People I Want to Punch in the Throat (19 page)

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.

My kids are accoutrements freaks. They see these “pros” and they want that shit, too. Adolpha swears the Barbie bowling ball would make her a better bowler, and Gomer is convinced the finger wrap would help him get strikes every time.

This year we have new management at the lanes, and they realized it was probably a good idea to keep the freeloading kids at one end of the room and the paying customers at the other. This new change has cut down considerably on our interaction with the old folks and our visits to the pro shop on the way out the door.

While I found the aged bowlers fascinating and enjoyed watching their dramas unfold, I’m learning that the kid bowlers have their own drama, too, and it can be just as entertaining.

One hot summer day, I’d taken Gomer to the lanes to cool down and scope out the swag. We were halfway through our first game when a mother-daughter duo showed up and took the lane next to us. As they got settled my son scored a strike. The other mom cheered for him. I smiled at her, but thought,
Oh no
.
We’re not going to have to be friendly, are we? I just want to bowl with my kid, and I’m in no mood to make polite chitchat. I suck at that
. Needless to say, I didn’t need to worry. By the end I was afraid to open my mouth because I try not to swear in front of my kids or give unsolicited parenting advice (at least out loud).

The daughter was about ten and was bowling by herself. Mom was just there for moral support. She’d even brought a magazine and pretended she was going to read it.

The girl bowled her first ball and put it in the gutter. Mom’s head snapped up from her
Vogue
. “What happened? Were you not concentrating? Why did you do that?”

“Concentrate?” the girl said. “What do you mean? I’m just throwing the ball.”

Mom slowly, deliberately closed her magazine, set it down, and said, “What. Do. You. Mean. You’re. Not. Concentrating? Bowling is a game of concentration. Don’t you want to be good at bowling? Don’t you want to feel good about yourself when you accomplish a high score?”

WTF? It’s free summer bowling, not the Junior Olympics
.

The girl said, “I really don’t care. It’s just bowling.”

“Well, you should care. That little boy next to us is beating you. He’s probably like five and he’s beating you. How does that make you feel?”

At this point I looked at my phenom bowler (who was actually seven at the time) to see if he was hearing this conversation. Apparently I’m the only Nosy Nellie in the family, because my kid was oblivious. Thank goodness, because I really didn’t want to have to tell this woman to pipe down, and if it bothered my kid, I was going to have to.

The mom never picked up her magazine again. She continued
to berate and “coach” this little girl until it was absolutely uncomfortable to watch (but I managed to, of course). “Oh come on,
another
gutter ball? That little boy hasn’t had one yet.” (Yeah, that’s because that little boy was playing with the bumpers up; he would be pretty freaking fantastic if he could manage to get a gutter ball.) “Concentrate! I can tell you’re not concentrating. Do it right this time.… See! You just got a spare. Doesn’t it feel good to be a winner? Don’t you want to feel like that all the time?”