It's Only Funny When I Say It

I sent my daughter to art camp last week.

Which is only slightly better than saying I sent my kid to band camp.


Well technically, while I paid for this over-priced teenaged vacation where the hormones ran rampant, I didn't actually deliver my child to a place where she most certainly created teenaged memories I don't really want to know about.

I had my sister take her there. Because I was cavorting in San Diego, creating memories I'm certain I don't want my teenagers to know about. (No, momma didn't shake her thang while wearing sparkles and holding a beer. Don't believe the pictures. They all lie.)

No, I had my sister drive two hours to dutifully attend to my parent responsibilities. All for the cost of gas and a promise of one day returning the favour if she so needed it. It almost made me sorry for the years when my sister and I shared a room and I would graffiti over the fuzzy kitten posters my sister always liked to hang up the wall.

Sorry sis, but kitty posters were never cool. The devil horns and moustaches I liked to draw on them made them somewhat palatable and probably saved you from me smothering you with a pillow after being taunted by such overt cuteness day after day.

I probably should have been nicer to my sister back then. That was a serious lack of forethought on my part, seeing how she now bails my arse out of a pickle more often than naught. If I had known, I'd have tormented her with slightly less frequency.


While I missed dropping my kid off at her camp, her father and I were both around to make the long drive to pick up our child and bring her home. Like the good parents we ought to be.

After reuniting with our daughter in the parking lot (when did she start to become so womanly? Damn you Co-Ed Art Camp!) my husband and Fric took to the dorms to pick up all her luggage as I wandered about the art gallery high-lighting the fruits of week long labour.

I ogled the serious talent some of these teens had, while privately judged others as not being up to snuff and when I came across my daughter's work, I stood in front of it and just oozed parental pride.

Oh yeah. My kid is good. She totally takes after me. (Or so I like to delude myself.)

As I stood marvelling at some of the pieces in front of me, a lady walked up next to me and asked if that was my kid's work.

"Yes, my daughter, Fric's," I smiled as I pointed over to where she and my husband now stood, across the room.

"She's very talented," this lady replied.

Yes. Yes she is, I thought as I puffed up with pride.

"I don't recall meeting you last week at the beginning of camp," this lady continued and then introduced herself as one of the chaperones of the camp.

"Oh, I wasn't here. I had her aunt drop her off. I was away at a conference," I prattled on, suddenly nervous that I was being judged. I quickly ran my tongue along my teeth to make sure there was nothing stuck in them, and stood a little bit taller.

"Oh, a work conference?" She pried.

"Yep." At this point I was trying to make eyes with my husband so he could come and rescue me from this awkward social encounter. I don't like small talk at the best of times while my husband can talk the ears off a tin can. He's very useful like that.

"What is it you do?"

"I'm a blogger."

"I'm sorry, a what?" The confused look on her face would have been comical except for that vibe she was sending out that screamed judgement.

"A blogger. It's a term for internet writer."

"Oh! You're a writer!" I nodded and smiled, while scanning the room for my family.

"What do you write?"

At this point, had she not been sending out condescending bitch vibes, I'd have happily engaged with her a lengthy explanation of who I am and what it is I do. But seeing as how her voice was just a tad too loud and her looks more pointed than I felt comfortable with, I floundered.

I gave her a pat answer, my elevator pitch, while looking around desperately for any of my kin to step in and save me. The voices inside my head were screaming "make a break for it!" but my manners my parents instilled in me seemed to override the flight response my instincts were demanding.

"You write about your life?" She repeated, dryly. As though she had read my blog already and found it lacking.

"Well, yes. You know, stuff I experience and all the stuff I want to do." And with her less than enthusiastic response to my career choice I finally gathered my courage and decided to make a break for it. Two minutes too late, granted, but still.

"It was lovely meeting you, but if you'll excuse me, I see my family over there." I didn't stick around to get her permission to leave. As I hot footed it over to my husband and daughter I breathed a sigh of relief.

Judgy women just don't do it for me.

"You guys ready to go? Some of the people here are freaking me out a bit." I nudged my chin in the direction of my new friend.

My daughter looked at the woman I was referring to and started to laugh.

"Oh, that was my dorm mother!"

"Ya, well I don't think she liked me too much. Didn't seem to think very highly of what I do for a living. Plus she kept looking at me like I had a booger hanging out of my nose."

Frac suddenly looked a little guilty. No, a lot guilty.

"Ummmm," she stammered.

"What? What did you say to her?" I demanded to know.

"Nothing really, it's just a few days ago after dinner we were all talking about our parents and she wanted to know what you did for a living. You know, typical camp talk, Mom."

"Uh huh. What did you say?" My kid's skin was suddenly going a lovely shade of red.

"Well, I may have made a small," she held her fingers up, "joke about what you do."

"Really? What kind of joke?" My husband and I both peered down at my daughter.

"Something about mumble, mumble..."


Frac looked at me and I could see her weigh the outcome of her answer in her mind. "I was trying to explain to them about what you did for a living and I may have made a crack about it. I was just trying to being funny," she hurriedly tacked on as a personal defence.

"What crack?"

"That you write internet porn for a living?"


"Well that explains the looks she was giving me." My husband was howling with laughter while my kid was giving me puppy dog eyes in hopes of me not beating her to death with one of the odd abstract statues we were surrounded with.

As we walked out, I could feel that woman's eyes on me.

So I blew her a kiss.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Next year, we're finding a different art camp. And I'm duct taping my kid's mouth shut for the length of her stay.