Nothing to See Here…

Can you tell me which thing doesn’t belong here; now it’s time to play our game.  It’s time to play our game.

Hi, I’m Linda.  You might remember me from back in the day when I used to, you know, blog on my blog.  Nice to meet you.

Tonight, I had the 2nd monthly neighborhood meeting for Area 3 Neighborhood 7 of the Girl Scouts of Eastern Missouri.  Oh, I don’t know if those numbers are right.  I just made those numbers up.  I’m not very good with numbers.  When the meeting kicked off, the chairwoman was giving out prizes for those who had on-time troop registrations last month.  She was calling out by troop number and I had no fucking clue what the numbers were for the troops I co-lead so I just kept a low profile.  Under the radar.  That’s my motto - slide right under the radar.

I’m a fucking Girl Scout co-leader for not just one but two troops.  How did this happen?  Did I not learn my lesson when I tried to join the PTO?  What happened to under the radar, huh?

So I’m at the neighborhood area monthly meeting.  And everyone is bubbly.  At one point, the meeting chairperson started a sentence something like “Because, as you know, we can’t engage in fundraising activities unless…” and the whole room finished along with her “…we follow Safety-Wise!” and they all chuckled like it was some inside joke.  I looked around because I was sure I was in a Will Ferrell movie but there were no cameras. 

In my head, the song played “One of these things doesn’t belong here, one of these things just isn’t the same….”

The meeting is scheduled for one hour.  From seven o’clock until eight o’clock.  One hour.  It was in the school library and there was a big school clock and I couldn’t take my eyes off it.  Eight o’clock, eight o’clock.  It was like a bad movie where the second had slows down to a painful crawl. 

Finally, the clock silently struck eight.  People kept talking.  Nobody moved to leave.  I felt like Shirley MacLaine in the movie Terms of Endearment when it was time for her daughter’s medicine.  I wanted to run around shaking them by their shoulders and say “It’s eight o’clock.  It’s eight o’clock.”  I would point aggressively at my watch and say ”You said I only had to make it to eight o’clock and I made it and now it’s eight o’clock and you people have to let me leave. You promised. It’s eight o’clock!”

But they all kept talking.

I fantasized about being stabbed in the eye with a barbecue fork.  I knew if that happened, they would have to stop the meeting.  I’d get to leave. I considered it a fair enough trade.  Unfortunately, there wasn’t a single barbecue fork anywhere in the school library.

They started talking about The Season of Giving.  They need us to lead service projects with our troops and track the hours so they can turn the data into United Way so that United Way will give us funding.  It was a nice reminder.  “Do good things with the girls and let us know what you did and how much time you devoted.”  That was the message.  That’s what *I* heard anyway.

Evidently, the other women heard “Tell us about every fucking good idea you’ve ever had and every service project you ever did.  Regale us with these endless stories even though it’s past eight o’clock.”  I swear the words didn’t come out that way, but this is obviously what the rest of the women heard because they proceeded to tell us about every service project they ever did.  Sugar free diabetic candy for the VA vets!  Place mats for the old folks home!  Homemade dog biscuits for the Humane Society!  And, get this, if you wait and buy your candy canes after Christmas?  You can get them on sale for very cheap and - wait, it gets better - you can use them to make little hearts  on red construction paper for Valentine’s Day.  Isn’t that clever?  Candy canes made into hearts.  Because of the curvy part.  On red construction paper.  For Valentine’s Day!

Forget the barbecue fork - poke me in the eye with a fucking candy cane.  Log it as a service project so United Way will give us more money.  Surely putting one out of one’s misery is a good service, right?

I wanted to scream “Candy cane Valentine’s are truly awesome but you people told me eight o’clock.  EIGHT O’CLOCK.  Do you see that clock on the wall?  I’ve already missed 17 minutes of Law & Order SVU.  SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT THE CANDY CANES.”

Thankfully, they adjourned the meeting just as the throbbing vein in my left temple was about to burst.

As a mother, as a participant in the PTO or the Area 12 Neighborhood 6 Girl Scout organization, as a helper in the classroom, as a mom arranging for a play date, I never feel like I fit in.  I am a misfit.  I am a poser.  I am different.

And then I look around and think “They all probably feel the same way, think the same things.  I’m no different than any of them.  Everyone has this struggle.  My struggle isn’t unique.  In my differentness, I am the same.”

When the meeting ended, I sprinted to the exit where there was sure to be oxygen.  I needed to get out of there.  When the cold air hit me and I was heading toward my car, I looked back.  If anyone else was like me, felt like me, I was sure to see them rushing to get out of that claustrophobic room with all the talk of candy cane place mats, but there was no one behind me.  Through the double-doors, I could see them.  They were all still in the library chatting and laughing and lollygagging.

Can you tell me which thing doesn’t belong here?  Now it’s time to play our game.  It’s time to play our game.