A Friendly Reminder to the Fucktard Parents at After School Pickup

There is limited parking in front of the school. Please refrain from stopping your car three feet from the person in front of you instead of pulling up far enough to let another car in the line.

You are not special.

I'm looking at you BMW Bitch.

If you are driving a gaggle of children home from school--presumably other people's children in addition to your own--have enough seat belts and/or car seats for all of them.

Seeing a seven year with a toddler on her lap in the back seat makes me want to see how you'd like being thrown through a windshield face first.

Smoking on school property while waiting for your kid to come out is trashy.

...as is swearing into your cell phone in front of little kids.

That sign that says "Buses and Daycare Vans Only"? It applies to everyone--even you, Mr. Jesusfish Minivan.

Generally, and I'm just guessing here, it's not recommended to blast your stereo at full spleen-shattering volume with kids in the car.

That is all.

Dream on

(NOTE: A friend and I started a "Blog Challenge" blog here to make each other write something every day this year. I'm cross posting this here because I liked it...and I'm being lazy. I'm sorry. I won't make a habit of it...or maybe I will. Get off my back.)


For my 8th graduation gift, my parents bought me my very own "stereo system". It was basically just a glorified boom box with detachable speakers. I was elated.

Growing up with super religious parents, I rarely got to hear much of the rock and or roll, save for slumber parties and noisy neighbors. My very own radio/tape deck/record player was my chance to venture into the land of music not signing the accolades of ourlordandsaviour.

The very first thing I did was beg for a ride to the mall to pick out a record of my very own. And the choice was obvious.

The summer between my 7th and 8th grade years was a tumultuous one. For reasons better discussed at a later date, my family moved from southern California to northwest Indiana to live with my Grandparents.

The only saving grace was that my cousin, a year older than me, lived there. Thankfully we got along famously.

She introduced me around to all her friends, reveling in the fact that I was her "cousin from California" as if I possessed some kind of magical power. I enjoyed to attention I got, especially when it came to a certain boy.

This kid was a grade A delinquent, and I was smitten. Like most stories in the treasure trove of my personal life, this one didn't end well. That didn't stop me from pining away for the rest of the summer and even after we moved to the Chicago suburbs that August.

When I first heard the song on the radio, it broke my fragile little 13 year old heart into a million pieces. In my mind, this was "our song", and I pretended that when he heard it, he thought the same thing.

After setting up my shiny new audio system and convincing my Mom I had to go buy a record right that minute, I used what was left of my graduation money to buy a 45 of "Angel" by Aerosmith.

I heard that song on the radio the other day and immediately cringed with embarrassment. The whole summer came flooding back in a wave of nauseated nostalgia.

The boy that I thought I was just dying to be with really was a juvenile delinquent, with a record to prove it. After I moved away, he was arrested for throwing a hammer at the conductor in a passing train.

I don't know what happened to the 45, but that boom box came with me when I went away to college.

Unfortunately, so did my taste for delinquents.