#2 – Get a job. This is a drastic step, but if you miss enough of those 10 a.m. meetings, you’ll never be asked to join another committee. The beauty of this technique is that to be successful you don’t actually have to get a job, but merely convince others that you have.
#3 – Botch the bulletin board. You will eventually be asked to create an adorable sciencethemed bulletin board made of Q-Tips, or a stunning botanical scene for the second grade musical created entirely of peat moss. If you’re in a hurry to get the boot, volunteer for this. It’s just so easy to make something horrid.
#4 – Show off your tramp stamp. There is nothing to get mouths a-gaping like a little ink below the waistline. Strategic use of low-rise jeans can insulate you from years of Fall Carnival shifts, spaghetti socials, and any other event that would put you in proximity of any Mr. PTAs.
#5 – Buy the wrong color. It doesn’t matter what it is—balloons, paper plates, napkins—go against the committee’s ruling on a particular nuance of forest green and you can kiss your PTA career goodbye.
#6 – Piss off the Queen. Work with your personality to find the most effective way to enrage the PTA Queen. It’s important to understand that PTA Queens often operate outside the official hierarchy of the PTA system. Learn who they are, irritate them, and go on with your merry non-PTA existence.
#7 – Embezzle the funds. This is perhaps the most drastic step of all, but in many cases can result not only in your being shunned from the PTA, but every other well-meaning, time-sucking volunteer organization in town.
Keep all these in mind next time you stroll your happy little self down to the PTA meeting. Because really, aren’t they all a little easier than just saying no?
Texting: Make Mine Unlimited
A LOT OF THINGS ARE DIFFERENT FOR OUR KIDS THAN THEY WERE for us. We didn’t have home theaters, decent video games, or twenty-four-seven kids’ television programming. But the thing that’s really changed everything is cell phones and the privacy they offer our children . Before my son started middle school I had made up my mind that I would not cave to the pressure.
“You’ll change your tune,” a friend told me. “What if he misses the bus?” she questioned. I rolled my eyes. Cut to Christmas and my son tearing open a cell phone while his little sister calculates the number of months she has to wait for hers under the “big-brother-broke-them-in” algorithm. I’m still not convinced he needs a phone, but he wanted one and it was Christmas.
I was weak. Or maybe noble, triumphing over my jealousy. Having a personal phone—not to mention a modest texting allowance—in the 6th grade? I never had it so good.
Back in the olden days we didn’t even have cordless phones. Telephones were all attached to a wall, either in your home or in public. You carried a quarter for a payphone and everyone could see you cry when your mom forgot to pick you up from soccer practice. If you missed the bus you didn’t call anyone; you walked home. When you got sick at school you had to use the office phone with its rotary dial and plastic cubes across the bottom. To have a private conversation at home you stretched the phone cord down that hall, pinching it in your bedroom door, then prayed your mom wouldn’t detach it from the wall while you were asking your BFF if she wanted to “go with” the new boy (who was named Curt or Tyler or Rob). Those deliriously fortunate enough to have a phone in their rooms knew their parents were listening in from the kitchen.
Today’s kids don’t have to worry about parents overhearing conversations, partly because phones are rarely used for speaking to one another anymore. The important information— what band is cool, whose house they’re sleeping over at, and which color Converse to wear tomorrow—is all relayed via text. It goes without saying that back in the olden days we didn’t have our own secret language that our parents couldn’t figure out. We had to be clever and make plans while they weren’t listening or watching.
Whatever, Dad—no, you did not know we were sneaking out the sliding glass door! Now kids speak in an ever-evolving code of letters and symbols—ikr? It’s a miracle our olden days thumbs didn’t fall off like the vestigial tail from lack of use.
Popular as texting has become, I still thought my 11-yearold son was too young for it. I figured he just used the phone as a status symbol and to call me on the [many] days I forgot it was my turn at carpool. I didn’t realize he was using the text function at all until I started using it on my own phone. When my texts racked up I worried about the potential overage costs so I logged into my account. While I was slightly under my plan limit of two hundred texts, my son was up to eight hundred twenty—two weeks into the billing cycle. I immediately called my provider to request unlimited texting.
I sensed a golden opportunity. His excess was just what I needed to institute the partial pay policy I should have started when we gave him the phone. I confronted him with the facts.
“But, Mom,” he almost cried, “it’s not like you can just end a conversation.”
Awww… proof that my baby boy is not yet a man.
I told him that instead of making him pay for the overage, he was going to chip in ten dollars a month toward his phone bill.
“But then I’ll have less money,” he whined. I didn’t laugh. I did however take my platinum opportunity to ask for his phone, and read his texts. If I were a terrible person I would transcribe them here, because they would make you laugh and reminisce over everything that was good and true and hasn’t changed about the summer before 7th grade.
But I won’t. Because I am a good mother and because I’m beyond grateful for what I read there, in his private conversations with friends, both boys and girls. For now, for today—though he doesn’t realize it—my baby is as innocent as the day I brought him home wrapped in flannel and smelling like spit-up.
If only there were an unlimited plan for that.
Chasing Date Night
AFTER ELEVEN YEARS, TWO KIDS, AND EVERY RERUN OF LAW AND Order, it had come to this: Date Night. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s supposed to make us better, stronger, more romantic. Chasing that illusion, I painted my eyes like an Arabian princess and lured my husband away from familiar platters of cow-and-tater with a wink and a promise. We hit the highway. Away from PTA, soccer, and the backyard BBQs of our tidy subdivision.
I tasted youth. It tasted a lot like lip gloss.
In the university district, a bistro beckoned. Blue neon ‘Jazz’ lit up the window. Even better: convenient parking.
As we waited for our table, I admired our reflections behind the bartender. Totally still hot. The hostess led us past the Beautiful People with their tiny bowls of pasta to a small stairway. Ooh, what now? A lower level? Not only had we found the hippest spot in town, we were now being shown into its inner sanctum. Date Night rocked.
The grotto grooved a different vibe. Retro, with booths, hoola-dancer lamps, and pop-art. Very Bradys-go-to-Vegas. “Good choice, gorgeous,” my husband said. But as I waited an unreasonable interval for my Chardonnay, I missed the candlelight upstairs. How soon would all the eye paint settle into my not-so-fine lines? Once the wine arrived, I tried to pretend it didn’t taste like yesterday’s tea. The soup had to be better— Cream of Asparagus and Crab could be nothing less than divine.
“Do you notice anything about the people down here?” I asked.
“No,” my husband lied. But everyone around us sported thicker waists and thinner hair.
“I think this is the Old People section,” I whispered.
“Nah.”
As I forced myself through cold, starchy soup, springs dug into my motherly rear. I poked at mediocre shrimp and soggy salad. Date Night evaporated like a mirage. Not having spent time on eye make-up, my husband was less vexed.
“This place might not last long,” he said. “It’s crap,” I said. The whole place looked like a yard sale that had been plowed over by a wood-paneled station wagon. This basement sucked.
Just then, a Cowboy and his Girl moseyed in. Neither
Old nor Beautiful, and worlds away from cool, they cleared things up. We had been banished. Not to be seen by the real clientele. Hidden away like a cousin with Herpes at the church picnic.
And me with my best mascara. I knew complaints wouldn’t earn me a place upstairs. But such a severe humiliation required resolution. I needed chocolate.
At the steakhouse a friendly waitress promptly served us a fudgy cake-frosting-sauce concoction, which delivered more than it promised. As our cheeks blushed under the light of a Budweiser sign, we found the satisfaction that had eluded us all evening.
So maybe we should start at the steakhouse? Nah. After all, dating is all about the chase.
Busted
AT MY KIDS’ RECENT PHYSICAL, THE DOCTOR BUSTED ME.
“Anyone in the house smoke?”
“No,” I said, totally telling the truth.
“Mom,” my daughter said. She looked at me wide-eyed as if I’d said a bad word. Then she turned from me to her new role model, the kind and presumably honest doctor.
“My dad smokes,” she said.
“Busted!” said the doctor.
Cut to me backpedaling and using way too many words to explain away my husband’s weekly cigar. Or was it nightly? Either way, he smoked outside so it didn’t really count, right?
“Right,” the doctor assured. She was nice, unlike the little traitor I’d been feeding for half a decade. That brush with not-even-bad behavior made me want to let out a rebel yell. Being a grown up can be so lame. We’re not allowed to do anything!
Last summer I got busted at a friend’s backyard pool party. By the time the cops showed up, we had dwindled to a dozen thirty-somethings around a half empty keg making really bad karaoke. (Back in the day, I rocked a pretty hard Love Shack baby, but that involved way more alcohol than my adult liver cares to process.) There I was, having fun in a mature and nonrebellious way, drinking beer not purchased by anyone’s older sister or boyfriend, but by the tax-paying homeowner himself. We’d already gathered up our bags and started goodbyes when two young officers appeared inside the gate. I would have sworn they were strippers. Either that or our host put them up to it to make us all feel younger and badder. But they were totally serious. After interrupting a particularly heartbreaking rendition of Prince’s “Kiss,” they said to the homeowners—and I quote—“Don’t make us come back out here.”
Had someone been watching Cops? I was dying for the DJ to cue up that Bad Boys song. What-chou gonna do? What-chou gonna do when they come for you? The guy who’d had to stop midFalsetto looked like my eight-year-old when I say lights out: Just a little longer? Pleeeeeze!
I wondered what the officers expected to find. No criminals here. Just a bunch of adults with too many mayonnaise-based salads and a beer fridge full of milk.
My husband, who hadn’t been too hot on the party idea, gave me a look that said this never happens while watching World’s Greatest Engineering Feats. But we’d had a great time. Who can argue with burgers, brew and ‘tater salad? The only thing missing were his cigars.
The big question—other than, don’t the police have some Meth labs to eradicate?—was who would call the cops on us? Did the shrill of our under-primed voices at 10:15 on a Saturday night rile the neighbors? Was backyard karaoke now a crime? Bad words crowded the tip of my well-behaved, un-pierced tongue.
Wary of the fuzz and their dreaded breathalyzers, we retreated, sharing stories from Fondmemoryland where life was one big kegger. We recalled busts long past and embellished tales of daring escapes and stealth camouflage in basements and shrubberies.
I accept that booze must now be tempered with chips and dips, that the babysitter needs to be home by eleven, and that I really shouldn’t swear in front of the children, but can’t we have any fun at all? On the drive home I wondered if the OnStar people could fine me for singing off key to the radio.
I wanted to be irked about the cops showing up to ruin our fun, but truth was, the party was pretty much over by the time they showed up and nothing can make you feel like your old rebel self like getting busted by the cops. Even if it was only for really bad singing.
Used To Be
REMEMBER HOW IT USED TO BE WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG AND YOU had no responsibilities? Life was one big party and your biggest dilemma was who to hook up with at the end of the evening?
I do, barely. My husband had been working in Mexico, and going on and on about this fabulous place he’d been going to with the people from work—the young people. You can imagine my excitement.
“It’s great,” he said. “You start out eating at these long tables and then slowly the music gets louder and louder and pretty soon everybody’s dancing!”
I remember dancing. But contrary to the way my husband portrayed himself during our courting phase, he’s no dancer. It’s not that he doesn’t want to dance. A severe lack of rhythm prevents him from doing so. When we were young it didn’t matter. We used to be the life of the party, dancing on speakers and deep dipping. But now—well, all that used-to-be went out the window with the I-Do’s, the real jobs, and the flannel packets of baby.
Except that now my husband is out dancing again.
“That’s nice,” I told him. “I’d do the same if I weren’t busy cleaning sand out of your children’s hair.”
“It’s a cultural thing,” he said.
“I’ve also been keeping the mildew at bay.”
“It’s a different life down there.” Wistfully, he gazed out the window. While I may have a touch of used-to-be syndrome, my husband suffers from a bad case of somewhere-else-is-better. He’s never accepted that life is different when you’re just visiting. No place is one big party all the time. Eventually the alarm clock rings and everybody goes to work.
I’m not the only one who likes to reminisce. I called a friend recently to wish her a happy birthday. It’s been 15 years since we lit up the town, but we remember.
Remember that one time? We were so drunk….
Didn’t you flash a cop?
Was that the night someone puked off the porch?
Who was that anyway?
Good times.
Good times.
Last fall I went to a bar for girls’ night out with some friends. Half the “girls” couldn’t make it because of sick kids and work deadlines, but the rest of us set off to see a live band in a bar. We stepped back in time, into a place where you emerge at the end of the evening with no voice and reeking of smoke. Too many bodies pressed up against each other sucked up all the oxygen. Third world countries had better bathrooms.
After a long wait in line, I made my way through the crowd with a beer in each hand. A friend looked at me funny. “What?” I said. Just because I hadn’t been in a bar in a while didn’t mean I’d forgotten everything. “I’m not waiting in that line again.”
The band made me feel old and law-abiding. Maybe I’ve gotten really square in my maternal bliss, but since when do bands play two full sets of songs about smoking pot? The boys from Oklahoma roll their joints too long. Who knew?
“You could have warned me about that band,” I said to a PTA mom the next week at the 1st grade musical.
“What band?”
“Cross Canadian Ragweed.”
She stopped messing with her camera long enough to give me a look.
“They have the word weed in their name!” she said. “What did you expect?”
That’s just it. I don’t know what to expect anymore. With teenagers in my future, I’ve decided it’s important to go into a bar at least once a year—to keep informed. Purely research. And I mean a real bar, not one of those smooth jazz playing joints that sell booze to old people.
In the meantime I decided to mosey down to Mexico and check out this restaurant my husband had been raving about. We ate and drank beer and hung out with his young colleagues. The music got louder and dance videos appeared on the stucco walls. Chairs were flung backwards to make room for the dancing. It was not so much a cultural experience as
a bar with a lot of other people living out our used-to-be.
And there we were. Me about to die from smoke inhalation and beer bloat, and my faithful husband standing by, bottle in hand, nodding his head back and forth like a rhythm-less turkey.
Goodbye used-to-be; welcome to here and now.
Top Ten Reasons to Date Your Spouse This Year
I COULD SPEND ALL WEEK COMING UP WITH VALID REASONS NOT TO spend precious time engaged in some artificially romantic date night. But the truth is we need them. Here are the top ten reasons why.
10. Dating is cheaper than couples counseling—not to mention divorce. Every relationship requires maintenance. Seeing a movie or taking a walk with your spouse is much less expensive (and more fun) than twice weekly sessions on an outdated sofa in on a counselor’s office. Date night costs a fraction of what you’d spend from your side of a well-apportioned attorney’s desk. Think of these expenditures as an investment not only in your happiness, but in your long-term financial health as well.
9. Your spouse is hotter than you think. We all get tired of looking at our partners. No matter how much they set us a flutter in the beginning, the sparkle wears off. Sometimes (admit it) you check out other people’s spouses and think, “Dang! That’s a hot one!” Rest assured that while you are mid-melt, someone else is checking out your own partner. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, just human nature. Date night— especially if you both take the time to shave in the right spots—can remind you what you saw in this person in the first place—because for most people, it had at least a little to do with a hotness factor.
8. Date night is a guilt-free way to get away from your kids. Do you enjoy spending every minute with your kids? Again, you don’t have to raise your hand in public, but be honest. The extreme urge to get very far away from the creatures you birthed is natural. We all need adult time. Unfortunately, the guilt that comes along with that desire is common. Date nights are the exception because you know that taking care of your relationship is one of the single most important things you can do for your children’s overall well-being. You know that, right?
Blacklisted from the PTA Page 7