumped into you.

I have never dealt with a parent like Douchebag Dad before. Even when I taught in schools where the  parents didn't flinch when you told them their kid had called you a bitch or threatened another student, they still made their kids apologize. Even when I had parents who were totally drunk or high, they would make their kids apologize for knocking into other people. Even at schools where the kids told me their parents would sue me for making them miss recess, I never saw a parent just let their kid act like that toward other kids.

GRRRRR.

Dear Douchebag

Dear Douchebag in the  black Mustang,

      You clearly got the question about what the yellow line means wrong on your driving exam, so I thought I'd help you line. The yellow line means that each lane on the road is going in a different direction. So even though there were several cars in front of you, it's NOT OKAY to hop into the other lane, drive around the other cars and then turn in front of them. You see, Douchebag, (can I call you "Douchebag"? Or do you prefer "Asshole"?) I was turning into that other lane. The lane you were not supposed to be in, because you were going in the opposite direction. I almost hit you head on, because you darted out of your lane like you were trying to pass people on the highway.

     Newsflash, Douchebag: The middle of our small downtown? At 5:30 pm on a Friday? NOT A HIGHWAY. Also? Kinda crowded. With people driving THEIR CHILDREN around. You're lucky that I was paying attention and moved around you. You're lucky that the cars you cut off (you know, the ones you cut around and then crossed in front of to make your right turn) were also paying attention. Otherwise you would have been head on or T-boned. Then your shiny black Mustang wouldn't look so pretty.

     I have to apologize here, Douchebag. I was so flabbergasted - and concentrating on driving safely - that I did not get your license plate number. I didn't get to call the police about your driving, which is obviously what you wanted. I mean, that kind of stunt is OBVIOUSLY a cry for help. Either you wanted to get in trouble for something or you are so completely arrogant that you think you don't have to obey driving laws. Which is it's own kind of cry for help. But hopefully someone else was able to get your plate number. I'd like to imagine that even right now, you are getting the kind of help you need. From that grumpy police officer.

                                                                                                    Sincerely,

                                                                                        The Bitch in the Minivan

Haiku Friday - Sometimes The Only Word Is, "Douchebag"

Invisible me

seventh grade over again

at the library

This can't be seventh grade, though. My weight has doubled (in my defense, I was pretty tiny in seventh grade) and I have wrinkles. Not to mention children. But seventh grade is what I've relived twice now at Ironflower's weekly story time. This session of story time is for 3 to 5 year olds. They go up to the story/craft room with the librarian and the parents (and younger siblings) wait in the children's room downstairs. Ironflower loves it and Lovebug enjoys the one on one mommy time.

If it was the moms from the last story time session I went to, I would enjoy it too. Those moms were sweet. And actually, the other moms at this session seem perfectly nice when I talk to them briefly before HE gets there. HE is the star of the town's stay-at-home parents brigade. HE, apparently, has deemed me uncool.

And just like the Queen Bee who considered me uncool in seventh grade (thus forcing me to make real friends with kids from other elementaries), HE will not speak to me. Or move out of my way. Or acknowledge that I exist at all while he regales the newest mom in town with stories of his publishing feats (eg, he sold a novel and as it was about to be published, the publisher went bankrupt and today's special: he brought in an advance copy of the local - free- parent paper because he graces the cover and has an article inside). I know all the details of his life because in the last two story times, he has given them to newest mom.

When the town librarian introduced my kids to his kids last week, he didn't even encourage his kids to say hello. He does not speak to me or to the grandpa that brings his grandson to story time or to the mom whose first language is Spanish, but he is all over the other two moms. He has a British accent that reminds me of Madonna's.

Much like in seventh grade, it's not like I WANT to be friends with - or an acquaintance of - this guy. But unlike in seventh grade, I don't have a hundred alternatives to him and his clique. His son and Ironflower are the same age - and this is a small town. There will be soccer games and kindergarten and more story times. And also unlike seventh grade, I don't know any nasty secrets that I could spill about this guy to get him to at least be polite in public. So, any suggestions?