Value wIT

When an invitation to a dance club party arrives, a person my age should decline, right? When I saw the invitation I was flattered to be included but tossed the invite into the “Respond in a week or so” pile. Usually by the time those invitations are visited a second time the event has passed. Super flattered to be invited, but no thank you, I’m an old woman and must pass.

“Are you going to Pangea for (sweet friend)’s party?”  Truly, Pillow Princess, I had not planned on going to the party until our telephone call, but when you told me you were wearing a maid’s uniform to the “Palm Beach, Texas” themed party, suddenly my schedule found an opening. How could I miss that?

The Professor was at max-tilt because we were already committed to attend a house party where Darden Smith   (love him) was performing. The absolute only reason The Professor would ever go to such a party (where fun was to be had) is because it was work related. Whatever. It sounded like a fun party, and not only was I looking forward to it, I had invited my single friend to join us.

The evening schedule was altered to leave the Darden Smith party early, drop The Professor at home, and hit the Pangea party with Single Friend in tow. The Professor was suspicious of my wanting to “fun-seek” and inquired about what need I was trying to fulfill by visiting "Austin's new nightlife institution". Was I unhappy in our marriage? Was I on the lookout for a new partner?  Why go to a nightclub, he wondered? Duh, for the fun and dancing! The Professor thinks to himself “Whatever!” and heads off to bed at 10:30 pm after the first party. Reapplying a second coat of mascara, Single Friend and I prepare to evaluate the self-described "Ultra Lounge."

The velvet rope is out and drunken girls in cheap dresses beg for entry. With a combined age of almost 90, my friend and I swoop to the front of the line and are warmly welcomed behind the rope.  The left-behind girls whine and curse as we ascend the stairs for a taste of all that is good and elite in  Austin nightlife (don't spend an hour reading blog comments about Pangea.)

Blast from the past:  music pounds and long-legged girls vamp and strut past shorter, homosexual men in an attempt to find the man of their dreams (or someone to buy them a drink.)  Scantily clothed dancers gyrate like Nasty Nelda on risers. I make a vow to myself that I will not drink enough to be forcibly removed by club management from those same risers. Not since I was asked to leave Sam’s Boat in 1990 have I repeated that performance.

After chatting with the only three people I know and paying homage to my host, who is really bRILLIANT to assemble such a crowd of gorgeous young people and/or really rich men with beautiful young girls, I’m ready to leave. However, Single Friend is on the prowl and combing the place for a potential catch. Since it’s so easy to be married and troll for men for a friend, I wrestle-up a few treasures for her. Before long Single Friend is slumped on the couch and enveloped in the arms of a giant Australian man.

I’m glad Single Friend has found love, but my wee-small children are going to wake-up at 6:45 am whether or not she finds love, and I need to get home and in my bed.  What luck that Bold-Michigan Friend is on the scene and recognizes Australian Lover from his past escapades with her 50+-divorced friend. Love’em and Leave’em seems to be his M.O. Bold-Michigan Friend’s characterization of Australian Lover didn’t seem so bad, but she ended the story by emphatically stating, “He’s a predator. Single Friend MUST get away from him!” 

Bold-Michigan Friend knows how to handle herself in a dance club – after all she is drinking vanilla vodka mixed with Diet Coke. (Her trainer told her this is the lowest calorie drink - taking a note.) Within moments Bold-Michigan Friend devises a plan to tear Single Friend from Australian Lover.

OPERATION CODE NAME: DANCE INTERVENTION.

There is one character I’ve not explained, Smoker Breath. Smoker Breath reminds me of this kid who was in our older child’s sixth-grade class. The kid was trying to impress the class at a dance.  To accomplish this, his idea was to drink a gallon of milk. Not sure why he thought chugging a gallon of milk would wow the kids, but when he vomited a gallon of milk he got a lot of attention. Smoker Breath is this kid all grown-up.

Smoker Breath is tubby and regaled us with a boring story of his pathetic fifth-grader who was bullied at school. Something about the apple falling from tree should be inserted here. For some reason Smoker Breath mistakenly thinks that Single Friend might go for him just like Lindsay Lohan might go for John Candy (did he die?)  Single Friend is not a good judge of character, but she is drop-dead gorgeous.

Smoker Breath was eager to play his part in DANCE INTERVENTION.  Grabbing Single Friend’s hand he spins her onto the dance floor but then begins doing wild beast-like movements in front of her. Like tits on a boar hog, I stand, stare and dance in place while Bold-Michigan Friend dances between Single Friend and Australian Lover creating a physical barrier. He knew he was busted. As a group, we dance toward the door with our rescued friend.

Bless her heart, at the valet stand, Single Friend asks me if she should have gone for Smoker Breath. Good God Woman!  Get in the car. Her judgment must have been condensed to something small enough to fit in the tiny purse strapped to her wrist like a corsage. No more outings for Single Friend. It's settled; she's going to be spinster.

Speaking of good sense, why didn’t I have the good sense to take a key to get into my house?  Hoisting my Palm Springs, Texas dress above my waist, I stack patio furniture and climb in the small bathroom window in the guest room that I know is unlocked. (All robbers pay attention.)  The window opening is 18x18 and my ass is not. When my foot makes contact with the toilet water, I know I’m safe inside.

Haven’t I matriculated from high school? Why must I relive a scene that wasn’t that good in the first place?  At least I have learned to drink water instead of rum punch.

Summer’s hell has begun in Texas.  Week before last the temperature soared just under 100 degrees, then last week the weather busted out with a tornado –glad we weren’t in the mobile home. 

Sunday morning is always a favorite. Getting up early to drink the perfect cup of coffee and read about my friends and colleagues in New York – this week’s dish on the Park Slope Mommies was the most delicious…never enough on Park Slope (so glad Gawker doesn’t charge by the minute.) Dutifully, each Sunday I read the front page of the NYTimes and then the business section.  Finally, after paying my dues, Sunday Style presents itself like a cat in heat.  Of course, by the time I’m ready to read Sunday Style, the other inhabitants of my home have awoken and have begun quibbling over belongings, hurting one another’s feelings and demanding breakfast.

The sun rises higher in the sky, and if the front page of the NYTimes was the only thing left to the read at this time of day, I would promptly recycle the paper. However, the Sunday Style awaits me and is a goody that can hold its own against the rising sun.  The Travel section isn’t as powerful, but it does serve as chatty companion for my noon snack.

In the morning when the newspaper’s blue wrapper lies on the floor next to my comfy chair wet with sprinkler water, the promise of the day is full: a run, family bike ride, picnic at an overlooked historical site, visit to see the new installment at the local museum…so many activities that I write them on a poster board and the family uses stickers to vote for their top three favorites. 

Early afternoon approaches and 75% of my family remain in their pajamas. The heat of the day is on us like it’s August, yet it’s early May. Nobody wants to venture out and face a whipping by the sun.  The children bicker. The Professor hides. I consider drinking (too early – the neighbors will notice.) 

“Let’s go swimming!”

Doesn’t matter which fool said it. It was said.

Breaking out the miracle suit that two years ago really was a miracle, it seems like someone has raided my closet and replaced my clothes with those of much smaller person.  Cupping my left breast, I am reassured by the generous handful; however, if not pressed and pushed, the handful falls like a sack of sand.  Utilizing all the readily available tools, the snug fit of the two-year old bathing suit serves as a sling for the large mass of skin that hangs from my chest.  With careful lifting and positioning, I create the type of cleavage that Napoleonic era women would crave. 

Just like a billion dollar bank account elevates men into new stratospheres, large breasts give women an incomparable entrée into most situations. This false sense of status immediately fails me as I walk into the pool area.  My breasts are seen for what they are – fat wrapped in skin. The mommies have been exercising all winter and have recently completed a major shopping spree.

I’m fucked.

The pool scene is just like year before last (remember I skipped last summer).  Making nice, I compliment everyone’s stylie cover-ups and $500 sunglasses.  I do not remark about protruding ribs or collarbones that threathen to poke me in the eye.  Seriously, the sunglasses of this summer are t-totally grrrreat. I’m tempted to shell-out a car payment and buy some.

Little girls are decked-out in wildly precious bathing suits, and visions of my own cute girl wearing a ruffle bikini dance in my head. Instead, my girl-boy wears a Target swim shirt sized extra-large. The swim shirt should be a medium, but because of some whacko gene she inherited from The Professor’s side of the family (not you Su-Su), she insists on wearing a man-sized shirt to accompany her Boy Department swim trunks. Despite her masculine armor, my daughter’s pretty face with its piercing blue eyes and button nose belies her transgender issues – the same issues that dominate my every thought.

The Professor proudly displays his blinding white chest and for a moment the entire world stands still as he careens down the pool stairs and burns out the eyes of all the poolside, sun-soakers with his shouting sunscreen saturated skin.

Not a moment passes before I order the first margarita of the summer. Within minutes the cheap plastic cup containing tequila made in a basement by someone’s yardman (oh, it’s Texas and we don’t have basements) is in my hand. The cup of granulated sugar mixed with bargain priced tequila radios a message to the Dispatcher of Dull Headaches, and while I can’t feel it sitting in the sun, most certainly, a headache is on its way.

Did I mention the number of babies who were born this spring? It’s not even summer or top-of-the-season at the pool, but there were a staggering number of little white babies and toddlers holding dripping Popsicles and hovering on the pebble-paved deck. Who says that Hispanics will dominate Texas in the coming years? At my pool, apparently we are fighting that premise. Oh, too late. White people have lost that fight. Of course, at this pool, the membership committee holds to a different set of statistics.  I’d like to protest, but what other pool has warm water, cheap margaritas and asks for no cash? Once I find that pool, then I’ll champion the cause for equality.

Cheers for the rest of summer. May your children not poop or vomit in the pool.  When the pool is closed, the buzz is as thick as wool, “Whose kid vomited? Which mother did a horrible job and let her child shit in pool?”   Not mine.

Our neighbors’ house was on a homes tour this Saturday, and the children decided to capitalize on the long lines of hot patrons waiting in the sun. A simple plan to peddle lemonade expanded to include brownies, lemon squares and cookies.  To encourage their little entrepreneurial spirit, I happily purchased the supplies, which didn’t seem like much.  However, I conducted an experiment and found interesting results.

The children – well, one of the children who gypped the other child out of his share of the profits, even though he dutifully performed as the “ice man” for 3 hours – made a profit of $47.00. Ever so ironically, when I calculated the cost of the supplies, the total was $47.79.  Essentially, it cost $.79 to feed and water the tour-goers and entertain the children for most of a day (which was very worth any expense and effort.)

• 2 boxes of brownie mix $8.79
• 2 boxes of lemon square mix $10.46
• 1 carton of eggs, bottle of vegetable oil and 2 bags of ice $13.11
• 1 container of Country Time mix $5.76
• 1 slice ‘n cook cookie packet $3.79
• 2 sleeves of jumbo plastic cups $4.04
• 1 packet of napkins $1.84
• Water – free from the tap
• Cost of the tablecloth to be sent to the cleaners is undetermined, like the electricity used for the baked goods and the plate that was broken.

The children set ridiculously high prices on the food, like $3 for brownies. “That’s what brownies cost in the store,” rationalized my young Donald Trump. Finally, the price was reduced to something that still seemed fairly steep: $1 lemonade, $.50 water, $1.30 brownie/lemon square and $.50 cookies.

My daughter stuck to the $1 lemonade. I would have sold it for $.25 and worked four times as hard for the same money, but that's how I like to do things. People had no problem buying $1. Clearly, the girl-child should take a bigger part in the financial future of our family.

The point of the story is that food really does cost more these days, and it’s going to drive the lemonade stands out of business. Can you imagine how much food would cost if we tried to have a garden in our backyard --the trucked-in soil, the compost, the water, the Valium? How will this end.

Just when I’m ready for bed after a 90-minute massage and a hot bath, The Professor casually lets slip a comment about his transgendered teaching assistant. Now I have to spend the next twenty minutes writing a post that will more than likely lead to more questions than answers.

Most importantly, why didn’t The Professor race home the very day last August when he met said transgendered person and tell me about her…him.  I need to know these things!  When quizzed, The Professor said that he didn’t think it was important.  Honestly, he is genuinely oblivious to life’s ticking heartbeat.

The transgendered person’s name is Emerald. Sounds awfully feminine. Does she look like a girl who used to be a boy? It’s like pulling teeth to get The Professor to give me any information. Finally he tells me that Emerald looks like a girl. “She paints her toenails.” Now that’s a detail!  Tell me more, I beg. “How do you know Emerald is transgendered? Did she tell you?”

Emerald approached The Professor early in the school year and told him that she/he thought some of the students were likely offended by his heterosexually based analysis of Paradise Lost. Apparently during that conversation The Professor divined that Emerald does not wish to be referred as a male or female. “Did she tell you that in words? How did you know?” I dig.

Total frustration on my part. “Does she look like a boyish girl or a girly boy?” I nag. The Professor shrugs his shoulders like he has been wearing blinders all year. Just when I am ready to drop the bone, The Professor says, “She’s going to Spain this summer to study Transgendered Polygamists.”

What?

I breakdown the words and still wonder what the hell Transgendered Polygamy could possibly mean? Then it dawns on me that Transgendered Polygamy is a title for sleeping with everybody all at once.  Come to think of it, I know some Transgendered Polygamists.

Off in my own world I begin Googling Transgendered Polygamists. The Professor says to the air, “Emerald will do very well in the professional world. She’s exactly what people want to hire.”

Me? I think Emerald is greedy.

After years of working late into the night on essays, projects and tests while begging off weekend parties and social time-wasters, our smarty-pants daughter graduated valedictorian. Neat.

“What did she get for that honor?” my mother probed  “A silver bowl, “ I replied.

Now at a wood-paneled northeastern college, our daughter maintains a 4.0 while pushing back her warm blanket on cold mornings to practice with the rowing team.  We’re so proud of her that we don’t mind paying tuition that equals the annual average annual income of 139 Afghanistan families.  SmartGirl has declared a science-based major and is an eager participant and organizer within the department.

In contrast to our over-achiever, I recently reviewed 500-word scholarship applications that awarded $5,000 to a high school senior who took the time to write about an “idea” to solve a relatively harmless community problem. (500 words is about twice as much as I’ve written so far.)  These essays were pathetic: poorly written with immature ideas and weak academic achievements. Nevertheless, three students were awarded cold-hard cash.

I got to thinkin’…

Visiting the website of the college to which we pay the equivalent of a yearly mortgage on a half-million dollar house, I was encouraged to read that 75% of the student body receives financial aid.

Ring.

“Hello, I am a parent of current student who has excellent grades but is not eligible for a need-based scholarship. Do you offer any merit-based scholarships?”

Nope.

Click.

Realizing that any scholarship money I can scrounge for this child will be like receiving a wire transfer to my checking account, the Googling begins. Scholarships.com begs me to visit, but after I review the scholarship opportunities I’m mad enough to throw a shoe.

What is happening to the values of this world? Values. As in what does our society VALUE?  Specifically, what do most Americans think is valuable?  What has value?

Let me tell you what Americans value  - fashion, marketing, mediocrity and virtual sports!

Of the scholarships offered, the highest awards were from Cosmopolitan magazine, American Greeting Cards and Chuck E. Cheese. Stunning that the scholarships requiring any degree of academic accomplishment offered relatively low dollar prizes, while Cosmo Girl of the Year offers $20,000 to its winner! A mere 300-word essay wins a Cosmo Girl cash for college plus a weekend in New York with Hollywood’s biggest stars -- like many of Hollywood’s finest have ever seen a college.

The rules state that the essay should describe something big or small you've done to make your school a better place. How would such an essay to CosmoGirl read?

(Spend a moment thinking about what the ad to the left suggests.) 

Dear CosmoGirl,

I read your Bedside Astrologer every January. It’s my bible and I keep it on my nightstand as a reference guide when choosing my classes.  When the moon is in Saturn I steer clear from Home & Family class because I know I’ll drop the plastic baby and fail the course.

What has really changed my life and made a significant impact on my school is your article entitled, “How to Please Your Man – A 21st Century View”.  That little trick about testicle squeezing before – well, you know when I mean – has made a huge difference to my school. Almost everybody with the exception of my old boyfriend who turned gay, is so much happier.

Cosmo, thank you for making in a difference in our school. If awarded your $20,000 scholarship, I will go to college and ensure the whole college is happy,

Crossing my fingers (not my legs) in hopes of winning,

CosmoGirl

Cosmo associates its award with a marketing strategy. Web traffic is routed by the subscription center. Smart - bet that generates the $20,000.  American Greeting also offers a $20,000 prize and has a similar approach.  It’s so encouraging to know that crafting a greeting card message that will promote the industry-serving Mother’s Day holiday is more VALUABLE than excelling in biology.

The real kicker was Chuck E. Cheese who hawked a $25,000 prize to the college-bound student who could sink a basketball in a virtual game of hoops. What message does that send?  Don’t spend time studying, just visit Chuck E.’s website every day and click on a rigged basketball game and pin your college hopes on computer code.   BTW, what idiot is in charge of the Chuck E. Cheese marketing strategy?  College-aged students are not their audience??

It is easy to look around and see idiocy and lunacy in practice. However, to be hit in the face with it is another matter.  Why does society want to pay for fashion designers to go to two-year colleges where they can barely make the grade? 

If none of this makes any impact at all on you, at least think of all the poor training your plastic surgeon is getting.  Don’t you want more for America?  Your liposuction is going to go terribly wrong if you don’t support the smart kids. Think it over.

MONDAY: The Professor gets an email from the dean (or some high ranking school official) saying that one of his students had been suspended and that he is to give the kid an incomplete grade. The email further stated that the student was not allowed to return to campus.  THEN, the email said something to the effect of “I know you probably have questions about what is going on. Here is the student’s telephone number if you want to call him.”

TUESDAY: It’s not that The Professor is callous, but he’s just not one to chat on the phone, nor is he interested in hearing a personal story (unlike me who would have called the kid the minute I got the number.) While The Professor did not call the student, the student called him to say he was sure The Professor had heard the news of his suspension but he wanted to make an appointment to visit about his grade.  Possibly because he has five other jobs and was really busy, or perhaps because he has a lick of sense, The Professor told the student they should wait until the suspension was removed.

WEDNESDAY: The Professor wakes me up with a piping hot latte (as he does every morning) and says, “Now I know why my student was suspended. He threatened to blow up the school.”

Watch this and tell me that teaching is not a dangerous job!

Central Texas is spreading the word that it’s recession proof.  Too bad ‘cause I’ve got a plan and am ready to take on the recession. Reminding me that we are both employed in tertiary fields, The Professor told me to shut my mouth and cease such reckless talk.   He has no imagination.

Think of the possibilities of how much fun a recession could be.  Changing eating habits would be a major key for a successful recession ride.  How many of us could afford to cut back on the chow? Certainly, I would let my Weight Watchers membership lapse and use that $10 to buy a tomato plant for my backyard.  The New York Times featured an article this weekend about how grocery shoppers are forgoing expensive red meat for turkey substitutes. How bad can that be…unless you are a cattle raiser or a heart surgeon?

The same NYTimes’ article said that while some shoppers choose a cheap can of Manwich over a monthly visit to Denny’s that electronics sales are still climbing. (Stage direction here – grab my hand and help me onto the soapbox) If you’ve read Value wIT only one time, surely you are aware of how much I despise a video game or flat screen television.   Clearly, the buyers of unnecessary electronics cannot be in my Recession Club. First rule is that all purchasers of X-boxes, Wii’s or Hdtv’s will be refused membership.  However, if Club members wish to forgo their weekly wine in lieu of AT&T monthly iPhone service payments, then that is perfectly acceptable.   Furthermore, all Apple product purchases take precedence over less essential expenditures, like for instance, private school tuition for ones children.

About that private school, isn’t it the small class size that is the big draw?  Why not rent an extra bedroom to a teacher in trade for a few points on the SAT?  This past weekend I participated in a work group whose mission was to determine how to interpret an 1850’s museum. Part of the discussion focused on how the building had once hosted boarders.  Conversation ensued on how boarders were common in times past. My mind began to dance as I envisioned our house filled with fun guests who would make for interesting meal conversations and jovial back porch frivolity – like a party that never ends? Think charades and line dancing…all free!

Then the thought of Mr. Private (The Professor who is clueless that I write about him and 3,000 people read about his idiosyncratic habits. Whoops.) Mr. Private-Persnickety would not be good with interlopers who did not adhere to our neurotic lifestyle that involves lowered voices, extra clean surfaces, precisely nutritious dinners and strict bedtimes.  I’m envisioning the boarder who sits in the kitchen strumming a guitar and singing the recession blues while sipping on homemade hooch. Maybe on Saturday night the boarder’s restless friends come over and the “down in the mouth” talk turns a little rowdy and reckless. Hmm.  Better scratch the boarder idea.

You know I love to hate the car. There is no better way to fight the recession than to ditch the car. Lately I’ve been slipping and driving my car – mostly to take the little child to North Jesus to learn to hold a pencil. This driving makes me insane. If the recession forced me into the Poor House and I had to completely rid myself of the car, how happy would I be?  With all my extra time not driving…or working or eating or shopping…I could teach my very own child to hold a pencil.  Imagine the possibilities of how good and right life could be.

This recession could be a win-win for everyone if we just give it a chance. Mostly, and this is my sincerest of all wishes, I wish that the recession could curb the insanity of consumer berserkism and mass over-consumption.   Instead of cranking-up the Hummer and driving to Costco to buy all new plastic patio furniture, the consumer could save their money and buy a nice piece of antique silver that could last a lifetime.  Ice cream forks might go out of style, but they always come back.

The first three years of my children’s preschool world put me in direct contact with MissingThePoint Mom.  This is the first year since my child was three-years old that I have had the luxury of being free from MissingThePoint Mom.  However, in an ironic twist, once again life placed me in her path.

Actually, MissingThePoint Mom is nice, and most likely she has a good heart.  If she weren’t so off, she could be tolerable.  However, her priorities and decisions epitomize the reason for Value wIT’s existence. MissingThePoint Mom is the core of why I want to move away from America.

To provide a flavor of MissingThePoint Mom, recall the time I went to her gigantic house to retrieve my child from a playdate. Ding-donging the doorbell of her castle, I peered through the glass doors to notice the soulless furnishings and the almost complete absence of décor – even the landscape lacked personality. A $4 million shell that is empty on the inside (foreshadowing.)

MissingThePoint Mom answers the door in some type of dancewear involving a Lycra “car-wash” style skirt and tights. Her hair is damp hair slicked back with gel.  My mind races to place the look. Is she going to a party, taking an ice-skating class or participating in a Dancing with Stars episode? No control over myself, I twist my head, squint my eyes and blurt, “What’s that you are wearing? And why?”

MissingThePoint Mom clears the confusion by saying, “Oh, my husband harasses me about exercising. Before he gets home I put on exercise clothes and wet my hair so it looks like I worked out.”

Bu, of course.

Distracted by the yapping, crated Bichon Friese positioned by the Jolly Green Giant’s fireplace, a second muttering pops out of my mouth, “What? Plastic toes? Why?”  You see, the small dog in the large house was enclosed in a cage and his toes were encased in plastic. Apparently the toenail covers prevent the dog from scratching the wood floors or the kids.  The kids? Where were the kids?

MissingThePoint Mom leads me out of the house past the pool with its various waterfalls and down the hill around the tennis court to the Children’s House,which also serves as the nanny’s house.  The nanny, who in later years will have a title change and be referred to as Teacher, is leading the children in a Popsicle gluing exercise.  My child swaggers over to me and says, “Let’s go.”

Preschool and Kindergarten come and go and MissingThePoint Mom becomes known amongst the school crowd for employing the largest staff of childcare consultants ever known to mankind: daytime nannies, weeknight nannies, weekend nannies, reading teachers, tennis teachers, swimming teachers, speech therapists, manners consultants. In addition to all the women who work at this household in an attempt to raise the children, the children are always at extra curricular classes: cooking class, art class, ABC camp, music school, gymnastics, hip-hop, horseback riding… it’s tiring just to list all those lessons – imagine attending that many classes.

Again, MissingThePoint Mom is nice. That’s not the problem. The problem is that she and her doctor husband have blatantly chosen to ignore every bit of common sense that one should use when raising children.  For instance, the child stamped her foot and refused to eat vegetables or any food with nutritional value.  As a result, the little girl became constipated. Instead of making the child eat some decent food the parent’s answer was to buy a wholesale sized tub of Senokot and make it a part of her daily diet.  Of course, everyday laxatives will cause a person to shit like a pet coon…at inopportune times. 

MissingThePoint Mom is pretty. Not a traffic stopper, but better than average. For some reason, the husband, I suspect, MissingThePoint Mom has spent more than her fair share of time under the knife…gut, butt, eyes, lips. After one major face reorganization, I was so embarrassed to look at her. Meeting her eyes was unsettling because she looked like another person. Seeing MissingThePoint Mom at a school performance, I was rendered speechless and couldn’t maintain a conversation with her as she tried to get her puffy lips to form words.

My children’s new school has been such a relief because the parents are unremarkable. These everyday parents limit my writing prompts, but they keep my sanity in check. However, my newfound calm was shaken when I bumped into MissingThePoint Mom last week.

In order for my son to learn to hold a pencil, it appears the only solution is for him to participate in occupational therapy. In case you don’t know, OT is where you pay for your children to jump on trampolines and squeeze Play-doh. Certainly, if I were a more committed mother or at least a mother with more than 5 extra minutes in my day, I would be able to teach my child to write. However, I know my limitations and have enrolled my son in this handwriting class. Guess who is at the class? MissingThePoint Mom.  Of course, her daughter is getting writing help, which I suspect is not to bring her up to par, but to help her get ahead.

Oddly, MissingThePoint Mom evokes a humble tone. This warmth accompanied by the fact that she is wearing an apron gives her a mom-who-was-baking-cookies-but-had-run-an-errand look. Reread that sentence. I said MissingThePoint Mom was wearing an apron … over her St. John separates. An apron. 

My mouth says, “Why ya wearing an apron?” Her answer, “Oh, I’m really into aprons these days” does not satisfy me.  However, I am unable to ask a follow-up question about the apron because I am distracted by her Invisalign and her eyelash extensions.

It was all too much handle, and seeing MissingThePoint Mom made me tired. I was reminded that while I’ve been lazing around enjoying my children’s new school and its socially unconnected student body, the other school’s moms are still running the race.  Across town children are getting a leg up with movie-making classes while their mothers are getting fresh fetal lamb cell injections to smooth fine lines.

My competitive tendency flairs, and for a teeny-tiny minute I consider enrolling my children in an Architecture for Children class and making myself a Botox appointment. Instead, spent the next thirty minutes watching..."Mommy, watch me. Mommy, look at me. Mom, come see this carnival we made."

The Professor called me shortly after the lunch hour to tell me that one of his students had tearily confessed to him that she had been raped over the weekend.  My first reaction was to say, “Thank you for telling me about this. Give me the girl’s number and I’ll handle it. This is an issue for the sisterhood.”

However, as I listened to the details of the conversation, my gut reaction took a backseat to experience. Learning at the knee (maybe ankle) of the women’s movement, and being a generally decent person, I’m not one to blame the victim, but something made my alarm go off.

Surely, the alarm was a bell from the past. Certainly, I was remembering when my boyfriend of five years began telling me about a helpless woman he had recently met. Um huh, I thought as I reached for the chips. “Could you pass the queso,” I interupt. The boyfriend continues to drone on about how the woman was abused and her former husband threw her out of a moving car. Damn bad luck, I think. “Will you ask the waitress for another napkin,” I ask.  For some reason the boyfriend continues to bore me with the details of this pathetic woman’s life. She’s a poor, beaten, orphan. “Why are you telling me about this woman? Are you in love with her or what?” I venture. Of course, I know he’s not in love with her because he’s in love with me. That’s why it was like a hot, fiery rod jabbed into my eye when he said, “Yes, I am in love with her, and I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

Boil me over.

The Professor is not one to whom one pours out their soul. He’s not warm and fuzzy, but rather stilted and staid. Love him -- stilted and staid appeal to me. He isn’t the guy who hangs around the school yakking with students and feeling their pain. He teaches his class and then re-enters the real world where he resumes the daily grind of talking about taxes and insurance and waiting for the off-hours when he can read Sir Walter Scott.

Wonder what made the girl relate to him?  Clue. Last Saturday The Professor took our little children to a test review session and the students saw them. The raped girl told him that she came to him because she knew he was a father. Her own parents, she said, would think that she did something to encourage the rape.

My old brain tells me to be wary of the weak, needy girl. The girl looking for a daddy is bad news. Then, the educated brain suggests I'm an asshole who should climb back into the cave from whence I escaped. Have I turned into Goody Proctor?

Value wITians, what think you of this situation? 

Needing your perspective,

B

GoodnightMoon.  Some stroke of bad luck sent me to a children’s festival in the fourth largest city in America. It was like a giant pot of mixed morals being stirred by a circus barker. 

First, there was the McDonald’s Healthy and Fit area, and then there was the Shell-Motiva Earth Zone.  I tried to locate the Elliot Spitzer Morality stage, but the crowds were so thick around the Scholastic Bratz booth that I couldn’t make my way there.

My children inherited the ability to stare with mouth agape while showing no shame. This habit is disturbing to The Professor who always encourages us to break-up the uninterrupted gawk and close our mouths. However, when Tijuana's youngest circus performer is busy doing 70 continuous back flips on a rickety trampoline, it is difficult to break the gaze.

The talent from Mexico didn’t end with the family of acrobats, but another family entertained crowds with a heart-stopping show in the Motorcycle Ball of Death.  Brothers Ramon and Jorge chased one another round and round in a metal cage while Maria, whom I think was Ramon’s wife, pranced around the ball in a white, backless, polyester jumpsuit. Maria’s ragged thong was not smooth and nicely hidden, but was black, tattered and evident, like her rolls of fat. White shows everything. No Motorcycle Ball of Death performance would be complete without an appearance by an 8-year old boy.  The rather reluctant little boy, who was the son of Ramon, rolled into the Ball of Death on a little motorcycle.  Thank goodness someone was making money off this little kid’s performance.

(This clip is not from today’s show, but wait until the end to see the crash.)

No festival is complete without a healthy lunch of turkey legs and funnel cake. Channeling my anorexic dreams, I opted out of the traditional faire and lunched on free samples of McDonald’s iced coffee. McDonald’s spent no less than $300,000 on a mobile marketing campaign to promote their new iced coffee, but bastards would not sell me a full cup. After several passes, the sampler stopped making eye contact and cut me off.

Shell-Motiva sold their earth message. McDonald’s pushed their health implication. Little children were exploited as acrobats and gravity defying stuntkids. However, nothing could compare to the Second Baptist Church’s “town”. Once again, the children and I stood drop-jawed gawking while tween girls danced to pop music with tweaked lyrics reflecting evangelical Christian messages.

In a sea of wholesome, white adults with beatific smiles on their faces, hordes of youngsters danced for their parents and festival-goers in ways that made me cringe. Girls with cordless microphones stood on stage singing and trying to dance. Thank goodness there was one black kid who was older than the rest of the parishioners and was obviously recruited to give the crew some credibility. However, one guy could not save this bunch. With God Listens banners and two simultaneous dancing shows, I couldn’t help but wonder how this could be happening on city property. Wonder if the Wicca’s wanted to give a show on casting witch spells if the city would have allowed it.

After a couple of hours, the children were weighted down with free “made in China” crapola: backpacks, Frisbees, paper hats, teddy bears, pencils, balls, keychains, slinkies, and endless tri-fold brochures with typos and boring design. Being the responsible children that they are, my son and daughter left all this junk in the car where it was removed and properly placed in the outside trashbin before it ever made its way into the house. One gift from the Second Baptist Church did make it inside, however. In the kitchen window sits a cup filled with dirt and seeds that says, “Grow in Christ’s love.”