Now that the awkwardness of last week’s attempted coup on my class mom fiefdom is behind us (no hard feelings, Asami; I understand your people’s need for power), let’s get on to some serious business, like who is bringing the wine.
September 27th (aka curriculum night) is fast upon us. It’s my favorite night of the year, because it answers burning questions such as “Who has the hottest husband?” and “Who spent a little too much money at the ice cream truck this summer?” Plus, I want everyone to think that Miss Ward’s class is the place where people PAR-TAY! To that end, we need some provisions.
2 kegs (I’ll bring the funnel)
Jell-O shots (lime and cherry, please!)
“Special” brownies—Wolffe family, I’m counting on you for these.
If you’re still reading and haven’t yet speed-dialed Principal Jakowski, here are a few other things we MAY need.
Mini quiches (the microwavable kind)
Small cheese platter
Small veggie platter
Yummy cookies or brownies
Cups, small plates, cocktail napkins
Sparkling and flat water
Red and white wine
The phone lines are now open, so run, don’t walk, to your keyboard and volunteer to bring something. Don’t be shy!
Thanks in advance for what I’m sure will be an overwhelming heed to the call. Response times will be noted.
Jennifer
* * *
*
Just as I close my laptop, my two favorite men come in the back door.
“Mom! The tent is up!” Max yells even though I am sitting right there.
“Already? Wow. Are you guys sure you want to do this?” My question is really for Ron—he’s the one with the fifty-year-old spine.
“Camping out is a time-honored tradition among Dixon men,” my husband says.
Max nods solemnly. I know he is all in on this camping adventure, but it’s hard to take him seriously when he’s wearing a sombrero and poncho.
“And besides,” Ron adds, “we have the Kodiak Canvas Flex-Bow Deluxe out there. We could go to base camp with that baby, right, buddy?”
I roll my eyes. I know it’s what he does for a living, but I still can’t believe how jacked up Ron gets about any type of sports gear. Max, on the other hand, is putting on his game face. He’s not really an outdoor sporty kind of kid, but he’s trying to be one for his dad’s sake. I worry about that sometimes. They are planning to camp out in the backyard this Friday.
I shrug. “Okay. Just don’t be surprised if it’s a bit chilly out there. You guys should have done this in August.”
“August, Shmaugust,” Ron scoffs. “We’re Dixon men. Besides, we’ll be sleeping in the Nemo Nocturne 15.” He looks to me for a reaction, but I really don’t have one.
“Well, I’ll leave the back door open that night, just in case.” I wink at my boy. I’m not sure, but I think he looks relieved.
* * *
To: JDixon
From: Sasha Lewicki
Date: 9/18
Subject: curriculum night party
I am out of the office until September 20.
Thank you,
Sasha
To: JDixon
From: Shirleen Cobb
Date: 9/19
Subject: curriculum night party
Dear Jennifer,
You didn’t mention anything about food allergies. My son, Graydon Cobb, is VERY allergic to peanuts, dairy, wheat, grass, wheatgrass, chocolate, and airborne dust. Please don’t allow any of these things in the classroom.
Shirleen Cobb
To: Shirleen Cobb
From: JDixon
Date: 9/19
Subject: curriculum night
Dear Shirleen,
Since curriculum night is for parents only, I wasn’t going to worry about food allergies, but from your note I can see that Graydon’s situation is very serious and he could hive up at any moment. Just how big is the bubble he comes to school in?
Jennifer
* * *
Why, oh why, is it always the mother with the most allergic kid who is, herself, a nut? I mean, I get it, allergies are serious. Life-threatening, even. They’re nothing to joke about. But when did this all happen? When did peanut butter become the grade-school equivalent of anthrax? When I was in second grade, I sat beside a kid named Alan Ervine who smelled like peanut butter all the time. I’m convinced he dabbed it behind his ears like cologne. No one in our classroom had a problem with it. The banishing of PB is a problem for us because PBJ sandwiches are the only ones Max will eat. In the name of peanut butter, someone needs to figure this thing out. I would, but you know how busy I am being class mom.
3
* * *
To: Parents
From: JDixon
Date: 9/21
Subject: Hello? Did anyone read my last email?
4
I am just finishing printing out the class lists I’m going to hand out at curriculum night when I get the call.
“Mrs. Dixon?”
“Hey, Ashley. Are you on your way?”
“I can’t babysit tonight. My mom says I need to focus on school work and that you should just get over it.”
I roll my eyes. Gotta love Ashley. She is the most inappropriate babysitter ever. Reminds me of me.
“Uh, kinda leavin’ me hanging tonight, girlie. We have something at Max’s school.”
“Yeah, I know, but my mom told me to tell you I’m sick. Wait, I think I was supposed to say that first.”
“Okay, well, you tell your mom I said thanks.”
“Okay, bye.”
Damn. Ashley is so good with Max. Too bad I’m going to have to fire her seventeen-year-old ass.
“Ron!”
“Jesus, what? I’m right here.”
Things have been a little tense with us since the camping-out night. I can tell he’s still waiting for some kind of explanation. I’m still waiting to think of one.
“Ashley just canceled, so one of us has to stay home. I vote for me.”
“And I vote for me,” Ron countered. “And I know somewhere in the prenup we established that a tie goes to me.”
I want to argue, but I know he’s right. As class mom, I have to be there to press the flesh, kiss some babies, and talk about world peace. Oh, wait, that’s POTUS. I just have to be there.
“Max!”
“Mommy, I’m right here. Why are you yelling?” He is standing behind me wearing a pirate hat and a feather boa.
“Sorry, just a habit. Ashley is sick or doing her homework or something, so Dad is going to stay home with you while I go meet your teacher.”
“Okay. Can I watch TV?”
“I’d say your chances are pretty good.”
“Yes! Say hi to Miss Ward for me. I love her.”
“You do?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, then.”
I kiss Max five times, grab the two platters of mini quiches I said I would bring, and head out the door.
*
Miss Ward’s classroom must be seen to be believed. Think Pee-wee’s Playhouse and then vomit Disney crap all over it. There isn’t one inch of space that isn’t covered in colorful, um, stuff.
I almost don’t recognize Miss Ward, who is sitting on her desk putting on lipstick. She is wearing a purple leather miniskirt and a pink low-cut V-neck sweater that couldn’t possibly be any tighter. Her blond hair is in a messy ponytail. The best part of her getup is the thigh-high black boots. They’re not quite stilettos, but they make her look like a life-sized Bratz doll.
As I approach her I can’t help but wonder what happened to Sister Mary Perfect.
“Hi, Miss Ward.”
She leaps up and hugs me.