People I Want to Punch in the Throat (23 page)

“A sugar-free Halloween party?” Blasphemous!

“Yes.”

“You do know Halloween is all about sugar? The whole idea of Halloween is to go and collect candy from strangers.”

“Jen, we have a childhood obesity problem in our country, and we don’t want to add to that. We know that the kids are going to get so much junk, and we don’t want to be a part of it.”

“What about treats? Will there be cupcakes or anything?” I asked, because now I wanted to sign up to bring those huge Costco cupcakes.

“Oh no,” Lucy said. “We’re only doing healthy treats. Estelle’s mom is going to make the most adorable veggie skeleton you’ve ever seen. The kids are just going to freak out when they see it.”

“ ‘Freak’ is probably the right word,” I replied. “I think most kids would freak out at a veggie-only Halloween party.”

“Most parents appreciate this ban on sugar. They’re
thrilled
we’re doing this.”

“So all four of you decided that just now?” I asked.

“No. I decided,” Lucy said. “I signed up as room mom first, so I’m the head room mom. I’m the one who has to make those tough calls.” Cadence looked a little shocked at Lucy’s obvious power grab, but she reined it in. Got to put on a united front, I guess.

“Oh. Gotcha. Well, if I can’t do lollipop ghosts, I’ll figure out something else.”

“Perfect!” Lucy said. “Do me a favor, though. Once you’ve got it planned, just shoot me an email and let me know so I can approve it.”

“You want to approve my craft?”

“Well, obviously, I’m going to need to. Especially since your first idea wasn’t on the approved list.”

“I’ll do toilet paper mummies. I just saw those on Pinterest last week. They look easy enough.”

“Hmm … will they be scary?” asked Cadence.

“I doubt it. They have googly eyes and smiley faces.” No sugar
and
nothing scary? These women were ruining my favorite holiday.

“I think that will work,” said Lucy. “Just send me a link to the pin so I can check it out.”

“I can show it to you on my phone right now,” I replied, reaching for my phone.

“Oh, now’s not a good time for me. I’m here tonight to get to know Emalyn’s teacher, not to be ‘room mom,’ ” she said, using air quotes. “I have to set work-life boundaries. In fact, go ahead
and send the link to Elaine. I think I’ll have all replies to my room mom correspondence go to Elaine.”

Elaine was on the other side of the room, but her ears perked up when she heard her name. “Huh? You need me to do something, Lucy?” she asked.

“Yes. When I send out emails to the parents, I’m going to have all questions and replies go to you. Then you can sort through them and organize them for me. It will keep my inbox clutter down and free me up to focus on the most important job I have.”

“Carnival basket?” I asked. (Hey, I was born a PTO president. My motto is “Always be fund-raising.”)

“No,” Lucy said disdainfully. “Teacher Christmas gift.”

“So what are you thinking?” Elaine asked Lucy.

“I have an idea,” offered Cadence.

“Hey, you guys,” said the fourth room mom, Virginia. “I’ve got that questionnaire from Mrs. Johnson she’s filled out with her likes and dislikes. She likes Chipotle and Target and baseball. So I was thinking maybe we could get her some gift cards and find some cool baseball memorabilia online or tickets to a game or something like that.”

“No,” Lucy said, dismissing her. “I’ve been thinking about this all summer. What does every woman love?”

“Wine,” I said.

“Pampering, Jen,” Lucy scolded me. “A spa day.”

“Ooh, that does sound nice,” I said. “I love massages and pedicures.”

“Yes, except what if she could be pampered in her own classroom by her own students?”

Huh?
I didn’t get it.

“Who wants to take a day and go to a spa when we can bring the spa to her? I want to set up Mrs. Johnson’s Spa in her classroom
during lunch one day. We’ll have the kids give her scalp massages and rub her feet with essential oils. We’ll bring in lunch for her and give her a gift card to Barnes and Noble. Teachers never have enough books.”

“Actually, they do. My cousin is a teacher and she told me that teachers get books really cheap from Scholastic,” I said. “Besides, Barnes and Noble isn’t on the questionnaire. Mrs. Johnson likes Target.”

“Jen, why are you even a part of this conversation? You’re not a room mom,” Lucy said.

“Well, you guys started talking in front of me, and when you’re ready to buy the gift, I’m going to be one of the people you ask to give money, so I thought I’d offer you my opinion.”

“Well, this is really a conversation for room moms,” Cadence said. Virginia and Elaine nodded vigorously.

I wanted to say to Virginia,
What are you looking at? You’re the lowest one on this totem pole, and you’ll be lucky if Lucy lets you do the game at the Winter Party. Better start brushing up on Snowman, Snowman, Reindeer!

Now I was starting to get pissed. First I needed to get my fucking craft approved, then I was ordered to direct all of my correspondence to Lucy’s lackey, and now these bitches expected my kid to run her hands over Mrs. Johnson’s dry scalp? (No offense, Mrs. Johnson—my scalp is very dry, too.) I couldn’t take it anymore. I said, “You know what? Your ideas are revolting, Lucy. I don’t know who it’s worse for—the kids who have to eat their lunch after massaging their teacher’s cracked heels or the teacher who has to endure twenty sets of dirty little mitts pawing her feet while she tries to choke down her lunch, which probably isn’t even Chipotle.”

“Well, it’s not your decision to make,” Lucy sneered. “You’re
not a room mom. Why don’t you go and start collecting toilet paper rolls for your craft? But be sure to send the link to Elaine for approval first.”

“Got it,” I replied.

I walked down the hall and signed up to run for PTO president. I won an uncontested race. Nobody wants to be PTO president. They’d rather fight over the room mom spots. It makes no sense. What these bitches didn’t get is this: why waste your time ruling a fiefdom when you can have a kingdom—and a parking space?

I love garage-sale-ing. (Yes, I just used it as a verb. If you are a fellow garage sale aficionado, then you understand why and you also use it as a verb.) There is nothing that makes me happier than driving around town every fall and spring and seeing the neighborhood banners advertising upcoming garage sales. It’s amazing what people get rid of. You never know what you’re going to find in someone’s dusty garage. I’ve heard folklore about long-lost engagement rings hidden in the lining of a handbag or priceless copies of the Declaration of Independence pasted to the backs of old paintings, but I’ve only found excellent deals on kids’ soccer cleats. Still totally exciting, though. New cleats are expensive!

Besides shopping at garage sales, I love hosting garage sales. Every year my mom and I dig through our houses and find a bunch of crap (I mean really terrific stuff) to sell so we can earn some money so we can go back out and buy some more crap (I mean really terrific stuff) that we’ll use for a bit and then turn around and garage-sale in a couple of years. It’s the circle of life suburban style.

My mom and I take our garage-sale-ing very seriously. We set up tables and clothing racks and organize our loot like our own little store. We line the driveway with the “good” stuff meant to entice people and draw them in so they will stay awhile. We work hard to get good, quality buyers into our garage of goodies.

There are lots and lots of nice, normal people who come to our garage sale. They look around and they compliment us on our neatness (little do they know it’s the only time of year I sweep out my garage), the quality of our merchandise (a lot of my mom’s clothes still have the tags on them, and I sell so many designer kids’ clothes that I’ve been known to tell people I have four children instead of two), and the overall ambiance of our garage sale (we pipe in soft music on the laptop and sell cold beverages; if you squint your eyes and ignore the lawn mower and the overflowing recycling bin, you’d
almost
think you’re at the mall). The nice, normal people always pay the asking price and never say stupid things like “I’ll give you twenty-five bucks to take that deep freezer off your hands,” pointing to my garage freezer (plugged in and full of my family’s frozen food) that is clearly marked with a sign stating that it’s not for sale.

Fortunately, the nice, normal people are the ones who visit often, but sometimes my mom and I host a garage sale that attracts the jackholes of the world.

Our last garage sale started off perfectly fine, and then the mother with the tiny tornado swooped in. Look, I’m not stupid. I know my number one garage sale customer is my fellow mom. Kid gear, toys, and clothes are expensive, and my garage sales are a great place to pick up some terrific deals, so I’m always happy to see a mom and her kid walk up my driveway.
However
. This bitch was so preoccupied with pawing through my mom’s pile of three-dollar jeans, she barely noticed that her demon spawn was
running amok. Whenever I am irritated by a kid’s behavior I always try to do the passive-aggressive thing to get the mom’s attention. I’m not proud of it, but people are crazy when it comes to their kids. You can’t just open with “Lady, restrain your brat, would ya?” You’ve got to finesse it. So I said, “I know I’m only asking a couple of bucks for that set of Legos your son is strewing across my driveway, but now that he’s lost half of the pieces, I’m worried I won’t even get a quarter for it.”

“What?” She looked up from the pile of my mother’s size 10 jeans that were never going to fit her size 14 ass (trust me, lady, I’ve already tried).

“Your son. He’s dumping all of my Legos on the driveway.”

“Aren’t they for sale?”

“Yes, they are. Would you like to buy them?”

“No. We have tons of Legos.”

“Well then …” I trailed off at this point, expecting her to do the right thing and rein her kid in, pick up the Legos, and preferably leave, because at that point she was only looking at my mom’s stuff and I wasn’t going to make any money off her.

“Okay,” she sighed, and put down the pair of jeans she was eyeing so she could yell to her kid. “Casper! Put away the Legos.”

Casper whined, “I’m just playing with them!”

“I know, baby, but the lady doesn’t want you to touch her stuff. Apparently you can look but you can’t touch at this sale.”

Oh no she didn’t!
Did she just try to out-passive-aggressive
me
?

“I never said you can’t
touch
the Legos. I would just prefer it if you didn’t rip into the sealed box and lose half of them in my yard,” I told Casper. “I’d like to sell them, and no one will want them if most of the pieces are missing.”

“I want to play with them, Mommy!”

“I know, baby, but the lady says no.”

You’re absolutely right! The lady says no. But do you know who else should be saying no, Casper? Your damn mother.

It was around that time that Casper said, “Mommy, I have to go pee-pee!”

The negligent mother looked up at that one. “Oh! Okay, baby.” Then she turned to me. “Where’s your bathroom?”

Where’s my what? Oh hell no. Are you fucking kidding me, lady? I don’t care if your kid wets his pants. You should have handled that shit before you left the house this morning. This is a garage sale. Do I look like I’ve got a public bathroom? Plus, you’re kind of a bitch.

I smiled at her sweetly and replied, “It’s at the McDonald’s right down the street.”

Before she could say anything, I was interrupted. “Excuse me, do you have change for a fifty?” It was a well-dressed mother with a toddler on her hip and her Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses casually yet perfectly pushed up on her head to hold back her magnificent mane of highlighted hair. “I’m in a bit of a hurry,” she continued, motioning to the idling Lexus at the curb. “I’ve got my baby sleeping in the car. I just wanted these things, but I don’t have anything smaller than a fifty.”

I looked at the items she had selected, all good Gymboree outfits with matching tights and headbands. She had about seventeen dollars’ worth of stuff.

I wanted to say,
I’m on to you wily fifty-dollar people and your racket
. There are two types of fifty-dollar people. One is the Dolce mom who really looks like all she carries around are fifty-dollar bills. The other is the little old lady who says, “I just got paid and haven’t had a chance to get to the bank for anything smaller.” They both come early in the morning and hope to get stuff for a song because you haven’t had enough sales yet to make
change for them. What’s really annoying is that the fifty-dollar people always grab some of my best shit. They say real sweetly, “Can you break a fifty?” while continuing to dig in their wallets as if they just might have seventeen dollars in quarters in there. And then it’s like they have a great idea. “Or … wait … Hold on. Look at that.” They hold up a wad of crumpled ones that look like they’ve either been through the washing machine or spent some time stuffed in a hooker’s ass crack. “I’ve got three dollars. If you don’t have change, that’s fine. I can give you the three for all of this stuff. At least you’re getting rid of it, right?”