The Playground Police

Now that Memorial Day is behind us, it's the "unofficial start of summer!" as the media likes to scream repeatedly. Which means barbecues, swimsuits and park pricks. You heard me, park pricks. You know, those wankers (I wish I were British!) at the playground that you hate seeing every day but are forced because you hate sitting in your house with your kids even more.  I thought when I left corporate America the days of daily annoying people were long gone. No, it's just instead of the Printer Jammer who walks away without alerting anybody or the Lunch Stealer who sniffs through brown bags in the fridge until he finds something that appeals to him or the E-mail "cc" Zealot who copies everyone and their second-cousin once removed on every e-mail including her intention to use the restroom, I now deal with the following culprits:

The Swing Hog: Hi there.  Your kid has been in the swing for 30 minutes and that's 15 minutes too long when there are other kids waiting. You are raising a brat who will someday be that guy in the office who takes the last cup of coffee, leaving just a little drizzle so he doesn't have to make the next pot. You suck.

The Snack Stealers: Gee, had you called me this morning and asked that I packed snacks for 25 kids instead of just my two, I would have happily obliged. I'm not stingy, it's just my diaper bag can only hold so many Cheerios at one time.  Here's a hint: Kids get hungry. They like a nibble or two at the park. PACK SOME FOOD.  But please don't allow your child to dig around in my bag like a crazed, starved wolf looking for nourishment.  It's simple. You say, "Chester, mommy is an asshole who doesn't have the foresight to bring snacks to the park. But let's go home and get some so this nice lady doesn't have your slimy hands plunged wrist deep into her tupperware filled with treats so your drool infects her kids with your germs." Luckily, my kids are getting over hand, foot, mouth disease so now I can say, "Oh, Chester is welcome to a graham cracker but did I mention the inside of my kids' mouths are covered in pulsating ulcers and pus-filled sores?"

The Gossip: "Psst. Did you hear the Robertsons are trying to sell their place for more than they bought if for just last year because (in hushed tone) it looks like they are headed for D-I-V-O-R-C-E and well, I wish them luck getting their asking price -- it would be good for a comp when we all want to sell -- but I think they are delusional thinking it will sell at that price...." Umm, who are the Robertsons, who are you and please stop talking to me.  If I wanted to keep up with the Joneses and discuss housing prices I wouldn't be wearing a ratty old sweatshirt and sneakers from the late 90s, capiche?  Speaking of which, who wears Prada boots to the park? Also speaking of which, I owned a pair of Prada sandals once which were really just glorified, uncomfortable flip-flops that repeatedly broke, gave me blisters and generally sucked. So your ugly-ass boots don't impress me. Much. (Please note Shania Twain reference.)

The Split Personality Nanny:  Sybil had more coherent personalities. This is the woman who is the incarnate of Mary Poppins when the parents are around and the sitter version of Mommy Dearest when they aren't.  I keep hoping the kids will learn to talk early so they can scream "OUR NANNY IS MEAN AS A SNAKE!! HEEEELLLLPPPP US!!!!!"  Listen, Peyton, I don't like to get involved in other people's affairs, mainly because I don't like people. But if you don't get off your goddamn cell phone and stop hollering like a deranged lunatic at these children, I will turn your ass in. But please don't make me do it. I don't like confrontation.

If I seem a little grouchier than normal, it's because I've gotten no sleep, my babies are miserable from being sick and I just had a large growth cut out of my eye.  If you see me, shoot me.  And perhaps if I'm not shot in the meantime, I will get a sense of humor back by next week.