Did I ever tell you the story about the first time I met the director of my kids' preschool? I'm sure I did, but since I don't feel like opening another browser tab and tracking the entry down (SUCH WORK. MUCH EXERTION. WOW.), Imma just retype it, rerun style.
I brought Ezra in to meet his teacher and had Ike with me, and after Ezra ping-ponged around the classroom like a meth-addled hamster, we met the director out in the hallway. I introduced her to a sleeping Very Much Baby Ike and she immediately made the connection to South Park, and then immediately got an OH SHIT look on her face, because...well, that was neither very Montessori nor Responsible Adult In Charge Of A Preschool of her, now was it?
So of course, I loved her immediately. But from afar, in secret, because I didn't want to weird her out with my typical HI HI HI I'M A HUMAN CAPS LOCK thing of coming on too strong with anyone I think might want to be my friend.
Plus, she didn't have any kids, so what the hell would we talk about? What life is like when you don't get peed on all the time? All the movies she's seen in the theater that I hope check out on cable in like three years?
That was — oh my God, the sands through the hourglass, you guys — three years ago. She has a kid now, a boy, and it turns out we managed to get a LOT of conversation traction out of South Park and Ike's Yoda costume and then Ike's Doc Brown costume. It turned out she was the one responsible for this, as she later requested that next year we all dress as something Game of Thrones related. I told her we'd come as the Red Wedding. And instead of being horrified at that macabre idea, she finally suggested that we, you know, hang out sometime.
Long story short, that's how I recently made a new friend.
A new friend who has the power to leave official-looking envelopes for me when I pick my kids up from school; envelopes you think are because you keep forgetting that damn reenrollment form at home, but are actually full of things like the House of Cards deck for Card Against Humanity, complete with handjob references.
Long story short AGAIN, that's why I recently ended up getting knocked over on my ass by a milk-stained IKEA umbrella that fell out of my car and popped open when it hit the ground, smacking me in the face because I was also on the ground, having just extricated the back of my coat from my minivan's sliding door, after five frantic minutes of waving my arms around in vain like a zombie from The Walking Dead, because those precious Cards had fallen off the passenger seat when I opened the door and blown under the car, just out of my reach. Because my coat. Was stuck. And the umbrella was there and milk-stained because Ike had dropped a milk jug from McDonald's (WHAT. JUDGE. WHO CARES. NUGGETS.) on the floor and onto all the crap we keep there (shopping bags, hoodies that don't fit anyone anymore, IKEA umbrellas). I'd grabbed it all to bring inside (because umbrellas shouldn't get wet? unsure of thought process here), then tossed it precariously on the passenger seat once the Cards fell out in a panic. But then it all fell out on me once I retrieved the Cards, which are totally a Proper Noun, Shut Up.
So of course I had to immediately email her and tell her what her gift had led to — me, on the ground outside my house, covered in detrius while triumphantly holding up a print-out of a Netflix-based marketing stunt, while my toddler watched idly by on the sidewalk, eating fries. She was like, that sounds about right, also we should all get a babysitter for when the Veronica Mars movie comes out.
Long story short AGAIN AGAIN, this is why you should buy your South-Park-named offspring a Yoda hat. It's like a Bat Signal for people who Get You.