Oh, fuck you universe. Seriously.

So, I have this theory. It's about god or fate or the spiritual world or whatever you want to call it (I'm still not sure. Let's just call it, for the sake of argument, the universe).

Mine's an amorphous theory, bending and twisting to fit whatever mood I happen to be in and/or how pissy I am at said universe at a given moment.

Mainly it goes like this:
The universe giveths whilst it also simultaneously takeths away.

So watch your ass. I'm just saying.

I feel that the universe has been playing a little game of peek-a-boo with me this week. Throwing chinese stars at my head which I must duck and dodge while concurrently throwing me metaphorical bones. Cool. Thanks, Universe. But suck it. Really.

Like, for example. Last night was the lottery drawing for Our World Neighborhood Charter School, the coveted elementary school of choice for choosy (ie educated) Astoria families.

PS 17, which happens to be across the street from us, is off the menu of possible kindergarten options for Lil, since it was somehow voted one of the top two most dangerous elementary schools in Queens last year (how this is possible, I do not know. To my knowledge there hasn't been anything even remotely crimey in my neighborhood in years, not even a Peeping Tom. And I don't count the guys who peep in my window. I know full well that they're there. I even bring them snacks and drinks to enhance their viewing pleasure).

So I went to Kara's house and the kids bathed and played and ran around in their PJs while we drank tequila and wiped our sweaty palms on her couch, waiting for the phone call from Heather, who, masochist that she is, went personally to sit at the drawing and wait to hear whose kids were chosen.

Not one of our kids got in.

We got the next best thing; Lily was placed #2 on the waiting list, which is almost as promising as landing one of the 70 spots, but fuck, what if she doesn't get in? I refuse to allow the thought to enter my head, but I fear I might have to next month.

It's all so bittersweet. Me and my mama pals have all been in this safe little bubble since our kids were babies and they all crawled around and got spongy asphalt indentations on their chubby knees at the playground together.
We came together initially because we were all bewildered stay-at-home mothers trying to kill the endless afternoon hours at the same park day after day. But we became friends because we truly connected and grew to love each other.
I just knew Kara and I would be friends when she started talking about her musician husband and dancing at Skidmore while idly stroking the technicolor tattoo stretching across her upper arm. Heather and I connected over a mutual dislike of fake-ass park moms and a love of cheap sweatshop-produced clothing stores on Steinway Street and Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee. Luckily, our kids all fell in love with each other too.

It makes me want to cry to think that we won't all be together next year.

This is the dilemma so many New York families face every year: we're not rich enough to send our kids to private school, yet we are wise enough to know that we are not going to dip our kids into the cesspool of New York's public school system.

Surely I do not know what the answer is.

So again, I turn my palms up to the sky in a pleading attempt to get the universe's fucking attention.

Yeah, Hi. It's me, Kristin. I know I've been bugging you lately a lot, asking for shit to go my way? But...well, can you please give me just a teensy push to end my week? Then I promise I'll get out of your hair. And I'll stop cursing at you. Out loud, anyway. Or until you fuck me over again.

Thanks a bunch!

Love, Kristin