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	<title>WIRL Project &#187; Kate Robinson</title>
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	<description>What It&#039;s Really Like.</description>
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		<title>Officer Down</title>
		<link>http://www.wirlproject.com/officer-down/</link>
		<comments>http://www.wirlproject.com/officer-down/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 28 May 2015 15:00:00 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[Kate Robinson]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Entertainment]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Family]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[best friend]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[compassion]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Friend]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[heather seddon]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[high as a kate]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[highasakate]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[kater79]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[love]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Officer]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[officer down]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[People]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Police]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Shot]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.wirlproject.com/?p=6480</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Today is Sunday, May 24, 2015. The weather is overcast and cool, and it’s definitely one of those days where the video games will get a lot of use…. Funny thing – this was also the case exactly one week ago. May 17, 2015. It was overcast and cool, and a Sunday much like so many others. The kids were playing downstairs, and I was hiding out in my room for a few minutes just to clear my mind before the mundane tasks of motherhood took over and I was forced to play second fiddle to everyone elses’ needs. Then my phone rang. Now, anyone and everyone who knows me knows how much I LOATHE speaking on the phone. 1996 Kate? Loved it. 2015 Kate? Not so much. But the person on caller ID just so happens to be one of my favorite men on the planet, so I answered. “Hey, Kate. What are you doing?” “Nothing – just sitting on the toilet.” “Okay, well I’m glad you’re sitting down, because Heather was just shot, and she’s on her way to the hospital.” In that moment, I knew I wasn’t fully processing what I was hearing. It couldn’t be. Not in a million years. Not Heather. NO. No, no, no, no, no. I immediately went into “Robot Mode”. “Okay – where is she now?” “She’s at the hospital, in surgery. The hospital is on lockdown, so when you get here, call me and I’ll get you in.” See, I’m not a police officer. I am what police like to refer to as, “a civilian.” Call me whatever the hell you want – just let me see my friend. Now Heather – Heather is a police officer, and a damned fine one at that. The department is lucky to have her, and even though she may not patrol my neighborhood, I still feel safe knowing that officers of her caliber are out there, putting themselves in harm’s way in order to make our city as safe as it can be. I know there has been a lot of tension in recent months or even years with regards to law enforcement, but let me be perfectly clear. This post has really nothing to do with that. This post is about two friends. From the first moment I met Heather, years ago, something clicked. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I knew the second we met that we’d be friends for life. And I was right. We text almost every day, tag each other in silly Instagram posts and send each other ridiculous memes in long text threads involving at least three other people at all times. She’s my “go-to” when I’m having a bad day, and she’s my “go-to” when I’m having a wonderful day. But it’s not just Heather who is amazing. Her family is amazing. Her mom and dad are hilarious, and two of the kindest people I have ever had the privilege of knowing. At parties I have had the opportunity to meet many of her co-workers, and I have to say… most police officers are pretty fun to hang out with when not in uniform. I will admit that, as a civilian, I can’t help but feel a little bit like an outsider when we are all together; after all, I have no idea what it’s like to put your life on the line, every single day and/or night, for strangers who more often than not, seem to want to point out your failures as an officer, rather than praise you for being as close to a superhero as superheroes get. Not to mention, sometimes someone will make a joke, and then you’ll hear a resounding, “now THAT’s what I call a 1086 or a Code 5911, etc.” or whatever cop jargon they use, and then I just look around the room thinking, “I need to get a cheat sheet for this crap.” Now, back to May 17. As I sped down the freeway, yes… I SPED, I didn’t know what to think. Was she dead? Was she paralyzed? Would she ever be the same? I thought about her fiancé, the buddy who’d called me. I thought about her mom and dad and brother and all of her fellow officers whom I’d met. I felt numb and utterly helpless, and I cannot, for the life of me, think of a worse feeling than that of feeling utterly helpless; unable to say or do anything to improve or change the circumstances in which you find yourself. When I finally reached the hospital, I was taken aback by all the police cruisers, cars and just men and women in uniform literally protecting her from any outsiders. It was a marvelous, albeit, stressful sight. I was overcome with pride and happiness that she worked with so many good men and women who love and care for her as much as the rest of us do. I can’t begin to try to imagine what it would be like, as a fellow officer, to see someone you put your life on the line with every day in such unknown circumstances – but at that moment, I couldn’t even think. I just needed to see her. Immediately. As I approached a group of officers in and out of uniform, I asked if I could go in with them so I could see her. I already knew her room number – I wasn’t exactly a stranger. One of the officers looked at me suspiciously and said, “You know Heather?” My response? “Well, I’m going to be a bridesmaid at her wedding, so I sure hope so.” I know my sarcastic humor couldn’t have been more ill-timed, but laughter is how I deal with most things. If I’m not laughing – I’m crying, and there was no way in hell I was going to let her see me upset – she was my hero, and now it was my time to be hers. I was escorted into the waiting room where I was greeted by 20-30 police officers. Some in uniform – others not. Greeted might be a strong word, since the room was cold and tense. To say I was intimidated would be a hugely gross understatement. I scanned the room and only recognized two officers, and was receiving suspicious glances from everyone else. I didn’t blame them. The waiting room had a level of tension I had never experienced before. Of course, I had also never been in this situation before. Obviously, many of the police officers there remained stoic and poised. I, on the other hand, didn’t know what to do. So I sat down and loudly stated, “For the record, nobody has permission to check my purse or my trunk.” (sigh) I don’t know what I was thinking…. I just couldn’t handle all the serious tension. We were ALL helpless at that point, so might as well break the ice in the only way I knew how. It was well-received by some, and by others? Not so much. On the bright side, I had the opportunity to speak to many of her fellow officers, and I was able to meet many new and wonderful people whom I know I will see again and greet with hugs. Now, before I reached the hospital, I already knew the details of what had happened to her and when I arrived, I was able to get an update about her condition. And I can now definitively say, with 100% certainty, that the media has no clue what the hell they are doing or talking about. They couldn’t get the information they wanted, so they made up whatever they thought would attract the most attention. It’s sad, really. I just sat there, waiting for hours, just hoping to see her face and let her know that I was here. I even brought dumb magazines to keep her company, but after three hours of waiting, we were told by the hospital staff that we had to leave. Not just civilians – everyone, except for the officers on duty protecting her. I saw her fiancé, hugged him, and asked him to please make sure he let her know that I was there, even if I couldn’t see her. He assured me he would, so I gave one of the officers on duty the magazines, and I went home. When I came back the next morning to see her, I ran into one of her fellow officers in her cruiser and asked if I could sit with her for a minute before I went in. As we sat in the car talking, something most unexpected happened. An African-American man cleaning up the garbage around the hospital approached the officer’s window and said something I will never, ever forget. He said, “Hello, Officer. How’s your friend doing? I really am praying for her and a good recovery.” Then he said, “Listen, I wanted you to know something. I live in a very bad part of town – I guess you’d call it the ‘hood&#8217;, and most of my family and neighbors are in gangs and involved in drugs and stuff, and I know that there’s been a lot of stuff going on and being said in the media about cops and blacks, but I have not heard one single person make light or laugh at your friend’s situation. No one is cheering. No one is clapping. No one is celebrating.” That really got to me. I had no idea one man’s comment could put so many things into perspective. See, Heather is not just a police officer. She is a human being. She is someone’s daughter. She is someone’s sister. She is someone’s friend. She is someone’s fiancee. She is someone. It is so easy to forget in times of strife and evolution, that at our core, we are all people. That man didn’t know her. He didn’t know her name. He didn’t know the details. All he knew, was that she was hurt and he was praying for her. It was as simple as that. It is so easy to forget in times of strife and evolution, that at our core, we are all people. I wish we, as a society, could look past the uniform, and realize that yes, there are police officers out there who give others a bad wrap, especially the ones who give me tickets for having tinted windows on my minivan, but take the uniform off and we are all just people. And people need each other. And when someone so close to you comes thisclose to losing their life, it really makes you resent all the negativity pointed at these heroes we so easily take for granted. It has now been one week since Heather was shot. Looking back, and after speaking with someone I love, it was made apparent to me that having my tallest best friend shot and almost die was essentially a perfect storm of all of my worst fears and anxieties coming at me at once. I wasn’t able to eat. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t even be a mom – I was so wrapped up in the hailstorm, and now, a week later, I’m finally starting to feel normal again. And that is mostly due to my hero, Heather. God love her. She’s the one who reassured me that she would be ok. She and her fiancé are the ones who held me when I went to their house and laid on her lap and cried. She is the one who continued to smile and put me at ease, even though she’s the one who took a bullet. She was there for me when I wanted to be there for her, and if THAT isn’t the definition of a hero, then I don’t know what is. I want the WORLD to know what an amazing woman, friend and police officer she is, and San Diego is lucky as hell to have her. I love you, Heather. You are my hero. You are everyone’s hero. ~ Your Shortest BFF]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Fergie &amp; the Fire (2014)</title>
		<link>http://www.wirlproject.com/fergie-the-fire-2014/</link>
		<comments>http://www.wirlproject.com/fergie-the-fire-2014/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 15 May 2015 09:00:22 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[Kate Robinson]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Entertainment]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Family]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Health/Fitness]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Children]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[cry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[fergie]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[fire]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Help]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[high as a kate]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[highasakate]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[kater79]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[School]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[shoulder]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[stranger]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.wirlproject.com/?p=6154</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Today started like any other day. I took the kids to school, came home, and had my first workout in almost 3 months. After my trainer left, I sat down and 90 seconds later, my phone rang. “Hi, Kate – this is Kellan’s teacher.” “Uh-oh…. what did he do THIS time…?” “The school has been evacuated, and all the children are being held at (blank). Please come get him as soon as you can.” “What about my daughter?” “I don’t know.” That was my first and last communication with the school for hours. I immediately hopped into my car, and started the 15 minute drive to get BOTH of my younger children. My oldest goes to a difference school, one which was not evacuated, so that gave me a little bit of comfort as I drove down the main road. I tried listening to music, but all I could think about was seeing the kids. I was so focused on the road ahead, that when I finally reached a stoplight and had a minute to look around me, I realized that everyone inside their cars and out had their smart phones pointed at the hills in the distance. I looked in the same direction, and that’s when I saw the enormous plume of smoke rapidly filling the skies. It moved fast and with purpose, and I feared what lay ahead. As my car traveled farther north, I started to notice all the surrounding cars being re-routed, and when I looked at the intersection 3 stoplights from the kids’ school, it was completely blocked off by police cars and fire trucks. Being horrible at navigating pretty much anything, I turned with all the other cars, and then turned on my GPS to find another route. But it made no difference; regardless of where I turned, I ended up being turned around by police cars &#38; sirens. Alas, I ended up back on the main road, upon which I had just attempted to circumvent, and decided just to pull over and gather my thoughts. As soon as I did, 5 men rushed to my car shouting, “Lady! Watch out! Embers are hitting the power lines directly above your car!” Could this day get any better? I moved my car forward, out of danger from the lines, and then started madly texting all the moms and teachers from school whom I could think of. The first part of the text was to tell them to get their children, and the second part asked if anyone could take mine, as well. Then, I waited. I waited for what seemed like an eternity, but turned out to be the longest hour of my life. Not to mention, I suffer from anxiety, so how I was able to stay calm through this is beyond me. And then, as I sat there, constantly reassuring myself that the kids were fine, I looked out my window and saw a woman standing alone, sobbing. There were several people out of their cars, but she was alone. I got out of my car and walked right up to her, and without saying a word, I wrapped my arm around her and let her cry on my shoulder. When she finally stopped, she explained that she was watching the fires surrounding the apartment complex where she lived, and she was devastated because she&#8217;d been evacuated so quickly, she had no family around and she had not had time to grab one single item. Absolutely nothing. She felt helpless and alone, and I wished I knew how to help her. As we stood there, both waiting for very different things, it occurred to me that this perfect stranger – a woman I had never met, and would probably never see again, was helping me in ways that she probably never expected. And I would like to think that I did the same for her. And then, after several minutes, I received a text from a friend of mine that another mom had grabbed the kids and they were safe at the mom’s house and eating turkey melts. I couldn’t have been happier or more relieved. But as I got back into my car, I stopped, rolled down the window and asked the woman if she would like my number, in case she needed somewhere to go. I explained to her that, even though we were strangers, that didn’t change the fact that we are both people, and it’s important to help each other. She gladly took my number, and I hoped I would hear from her again. &#8230;in times of need, we can and should do what we can to help each other. I drove to the nearest gas station, and as I waited for the parents, also known as my heroes, to bring the kids to me, it occurred to me that in times of need, we can and should do what we can to help each other. Even a small gesture can go a long way when someone feels helpless and alone. When my kids finally came, I hugged them long and hard, and then went straight home. And an hour later, my phone beeped. It was Fergie – the lady by the side of the road. She had been able to go back to her apartment long enough to grab a few things, and her children were safely on their way to a friend’s house. She ended the text with a smiley face, and for a moment, it made all the chaos and sadness of the previous few hours seem like a distant memory.]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Why Does My Weight Get to Dictate?</title>
		<link>http://www.wirlproject.com/why-does-my-weight-get-to-dictate/</link>
		<comments>http://www.wirlproject.com/why-does-my-weight-get-to-dictate/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 08 May 2015 00:00:00 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[Kate Robinson]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Entertainment]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Health/Fitness]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Be Heard]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Body image]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[depression]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Diet]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[highasakate]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Scale]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Size]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[weight]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[weight gain]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Workout]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.wirlproject.com/?p=5894</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Happy Thursday, everyone! Not for me, though. I think today sucks balls. And I thought yesterday sucked balls, too. Who knows what kind of balls will be sucked tomorrow…. “Damn! Why’s Kate in such a shitty mood? What did Adam do!!!!” Actually, it’s not Adam at all – it’s 100% me. I’m in a really fucking shitty mood because……. I. Feel. Fat. Before I continue, I’d like to say something. I am not a medical professional. In fact, I passed all of my physical science classes by the skin of my teeth. So if you’re reading this and hoping that I’ll provide some EUREKA moment of clarity that will solve your weight problems – don’t bother. I’m as clueless and lazy as you are. Another thing I’d like to point out, is that I’m thin. How thin? None of your goddamn business, that’s how – but not too thin…. that’s for sure. But the reason I’m telling you this, is because I know some of you know what I look like and will be rolling your eyes with a word bubble hovering over your head that reads, “#skinnybitch #skinnypeopleproblems”. But it’s important you know this, because I sincerely feel that there is this radical misconception that only fat people can feel fat, and that if you’re thinand feel fat, then you’re really just fishing for compliments. I stand by this statement 100% because ANY time I’ve tried to even broach the subject of how I am feeling about my weight, guess what? Some of my friends roll their eyes, mad-dog me and then tell me to, “Shut the fuck up.” But I can’t help it! Sometimes that’s how I feel! For example, over the past two weeks, I have gained 5 lbs. Now this may not seem like a lot to some of you, but 5 lbs. on a fat person and 5 lbs. on a skinny person look wayyyyyyyyy different. And no – I will not be politically correct and call fat people “overweight” Fuck that – you’re fat. I’m sorry, but it’s true. Does it make you less of a person? Of course not! Does it mean you’re not beautiful just the way you are? Fuck no – as long as you’re happy, DO YOU. I’m just calling a spade a spade. If you are carrying a lot of extra weight around your major organs, what’s that weight made of? Dollar bills? Laundry baskets? Lawn chairs? No – it’s made of fat. But that’s not the point of this post. I could give two shits how much a person weighs; if you’re a good person, that’s all I care about. Well…. that’s not entirely true. Obviously, if you’re carrying excessive fat around your major organs, preventing them from working properly, and you also happen to be someone I care about, then it will matter to me. But I’m not your mom, so I will never try to make you feel bad about it. But if you are reading this, and we’re friends, and you happen to be overweight, know that I want you to get into better shape for your health – NOT for your closet. Okay, now that that’s out of the way, allow me to get back to my main point. I feel fat. I know that logically speaking, I’m not, but it doesn’t matter. It’s how I feel. It boggles my mind how much power I give my scale. Seriously. Every morning, after I pee (morning pees are the BEST!!!!!) I weigh myself, and then, like an idiot, I allow the number on the scale to dictate how my day will go. How fucked up is that?!?! How did a fucking square, made in Taiwan, with numbers on it, gain so much power? Someone please tell me? I just don’t get it. It’s like there are two little synapses inside my brain, having a little conversation. Good Synapse: “It’s okay, Kate. No matter what the scale says, you are perfect just as you are.” Bad Synapse: “Fuck that shit. If you so much as gained 1/2 a pound, you are a loser and are completely unloveable. Step away from the bread, you fat whore.” Good Synapse: “Shut up. Don’t listen to it, Kate. Just drink a lot of water.” Bad Synapse: “Yeah… listen to Good Synapse, you bloated goat. And remember, water does not mean chocolate milk…….. Fatty. Hey! I just realized something…. Kate and ‘weight’ rhyme! HAAHAAHAHHAHA – that means you ARE fat. Fat, bloated &#38; gross. Stay indoors. Don’t subject the world to your FUPA.” Me: “Hey, Bad Synapse. Did you realize your initials are BS?” BS: “Hey, Kate Weight, did you realize you’re fucking fat? I’m shutting down your endorphins so you suffer!!!!! Suffer, you fat bitch. Suffer!!!!!!!!!!!! I know – I sound crazy. But, truth be told – if I were to write this post when I’m feeling skinny, I’d probably end up ‘there-‘there’ing myself and writing down all sorts of euphoric wisdom. But guess what? That’s not how life works. Sometimes you love yourself, and sometimes you wish you could be anyone else BUT you. And it sucks. It really, really sucks. BUT, it’s important that men and women of all sizes understand that even the skinniest people aren’t happy with the way they look sometimes. In fact, I think it’s fucking rude to tease skinny people about their size – EVER. If it’s not okay to tell a fat person, “Dude! Put the burger down!”, why is it acceptable to tell a skinny person, “Dude! Eat a burger!” Guess what? It’s not. Okay, I’m getting off-topic. Back to my venting. I was chatting with a friend of mine recently, and she was really bummed out because she had gained some weight and was having a difficult time getting rid of it. I can totally relate. It is so fucking frustrating to try your best and still feel like you’ve failed. Every morning you wake up and promise yourself you’ll do better, and then as you turn out the lights at night you feel like a failure. You tell yourself, “There’s always tomorrow.” Well guess what? That is one fucked up way of thinking. And I can say that because that’s exactly what I say and how I feel. YOU ARE NOT ALONE!!!! Why are so many of us afraid to admit when we’re feeling bad about ourselves? I have yet to meet one single person who loves themselves so much that they never have a bad day and they never feel depressed. You wanna know why? Because they don’t fucking exist. They don’t!!!! And……. if you’ve met someone like that, run as quickly as you can in the other direction, cuz that person is in such denial about the realities of life and is so detached from their own feelings that they will most likely end up on an episode of “I Thought I Knew Them.” No, that’s not a real show, but it sure as hell could be! Think of all the killers, rapists, child molesters, con artists, etc. who portrayed themselves as “having it all”. Think of all the Dateline interviews where the victims or acquaintances look at the camera and say, “He/she was such a nice person. Never in a million years did I think….” “I thought I knew them.” And for the people who say they never weigh themselves? I’m telling you right now that I envy you. I am jealous and bitter, but most of all, confused. I can’t imagine going a single day without weighing myself. But perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps I need to calm the fuck down and reassure myself that the scale means NOTHING. The scale doesn’t pay my bills. The scale doesn’t get my nails or hair did. The scale doesn’t cuddle with me and tell me I’m pretty. The scale doesn’t rub my feet on the weekends and help out with the kids. The scale doesn’t feed the dogs or water the garden. In fact, the scale doesn’t do SHIT.Literally. It literally does nothing. At least a dog licks your face and lays in your lap (regardless of its size). Does the scale lay at your feet and follow you around the house, sensing your sadness and wanting to make it go away? Fuck no, it doesn’t. It takes up 12 square inches of my bathroom and 100% of my brain. How is that even possible?!!?!?!? FUCK. YOU. SCALE! I know…. I’m cursing a lot. I can’t help it and I don’t want to, either. I write the way I speak. In fact, not to plagiarize myself, but I’m pretty sure it says that it my bio, as well. And anyone who knows me knows that, while my vernacular may be broad, I’m just too lazy to use intelligent words. So my go-to is always “fuck“. I’m mad? Fuck you. Didn’t like my food? Fuck that dish. Find out someone is badmouthing me? Haha. I don’t give a fuck. You don’t like me? Your fucking loss. You fuck with someone I love? I’ll fuck you up. You talk badly about one of my friends? I’ll tell you to go fuck yourself.  My son got 100%? That’s fucking awesome! My daughter drew a flower? Fuck yeah! My husband is coming home early? Whoa – that’s fucking rare…. but also fucking amazing!!!!!! Okay, now that I’m rambling, allow me to finish this by stating simply that, we all come in different shapes and sizes, and regardless if you’re a size 4 or 14, we all have feelings. And while the size 14 might find it obnoxious that a size 4 person would not be happy with the way they look, it doesn’t make our feelings any less valid. So when a thin person tells you they’re feeling ugly, fat, lonely, whatever, please don’t roll your eyes. Sometimes all a person needs is someone to hear them. Believe me – there is a stark contrast between listening to someone and hearing them. Hearing someone goes much deeper. By hearing them, you allow yourself to put yourself in their shoes, even if only briefly, and you can often see things from their perspective. It’s amazing what kind of friend you can be when you HEAR what other people have to say instead of just listen. …… More on that topic later. P.S. You know how ‘they’ say writing shit down helps? Well FUCK ‘THEY’. Who the fuck are ‘they‘ anyway? Talking scales – that’s who.]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>1</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Pick Up: Elementary School Edition</title>
		<link>http://www.wirlproject.com/pick-up-elementary-school-edition/</link>
		<comments>http://www.wirlproject.com/pick-up-elementary-school-edition/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 05 May 2015 18:00:00 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator><![CDATA[Kate Robinson]]></dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Entertainment]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[carpool]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[highasakate]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[kater79]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[School]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://www.wirlproject.com/?p=5788</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Well, hidy-ho!!! Fuck – I cannot get that Mr. Hanky song out of my head….. “It’s Mr. Hanky, the Christmas Poo – small and brown, he comes from you…..” Yep – I’m that mom. I’m the mom who, every morning at the breakfast table, says or does something so ridiculously inappropriate, and then giggles uncontrollably with our two boys as my hubby looks on, head hung low, defeated. They have three minutes to leave the house for school, but we’re too busy making faces at each other and saying potty words….. But alas, they do leave the house, mostly just in the nick of time, and then I go about my day until it’s time for me to pick them up….. which brings me to today’s topic: Pick Up. Oh… pick up. What a “fun” experience THAT is. There are just so many aspects of pick up that confound my mind, that I feel now is the time to call some of these bitch-ass parents out. And I shall do this in my favorite way…. CATEGORIZATION. Oh yes…. Shall we begin? Okay, for the purposes of today’s post, I will be using random descriptive words as the headings, and then, if you managed to graduate 3rd grade, you’ll hopefully pick up what I’m putting down. Now, without further ado, allow me to present to you….. The CaraVAN I happen to own a van, which comes in handy when you have three kids or are just too fucking lazy of a parent to bother helping your kids into their seats. I happen to fit into both categories. Jealous, anyone? Anyhoo, every day when I drive up to the school, I swear there’s an assembly line of auto parts being physically put together as I wait. EVERY FUCKING VAN IS A MOTHERFUCKING HONDA. Including mine…. But I pimped mine out – Black rims and blacked out windows. And I blast hip-hop and house all day long, so even through the sea of HONDRONES waiting to get their kids, you can’t miss me if you try. And if you do happen to overlook my car, you’re a fucking liar. I saw you look at me. It’s cool. We don’t need to be friends, but apparently only ONE of us is a human being, because apparently only ONE of us knows how to be polite…. which brings me to the….. Cardiophobics Medically speaking, this is a fear of the heart or heart disease(s). Metaphorically speaking, however, this is apparently the fear of being polite and WAVING. Who knew!?!?!?! Who could have known, in their wildest dreams, that there are people out there physically incapable of raising their hands or arms an entire 9 inches to wave hello. It makes no sense! I don’t see you struggling as you remove the lint from your friend’s shirt, or to flirt with the dad next to you. You smack your hand against his chest like he just told the best joke EVER. If you make eye contact with someone you know, and you wave – and I don’t mean the crazy waves you see at the airport when sorority sisters are reunited after a loooooooooong weekend apart. No, I’m referring to the universal term for, “I see you, I acknowledge your existence and I hope you have a nice day.” Well guess what? You obviously DON’T want me to have a nice day, so to you cardiophobics I say, “Go fuck yourselves.” Waving is not that hard. Just pretend you’re about to praise Hitler. You probably already do praise him, so then just act like I’m him and say hi. Would you NOT say hello to your fuhrer, even if said mentor was Hitler? I think not. Fucking bigots. At the very least, you could manage a smile. Hell, maybe you are smiling, and the Botox and fillers are physically preventing you from curving the corners of your mouth. If that’s the case, call my doctor – he’s awesome. But you wanna know which non-wavers REALLY piss me off? The rearview mirror non-wavers. Allow me to jump forward for a brief second. At our children’s school, there are two lanes that cars use to enter and exit. This method seems to work fairly well, until you actually have your children in your possession and attempt to exit the cluster-fuck of vans and sports cars. Oh, did I forget to mention that? You have two choices when it comes to the type of car you drive…. a van, or a sports car. If you see a sedan, take a photo. They are an endangered species at our school. Anyway, back to the main point. Once you have your kids, you have two choices – go left or right. You are not allowed to just go straight. The vast majority of families live to the left, so naturally, you’d prefer to be in that lane…. but truth be told – THEY BOTH SUCK. If you’re in the left lane, you have to deal with the onslaught of other vehicles attempting to invade your lane, while you’re stuck behind 4 cars at the stop sign, just trying to get the fuck out of school but are prevented from doing so by the crossing guard, who, if I didn’t know any better, has a personal vendetta against me. I swear – they’re fucking psychic. “Oh look, it’s Mrs. Robinson…. hmmmm I don’t see any kids who need to cross the street. Oh! I know! I’LL cross the street by myself!” But that’s not even the part that truly pisses me off. It’s when the car in the right lane puts on their blinker, I let them in, and then I wait…. I wait and I wait and it never comes. The universal sign for “thank you”. RAISE YOUR HAND AND WAVE INTO THE REARVIEW MIRROR, ASSHOLE! I DIDN’T HAVE TO LET YOU IN.” In fact, now that I see the car, I make a mental note NOT to let them in the next time… But I’m a sucker. I always let them in. But not the asshole behind them who tries to sneak in, too. Motherfucker I see you!What? You think you’re just going to ‘pretend’ you’re HITCHED to the back of the car I just let in? Jigga, pleez. Nice try. Looks like someone needs a reminder rhyme…. “No cuts, no butts, no alligator guts.” Repeat. “No cuts, no butts, no alligator guts.” Are You Trying To Get Run Over? Make up your minds!!!! Are you crossing the street or parking lot or two-lane carpool or what?!?! You literally look like a deer in headlights. I’m not referring to the kids… well, that’s bullshit. I’m totally also referring to the kids – but only the older ones. Not only are you NOT looking both ways before you cross the street, but you’re not even fucking CROSSING!!!!!!! You’re stopping in the middle of the cross walk and staring at all the cars or even worse – you’re tying your shoes. It didn’t occur to you to tie your shoes before you, oh…. I dunno… RAN DOWN THE STAIRS to the sidewalk?!?Maybe you’re looking for your mommy. Maybe you’re looking for your friends – in either case, move the fuck out of the way! My kids are waiting for me, and I don’t have time to sit while you decide whether or not the guy asking you to help him find his dog is legit. Just be a good citizen and help the guy out. He’s obviously a nice guy. His van even says “Free Candy” on the side. Duh – totally trustworthy. Just please keep going. This bitch has places to be – namely, home so I can hide in my room. Invisible Drivers I remember the first time I saw what I thought was an invisible driver. I was so freaked out and awestruck that I took out my phone and started to take pictures. But then something rather strange happened. Out of NOWHERE, this mom climbs IN TO the driver’s seat, obviously unaware that she was physically crushing the invisible driver, and then get this? The bitch straight DROVE off with a kid in the back. Can you believe that shit? Seriously though, don’t be “that asshole“. Don’t get in one of the drive-thru lanes and then park and exit your vehicle in order to get your child. Don’t you think that’s what we’d ALL like to do? Now that you’ve abandoned your vehicle, the 30 cars in line behind you are now stuck, waiting for your entitled ass to get back into your car and MOVE. If you want to walk up to the school to physically get your child, arrive to school earlier and PARK. You should definitely know how to park. You do it in the carpool lanes all the fucking time. C’mon. You’re being a douche. How can you not know this? Well I’ve got news for you – we all know it, and if you think we’re not all mad-doggin’ you and mumbling insults under our breath, then you’re as dumb as you look. That’s about all I have to say about the subject at this point; perhaps I’ll add a few more as they pop into my head. Oh, and if you’re interested in reading about the different types of parents I’ve encountered in the past, check out these two posts I wrote last year. http://highasakate.com/2014/04/25/are-you-going-to-work-or-are-you-going-to-twerk/ http://highasakate.com/2014/02/03/greener-grass/ *I considered adding different types of elementary school moms I’ve encountered, but seeing as how I can’t even distinguish them apart from each other (these women need numbered jerseys, I swear) I’ll refrain…. for now.* &#160; Disclaimer: I come with one.]]></description>
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