People I Want to Punch in the Throat

by Jen Mann

  We moved into the living room and bunched together and tittered like a bunch of schoolgirls while we watched Joyce unpack her suitcase. It was like a clown car at the circus, only the clowns were dildos—each one bigger and more neon-colored than the next, because nothing turns ladies on more than a bright green boner. Besides the toys, she also had tons and tons of “nibblers,” as she liked to call them. These would be your edible panties, flavored condoms, and chocolate-flavored dust. Instead of getting me excited, these just made my stomach growl. Colleen had focused a lot on the drinks for the night but hadn’t given much thought to the food, and I was starving!

  “Okay! Shall we get started?” Joyce asked. “My name is Joyce, and tonight I will be showing you the secrets to unlocking your hot and sexy side!”

  Everyone whooped and cheered. “Yeah, sexy!” I yelled, just because I was hangry and felt like being an ass.

  “Who’s ready to unlock her inner diva?” Joyce cried, waving a dildo around.

  “I am!” yelled Colleen. I moved her drink out of her reach. Her inner diva was hammered already.

  “Would you believe that just a year ago I was a wallflower who didn’t have a date?” Joyce asked.

  I looked closely at her bad skin and fried hair. Yes, I thought. Yes, I would believe that.

  “A year ago I was introduced to Flaming Desire parties, and my life has never been the same since. I now date men half my age! Every time I go out to a bar or restaurant I never buy a drink! I have men fighting over me. And this is all thanks to Flaming Desire products.”

  The whooping and screaming stopped, and we just stared at her. Every woman in the room was married with kids. The last thing we wanted was a bunch of college-age douchebags fighting over us in a bar.

  Finally I spoke up. “Yeah, good for you, I guess, except we’re all married,” I said. “We’re not really looking to get free drinks and men fighting over us.”

  “I hear ya, but wouldn’t it be nice to know that men out there still want you?” Joyce winked. “Wouldn’t it be great to see your man twitch a little when a drink arrives at your table courtesy of a stranger?”

  “I don’t understand,” our friend Gloria said. “Men will buy me drinks because I use a vibrator?”

  “No, silly! Men will buy you drinks because they will recognize you as a sexually liberated woman who knows exactly what she wants! They will sense your aura! The vibrator just helps you unlock your inner diva.”

  “Ohhh,” Gloria said, still confused.

  “Hold on,” I said. “I couldn’t give a shit about my inner diva and free drinks from strangers in bars, and I have a box full of battery-operated fun collecting dust in the back of my closet. Here’s what I really want, and maybe you have it in your bag of dicks over there. I want something that will fold laundry and satisfy my husband so he will leave me alone to read my book in peace.”

  “Amen!” Gloria yelled.

  “Oh, that sounds good. Yes, I want that, too,” said Colleen.

  “What are you talking about?” Joyce asked. “You said you wanted to release your feminine energies.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so. See, here’s the part you don’t understand,” I explained to Joyce. “We’re all married. We have been for years. Our husbands want to have sex with us. All the time. Being desired isn’t our problem. We’re desired. Too desired, in fact. We’re exhausted. I don’t want to lick chocolate dust off my husband’s chest, because that shit will get on the sheets and then that makes more laundry for me. I don’t want a giant green dildo, because that’s one more damn thing in my house that will need new batteries in a few weeks, and after a while my husband will start to feel inadequate in comparison and then I’ll have to pump up his confidence again, which is something I don’t have time for. I’m not interested in making my husband want me more. I’m looking for something that will keep him occupied so he’ll leave me alone, and if it can wash dishes, too, even better. If you’re selling something like that, then I’ll buy one for everyone in the room.”

  Joyce didn’t know what to make of me and my friends. I think we were the first bunch of women she’d partied with who didn’t want to re-create Fifty Shades of Grey. She quickly realized her dream of selling us giant penises and S&M fetish starter packs was over and she was just going to have to focus on the old-lady basics: dry vaginas.

  “Well, obviously, I don’t have anything like that, but how about lube?” she said. “You can’t always get out of the deed, and so for those times wouldn’t it be nice to have everything working together smoothly … and quickly?”

  “Yes, I suppose that would be helpful,” I replied, thumbing through her catalog of lubricants. I gasped a little. Who knew lube cost so much more than a spatula?

  Joyce must have heard me, because she said, “Jen, did I mention that I’m in the market for a new house?”

  I bought the S&M fetish starter pack as a present for Colleen and sold Joyce a lovely three-bedroom bungalow.

  You always know when it’s back-to-school time. Many suburban moms across the country bump into one another in the school supplies aisle as they’re trying to figure out the difference between a poly folder and a plastic folder and cursing the teachers for choosing the large glue sticks when the small ones are the ones on sale. These moms haven’t seen one another since the extravaganza/​carnival/​field day/​picnic, and now it’s the perfect time to block the aisles with their overflowing carts, ignore their wilding offspring, and catch up on what they’ve missed.

  While I choose not to partake in all this revelry, I always park my cart in the next aisle over so I can eavesdrop, because that’s just how I roll.

  There’s a formula to these conversations. It’s always the same endless loop. It goes something like this:

  Kori: Jillian! Hi! Oh my God. I haven’t seen you all summer. Not since you moved to Willow Tree Bend Hills. How is the new neighborhood?

  Jillian: Oh wow, Kori. Hi! Yes, Willow Tree Bend Hills is amazing, of course. Are you guys still stuck in Ainsley Lake Meadow?

  Kori: Well, I wouldn’t say “stuck.” We still like it a lot.

  Jillian: Really? You don’t think it’s weird that there isn’t a lake?

  Whit: Well, it’s no weirder than the lack of willow trees or hills in your neighborhood, Jillian.

  Kori: Whit! I cannot believe you are here. I thought your nanny would do the school supply shopping for you.

  Whit: I know! I can’t believe it, either. She’s on vacation this week. Her mother is having surgery or something. It’s been a total nightmare for me. I have no idea why I allowed her to go. I was so stupid! I haven’t set foot in a big box store in months. I forgot how disgusting they are.

  After the neighborhood smackdown comes the faux passive-aggressive backhanded compliments:

  Jillian: Well, even when you’re slumming, you still look great, Whit. CrossFit?

  Whit: Hot yoga and eyelash extensions.

  Jillian: Did you get the Groupon for the lashes? They look like the ones I saw advertised last week.

  Whit: God, no. I would never go cheap on my eyelashes. You could go blind if the right person doesn’t do them for you! Was that the same Groupon that was advertising liposuction, too? I didn’t even open that one. I guess you did, huh?

  Kori: It can be frightening to get discounted treatments like that! They’re so sketchy. You don’t do that, do you, Jillian?

  Jillian: Of course not! I just picked up the one for a chemical peel for Sebastian. He’s the only one brave enough to do the discount ones.

  Whit: I didn’t realize men are getting chemical peels now.

  Jillian: Well, mine is. He gets waxed, spray-tanned, and Botoxed. He might as well add chemical peel to his arsenal, too.

  Kori: It’s more than the lashes … there is something else. Your boobs look better than ever.

  Whit: Shhh! I got them lifted. You guys remember, I had them done as a high school graduation present, but time and gravity had taken their toll
.

  Jillian: That’s it! Well, they look great.

  Whit: Not as good as Kori’s nose.

  Kori: Oh! You noticed! Yes, Phil’s gift to me for Mother’s Day. I got my chin done, too. Phil never liked it. He always said it was too strong. Whatever that means. It hurt like a bitch, but I think it’s a definite improvement.

  Jillian: Of course it is! I’d love to get my chin done!

  Whit: Just do your boobs. No one is looking at your chin, Jillian.

  Kori: So true.

  Now that everyone is feeling slightly fat, cheap, and ugly, the conversation finally moves on to school. After all, it’s that time of year and it’s all anyone can talk about. No mother in my community has a more widely recognized hobby than bitching about her child’s school. I’ve come to realize that for many, school is a real drag. It gets in the way of raising a professional athlete. Really. One of these days I’m going to be surrounded by so many young gifted athletes. There must be something in the water, because everyone’s kid is a prodigy of some kind, except for mine. Gomer is a bit of a lumberer on the soccer field, and when Adolpha practices her ballet, she has the grace of a baby giraffe. They’re so like their mother. I couldn’t be prouder of my little underachievers.

  Whit: So, which teachers did you guys get this year? We’ve got Monroe and Phillips.

  Kori: Oh, Phillips is kind of a bitch.

  Whit: She is?

  Jillian: Yeah, last year she made the kids do homework every single night.

  Whit: What the hell is her problem? It’s only third grade!

  Kori: We had to have a meeting with her, because between tae kwon do, soccer, diving, and filmmaking Cavanaugh only had one night a week to do homework.

  Jillian: Oh I remember that! She was a total bitch to you guys. Didn’t she want you to drop everything?

  Kori: Yes. As if! How is he going to get into a good college if he isn’t well rounded?

  Jillian: Exactly. How can you raise a well-rounded kid when the teachers are constantly sending home busywork for them to do?

  Whit: Why can’t they get everything done during the day? What are they doing all day?

  Kori: That’s what we wanted to know, too!

  Whit: Well, I’ve got news for her. Tex simply adores baseball, basketball, track, tennis, and oil painting. He won’t be dropping out of any of those for schoolwork! I think Brick would have a coronary if I told him Tex couldn’t play baseball on three teams this year. Brick’s philosophy is that when you join the Yankees nobody asks you what your GPA was in third grade.

  Jillian: Well, I think the key is to just set the right tone from the beginning of the year, Whit. Just let Phillips know that you’re Tex’s mother and you’ll do what you think is best. Besides, our tax dollars pay her salary, so it’s like she works for us! Don’t let her forget that.

  Kori: Exactly!

  With that crisis averted, it’s now time to move on to the second-favorite topic in the suburbs: parties. Ridiculous, competitive, over-the-top parties to celebrate stupid things like potty training or half birthdays or Monday.

  Jillian: Hey! While I have you both here. Are either of you going to Casper and Jasinda’s gender reveal party?

  Whit: Of course! Their gender reveal parties are incredible. Not. To. Be. Missed.

  Kori: I don’t think I got invited.

  Jillian: Really? I thought everyone was invited.

  Kori: Maybe I missed the invitation in the mail. I get so many. What did it look like?

  Whit: It was hand-delivered by a beekeeper who she heard speak at her Mothers’ Night Out. They’re doing “What Will It Bee?” as their theme.

  Jillian: The theme is a little tired, but I thought they freshened it up. Didn’t you, Whit?

  Whit: Totally. This guy rang my bell in full-on beekeeping apparel, or whatever you call it. It was adorable.

  Jillian: Cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

  Whit: Then he hands you a jar of honey that Casper harvested from their bee colony in their backyard. With the invitation attached.

  Kori: Hmm … I wonder what happened to our invite. We’ve gone to their three other gender reveal parties.

  Jillian: I don’t know. Now that I think about it, you weren’t at Mellodee’s Earth Day party. Were you invited to that?

  Kori: No. I just assumed she didn’t do one this year.

  Whit: Oh no, she did. It was unbelievable. Every kid got their own sapling to take home and plant.

  Jillian: I wonder if this has to do with your neighborhood, Kori.

  Kori: What do you mean?

  Whit: Everyone hates your neighborhood. We call it Ainsley Lake Ghetto. A gal in my bunko group came up with that. I thought it was hysterical.

  Jillian: You should really think about moving, Kori.

  Kori: But we all go to the same elementary school. My neighborhood can’t be that bad.

  Whit: Did you know that we’re trying to get the boundaries changed so that you guys won’t go to our school anymore?

  Kori: What? Why?

  Jillian: Because it’s so hard on the kids. It’s really awkward to go to school with random kids who don’t have the same upbringing. Plus, they feel pressure from the administration to branch out and become friends with the Ainsley Lake Meadow kids.

  Kori: Same upbringing? We have a lake house and spend our winter break on the slopes in Colorado just like you guys.

  Jillian: You’re one of the rare ones. Almost everyone else spends their summers in town, and there are kids in Kinslee’s class who can’t even ski.

  Whit: We’ve all noticed that the Ainsley Lake Meadow birthday parties are very lacking in originality.

  Kori: Oh, I don’t know about that! We just had Luna’s party. It was so much fun.

  Whit: What was your theme?

  Kori: It was a retro theme. We did an eighties party with a sleepover. Just like we used to do when we were little.

  Jillian: See, that’s what I’m talking about. Sleepover can’t be a theme.

  Kori: No, eighties was the theme. We had a rainbow cake, even. It was ironic.

  Whit: Did people realize it was ironic or did they just think you were cheap?

  Kori: I think they got it.

  Whit: I agree with Jillian. If I was going to do an eighties theme, I would make all of the girls dress up like Madonna or Tiffany. I’d rent an entire roller rink and I’d hire professional break-dancers to perform on skates.

  Jillian: I would give the girls a DVD of the entire Mork and Mindy series and rainbow suspenders in their goody bags.

  Whit: I’d give each girl a personalized satin jacket.

  Jillian: Love that, Whit! What was in your goody bags, Kori?

  Kori: We didn’t do goody bags … I just think most of that stuff is crap.

  Whit: It’s only crap if you buy crap, Kori. And Ainsley Lake Ghetto parties are full of crap. This is exactly what we’re talking about.

  Jillian: Think about it. Luna only turns seven once. Don’t you want to make it a special day for her? Don’t you care what others think about her and her party?

  Kori: I hadn’t thought of it that way.

  Whit: It’s the only way to think about it. It’s not just about you anymore. That’s why I hire a party planner every year. It needs to be spectacular and one of a kind—just like your kids.

  This is the part where I realize that I’ve been slowly drifting out of my hiding place. I’ve been so mesmerized by Whit’s new boobs and Kori’s shitty neighborhood that I’ve completely exposed myself. I’m now in the middle of their aisle in plain view of everyone. While I try to pretend a real interest in bevel erasers, I become the subject of their conversation.

  Jillian: Oh my God! Look! Isn’t that what’s-her-name? The one who came to school in her pajamas?

  Kori: I think it’s her. I can’t tell. I’ve never seen her in clothes before.

  Jillian: I’m pretty sure it’s her.

  Whit: Of course it’s her. Look at her cart. Full of
garbage and cheap yoga pants.

  Jillian: Yeah, those look good on no one.

  Whit: They look better than fuzzy pajama bottoms.

  Jillian: True.

  Kori: Should we say hello?

  Whit: Why would we do that?

  Kori: I don’t know. It just seems like the polite thing to do.

  Jillian: Yeah, I guess we could say hello. I’m selling Pampered Chef now. Maybe she would throw a party.

  Whit: God, you’re always selling something, Jillian. Surely she has a few friends that she could invite over.

  Kori: I hope they know they should get dressed first.

  Jillian: Okay, I cannot have pajama lady throw a Pampered Chef party.

  Whit: There you go, Kori. Do you want Luna to end up like pajama lady?

  Kori: God, no!

  Jillian: Then throw her a decent party, for God’s sake.

  Whit: Look, you’ve missed half-Christmas, June 25, but August 10 is National S’Mores Day. You still have time. Here’s the number for my party planner.

  Jillian: Now, let’s get out of here before pajama lady tries to speak to us!

  Summers in Kansas can be a bit rough. We have no beaches to escape to and no mountains to climb. We have a bounty of public pools we can jump into on a hot summer day, but there aren’t too many options for the rainy days or the way too hot days where you don’t want to sit and bake in the sun. On days like these when Gomer and Adolpha were little we used to take their scooters and hit a virtually abandoned mall, where I’d let them fly up and down the desolate corridors in a perfect climate-controlled environment. As they got older (and faster) I realized the liability might be too great if they accidentally mowed down one of the senior citizens on their daily power walk. It was around this time—Gomer was seven, Adolpha was five—that I heard about the free bowling summer program.

  Yes, there is such a thing. Every weekday each kid gets two free games at our local bowling alley. You have to pay to rent the shoes, unless you’re clever like me and go on eBay and buy the shoes (and then I sell them on eBay the next year when they grow out of them—I told you I was clever). I figure we need to bowl at least five times before our shoes are paid for. We get our money’s worth. (Yes, the Hubs’s thriftiness has started to rub off on me.) We’re there a lot and we always see some really interesting people. Usually it’s leagues full of elderly bowlers who seem to enjoy the bowling gear more than the actual bowling. Why does every bowler over the age of sixty-five have at least two balls and three pairs of shoes? They also always have fancy wrist protectors or finger wraps. And let’s not forget the towels! They have a chamois for everything! One to gently caress the ball with, one to mop the damp brow with, and a backup in case the first two get too grimy. They squawk and squabble with one another about who has the best crap, and even when they’re this old, the men are still trying to impress the women with their prowess and flashy junk.