Consider yourself warned, Suburbia Beyotches!

I’d like to think of myself as a pretty go-with-the-flow kind of gal. When things get a little tense, I imagine myself a willow – willows bend in the strong breeze.

They do not snap.

Lately though, I’ve encountered an issue that is threatening my usual casual demeanor.

It involves my daily routine of dropping off The Oldest.

Now, before I go any further, I want to make one thing crystal clear – my relaxed attitude does not extend to following rules. In that department, I’m a stickler.

So when the school sent home a 10-point diagram about how and when I could come and go, I studied it, memorized it, felt that surely principal wrath would rain down upon my sweet son should I get this wrong.

Honest. I was anxious about it for weeks before kindergarten started, but now I’ve gotten the pattern down, and drop off is mostly anxiety free.

What is the issue now, you ask?

It’s all those baseball cap + pony tail, coffeesippin’ Mamas that continue to whip out of the line behind me after they’ve dropped off their brats from their Honda Odysseys like paratroopers from a C-130. God forbid they be late to their Pilates class, or keep their trainer waiting for hot sex, or miss their second helping of Starbucks.

I’m so sorry my little angel might take a little longer than your kid, but cut us some slack will you – he’s 6, and is still trying to figure out all this school stuff.

And that goes for you too Dads. I know you’re in a hurry to save a transplant patient, or sue that big bad company polluting our air, or have a quickie with your male secretary before the rest of the office shows up. But if one more of you a-holes jump out of the line to hurry things up, I’m going to swerve left and ram all 400+ horses I have under my Denali hood right up your sissy Mercedes tailpipe.

(Deep breath.)

So this morning, let’s all play nice, follow the rules and mind our Ps and Qs, or you might just have to visit a proctologist to retrieve your tire jack.

Namaste.