I’ve been through some stressful shit: college, deployments, job hunts, etc. but I have never been so stressed than when I found out my mom signed me up for the “Sons of the American Revolution” Chapter last year.
It’s kind of like someone giving you a gym membership that you have absolutely zero interest in using because you spend most of your free time throwing up in a ditch next to the bar. You can’t say no because they think this is the greatest gym ever and they’d be crushed if you straight rejected it. Instead, you smile and say, “Oh this is so awesome, what a great gift idea.” You then never use that year-long membership. You claim to have a back injury and your doctor hasn’t cleared you for exercise yet and that’s why they never see you there.
I seriously thought this would be my strategy for this gift. I knew that my mom was a “Daughter of the American Revolution” growing up, and she actually had that certificate framed on the wall in my childhood home. She was so proud of herself for getting me this gift and come to find out that getting into this shit is apparently harder than getting into Stanford. My mom spent weeks tracing the lineage of my ancestors (which was cool) just to prove to this pretentious group of jackasses that I had legal claim to be a part of their “club.”
I googled my local chapter just to see what in the hell I was about to get into and saw that they had just completed their WEEKLY meeting at Chili’s Bar and Grill. Every person in this “club” was decked out in 1770s Continental Army uniforms. I shit you not. Also, every single member of this club was over the age of 60. I wish I was kidding. These were the kinds of guys who match with Ann Coulter on Tinder.
My grand strategy of blowing this off for a year and pretending it didn’t happen came to a crashing end when I got an email from our local “militia commander” informing me that the induction ceremony for Captain Kiawah Island would take place at the Saltgrass Steakhouse during December. I was encouraged to come dressed in my “finest Continental Army or Continental Militia Uniform” with a reminder to “ensure that if I bring a musket or saber that is not a real one.”
Fuck me. These dudes didn’t even look like they know how to turn on a computer much less organize a newsletter.
I immediately shot him a note back saying I would be traveling that weekend (lie) and that I would have to push into January for my ceremony. I had managed to buy myself another 30 days or so, I thought. I then got an email from an even worse modern-day George Washington than that painting at the hipster dump in DC.
He was kindly informing me that my $200 annual dues needed to be received within the next two weeks or my membership would be terminated. He also informed me that if I felt so inclined, I could donate more considering the average member donates nearly $1,000 a year towards the organization (Saltgrass ain’t cheap homie).
After some serious stressing, I informed him that I no longer would be interested in joining his organization as I had plans on moving because of work this year across the country and would certainly check out the chapters once my employer nails down where exactly I will be geographically. I get this email back:
“Captain Kiawah Island,
I understand that members of the military don’t make much money, this is something I’ve discovered throughout my research of the American Military, if the cost of dues is too much of a burden for you, we understand. I’ll let your mother know of your decision.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Not only is this rat bastard going to dime me out to my mom on not liking her gift, he’s going to tell my mom that I’m moving away from the town that we both live in to an entirely different part of the country. I can either ride the “moving away” lie or go with the “I hate your gift mom” story. Either way, I’m fucked. Help. .
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