The art of the inappropriate

Today when we arrived to pick up Leta from school we noticed that she was standing silently next to the teacher to the side of the playground, her face hanging in melancholy. We entered the gate, approached the two of them, and since her teacher could tell that we were a little apprehensive she immediately told us not to worry, Leta had been playing with a new girl in her class, someone who hadn’t yet learned the rules. This new girl was playing a bit rough, and at one point she shoved Leta in the chest and sent her tumbling a few feet backward. This naturally ignited some of my mama bear instincts, but a part of me was like, well, maybe this experience will be good practice for that one day years from now when she decides to open up comments on her blog for the first time.

“Is everything okay?” I asked the teacher.

“Yeah, actually, everything is fine,” she said. “In fact, she kept going back to play with this girl over and over again, even though this girl continued to be pretty awful to her.”

“Ah well, that’s good,” I said. “I guess this means she’ll make a great alcoholic?”

The teacher laughed, but Jon’s body fell over on the ground. He was so mortified he couldn’t even breathe. What? Seriously? I’m not allowed to make a distasteful joke to my daughter’s preschool teacher? That’s funny, because I’m not the one who last week sat in front of a large room full of advertising executives, the people who decide whether or not to purchase ad inventory on this website, the ad inventory that paid for YOUR iPHONE, MR. THERE IS MONEY IN MY POCKET AND IT IS BURNING MY LEG, who turned to his wife, stared directly at her chest and then yelled into the microphone, “Awwwww, yeah! You’re getting laid tonight!”