Dinner With the Pope in Hell

I love Phoenix in the summertime. 110 degrees… what arthritis. I’m running up and down stairs here just for fun.

Volleyball is disastrous in ways I really can’t begin to explain. The girls are playing horribly, their coach showed up two hours late after sleeping through an alarm clock, numerous phone calls and her assistant coach pounding on her door. She then proceeded to melt down when the girls didn’t play well. The owner of the club isn’t responding to parents anymore and to say I’m dissatisfied is a gross understatement.

I was talking to my co-chaperone about how I wished the club was a little different (you know… like with responsible coaches and all) and she told me that sometimes her friends tell her that they’re liberal Catholics and they wish there would be a more liberal Pope at which point she tells them that what they need is a new religion.

So we went to dinner with the Pope, two coaches and eleven 13 year old girls.

 

I’m not sure how I’ll deal with the volleyball debacle. I’m finding that some conversations aren’t worth having, some relationships are so fouled that the only option is to walk away.

The girls will never know how livid the parents are. We won’t ruin the season for them but part of me wants to tell my daughter, “That lady… that’s who I don’t want you to grow up to be.”

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