Dear House Mom,
You truly are a gem, and I mean that. You are the glue that holds our house together, the voice of wisdom that resides over the classy women of this establishment. You’ve seen more than most (excluding fraternity house mothers, obviously) and we commend you for that. Few can do what you do, and awards should be given in your honor. We love you as much as our biological mothers–maybe even more, considering you lack knowledge of our medical history and embarrassing pre-college decisions.
We owe you an apology, House Mother. Though you’ve seen us at our best, you’ve also seen us at our most shameful. We may be women of a blessed upbringing, but we’ve done some disgraceful, vile, shocking, immoral, and just plain fucked-up shit. For this, we are sorry.
I’m sorry for all of the times you’ve caught us sneaking boys out of the house. Additionally, I’m sorry for insulting your intelligence when it was 3 a.m. and I fed you the line, “I was just giving him a house tour.” I should have known that, on top of the pure guilt splayed across his face, my sex hair and lack of pants were a dead giveaway.
I’m sorry for all of the Sunday mornings you’ve spent picking crushed Natty cans out of the bushes in the front yard. I know you’re enough of a gem to think, “Well, at least they didn’t bring them inside!” In all honesty, I must shamefully admit that it’s usually because we were sneaking in one last shotgun before retiring for the night. The patio just happens to be the most convenient location, and I apologize for that.
I’m sorry for passing out on the living room couch in an immodest dress and stilettos the night before you had scheduled alumnae tours. I should have bolted to my room the moment I woke up, instead of attempting to play it off by sparking a conversation with one of the groups. Granted, I really had no idea that my friends had written “I LIKE COCK” on my forehead with a Sharpie after I had fallen asleep. Though I do believe I had successfully relocated before the third round came through, I’ll admit that the stench of whiskey and stale beer definitely lingered in the air. That’s my bad.
I’m sorry for that time we got really hammered and decided it would be a good idea to mess with one of the precious house artifacts. I had no right to take that antique statue and place it in my roommate’s bed, just because I know she thinks it’s creepy and I wanted to watch her freak out when she woke up with it. But in my defense, no one wants to live in a museum.
I’m sorry for the events that unfolded the morning you decided to play bridge with the house mother of our neighboring fraternity, and saw me walk out of the bathroom wearing a shacker shirt. Clearly, if I’d known you were going to be there, I would have put on pants. Also, I’d like to make it clear that I don’t usually drink Congress at 10 a.m.
I’m sorry for all of the times you have innocently roamed the house while performing your motherly duties and have overheard us talk about our sexual escapades from the night before. I’m guessing that you didn’t want to hear my sister gab about her threesome, and I can only hope that the generation gaps between us deemed you unfamiliar with most of her sexual phrases and innuendos.
We’re sorry, House Mother, and while I’d like to assure you that it won’t happen again… it probably definitely will.
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Lucky Jo
Lucky Jo is a former and current TSM writer who likes her men how she likes her coffee: way too hot and unforgivably bitter. She graduated from the University of Missouri in 2016, proving that C's do in fact get degrees. She now spends her days working for a social media marketing agency, hiking with her dachshund, and trying to bring back the scrunchie. Hate mail and goat memes can be sent to lucyjmulvihill@gmail.com.
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