Deathwatch

Yesterday was the annual "Let's see how much money can we suck out of your parents" fund raising extravaganza at the boys' school. I dread it more than I dread having our taxes done every year and even more than I dread Christmas. It's that bad.

Imagine 400 elementary school kids along with their parents and siblings packed in the school, frantically running from classroom to classroom playing low-tech carnival games and having their hair spray painted all the colors of the rainbow. Add to that the fact that each of them eats their weight in cotton candy and drinks about a 2 liter of Mountain Dew and you've got all the makings for a grammar school rave. Typically, it ends up being around 110 degrees in the building and smelling like a boys high school basketball team's laundry basket.

Every year I say we're not going and every year Sucker Dad caves and drags me over there kicking and screaming and muttering under my breath about how no one better talk to me or else. This year, even Sucker Dad said we weren't going. This is our sixth year at this school and we've got four more to go. It was time for a break. One family can only take so much.

We made the decision. It was a done deal. We were definitely not going to Pow Wow (that's the really cleaver name that they came up with for the event which is Swahili for The Festival of the Ninth Ring of Hell). We made a pact. That pact lasted right up to the point when, after having asked me if we were going and being told no, the two undaunted Maurer boys went to the weakest link. He didn't even start with no. He caved right on the spot. It went something like this...

"Dad, are we going to Pow Wow?"
"Yep. Get dressed. Let's go."

Huh? What the hell? Sometimes I think he likes being the hero. "Sorry your Mom's such a evil tyrant, guys. Come on, I'll buy you an extra large cotton candy when we get there."

"Fine", I said, "It's your funeral. I'm not going. Have a wonderful time."

He started to argue but then thought better of it. I hadn't had a shower, was still in my bathrobe (yes, it was 1:00 in the afternoon) and had a look on my face that said, "If you make me go to this I'll invent a new method of torture which involves jumper cables and the toaster." Add to that the fact that I was all out of Xanax and my flask was empty and he decided he'd be better off going it alone.

So, off they went. So long Sucker Dad! I was all happy and basking in the glow of my solitude, snickering under my breath about what a fool he was and secretly hoping the heat in the building was stuck on 90. I took a sip of coffee and was about to settle in for some long-winded blogging and Facebooking, when it hit me. I had forgotten to declare my No Fish rule.

In addition to the rest of the horror that is Pow Wow, every year the PTO geniuses decide that yes, they should DEFINITELY have the Fish Pond again. Despite the fact that every parent loathes the fish pond. Despite the fact that the poor fish live on average of about 3.75 hours after Pow Wow ends. And despite the fact that after said fish kick the proverbial bucket, parents are left to deal with the aftermath. This alone is enough to keep me away from Pow Wow. I can't take one more funeral procession to the toilet complete with music and hysterics and the assurances that, "Of course fishies go to heaven, Sweetheart." I've had enough. But alas, I forgot. And now Sucker Dad was the only thing standing between me and several new ill pets. I didn't like my chances.

Sure enough, two hours and a exhaustive search for the fish bowl later, we welcomed three death row inmates into our home. Charlie had won two fish: Bob and Griffin. Max had won one: Martin Luther King, Jr. Don't ask. I have no idea why my oldest son would name the only solid-colored fish in the bunch after a civil rights icon, but I'll be willing to bet he's the first to go. I'm already planning the funeral.