Friendships and Vibrators
I love my gal pals. They go along with all the shenanigans that I throw their way.
When I show up with eye black and ninja gear, they don't ask silly questions.
When I post pictures of myself breaking and entering into their homes, they don't seek legal council.
We would fight a lion for each other. We've been through 342 PTA meetings together, for crying out loud. We have checked each other for lice. We have checked each other for varicose veins. We have checked each other for alcohol poisoning. We would do anything for each other.
Or. So. I. Thought.
One of these "friends" has gone too far.
Here is what happened.
When we hear of situations like this, we all think that we know how we would react.
It's like when we hear infidelity stories. "I would maim him and kick him to the curb in a hot minute!"
Or, when we see someone else's child throwing a hissy fit in the grocery. "I would march his little fanny right out of the store!"
We always think that we know how we would react. In reality, we don't know until it actually happens to us.
There isn't a manual. There aren't pamphlets for "What to do when your children play with your vibrators!" (Yes, plural.)
There are a million ways that my "friend" could have reacted. A million ways that I wish she had reacted.
Do you think she:
- Explained, "Girls, those are mine and you need to respect my space and privacy." (Please continue when you are finished laughing. "Space and privacy"--what the #$%! is that?)
- Exploded, "OMFG! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY VIBRATORS????"
- Took this opportunity to teach about masturbation. (Kill me now.)
- Threw her dearest friend under the bus.
You got it. "D" as in dildo.
My so-called friend told the girls, "Those are Mrs. Rossow's things and she would not like you to be using them. Let's put those things away."
Oh, yes she did.
Someday, these girls are going to grow up and get vibrators of their very own. They are going to remember this day.
This is how they will remember me. They won't remember the barbeques or the sleepovers. They won't remember that I wiped their noses or that I loved them like my own children. No, they will not.
They will remember me as the creeper who stored vibrators in their mother's closet.
Originally posted at: In The Powder Room
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