Happy spring break! Hope you are all having a nice week off. Obviously, I’m still on duty as your trusty class mom. It’s a 24/7 job that knows no rest. You’re welcome.
Miss Ward wanted Asami and me to let you know our kids will be going on a field trip to the Elbow Chocolate factory on April 12. Yes, I realize we have already had our class Easter party, but Miss Ward has arranged for them to learn how to make chocolate bunnies so that next year they will be ready! Anyhoo, I need 3 parent volunteers to help chaperone the trip.
I know many of you have yet to volunteer for a field trip and I have no problem calling you out in the parking lot at pickup if I have to. My advice is to jump on this bandwagon. It’s chocolate, for God’s sake. It doesn’t get much better than that.
Response times will be noted.
I remain forever your girl,
Jen (and Asami in spirit)
* * *
I close my laptop and sigh. I wonder how the ski trip is going. It’s only been a couple of days, but I miss my crew and wonder how they’re getting on without the shoemaker’s elf (that’s me). I’m fairly certain Vivs and Laura are helping Ron with everything and not just playing house with their boyfriends. They had the fear of God put in them at a very early age. I worry most about Max, because I know he’s going to miss me. I tucked a few love notes into his suitcase for him to find randomly, just to let him know I’m thinking of him. I would have done the same for Ron but my poor baby has hidden-note PTSD from his crazy ex-wife. Cindy used to put a couple of dozen notes into his bag whenever he went away for a boys’ weekend or a sporting-goods expo. He had to open each note at a certain time on a certain day, and she would call to make sure he was doing it. Every note ended the same way: “Don’t you dare cheat on me. I will know if you do. All my love, Cindy.”
“Dinner’s ready.” Nina sashays over to the comfy couch to help me get up. I can walk, but getting up and down is still painful.
“Sure you don’t want to eat in the living room?” she asks.
“Nah.” I grab her arm, and together we hoist me up. “I need a change of scenery.” As I stand, my ’gines starts to throb and my eyes water from the pain. But I suck it up, make my way to the table, and ease onto one of the padded dining room chairs. Dinner looks great.
“What is this? It smells delicious.”
“Curried chicken, mango chutney, green beans with pesto and parmesan, and basmati rice.” Nina sits at the head of the table and raises her wineglass to me.
“You found all that in my kitchen?”
“You have a lot of great stuff in your cupboards. You guys must get a lot of gift baskets, because you have all these little jars of gourmet ingredients that I know damn well you didn’t buy yourself.”
“Like what?” I’m trying not to be insulted.
“Uh, caviar, pralines, chili pepper jam, vacuum-packed Israeli dates, cornichons.” Nina counts them off on her fingers.
“Okay, okay.” I take a bite of the chicken and savor it. “Oh, my God. This is so good.” I raise my wineglass. “Here’s to the chef.”
Nina clinks my glass.
“And thank you for staying with me. I really owe you.”
Nina waves my gratitude aside. “Are you kidding? I’m loving this. I hope you don’t mind if Garth comes over sometimes.”
“Not at all. I’m hoping he’ll start me on some stretches or something. I have quite a little food baby, thanks to not working out for two weeks.” I pat my stomach for effect.
Nina gives me the “You’re nuts” look and continues eating. I decide now is a good time to spring an idea on her that I have had brewing for a couple of weeks.
“So, what’s the word on Sid?”
She raises her eyebrows.
“Um … not much. I finally blocked him on Facebook. I’m guessing he got the message. Why?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking that he hasn’t suffered nearly enough for being such a world-class douchebag to you.”
Nina shrugs. “I’m over it.” Jeez, doesn’t anyone hold a grudge anymore? She is living proof that nothing makes you forget an old love faster than a new love.
“Well, I care. That guy needs to suffer for his sins.”
Nina sits back with her wine and a curious look on her face.
“And how do you propose he suffer?” She picks a piece of rice out of her teeth.
“We spam him.” I grab my wine and take a sip.
“We what?”
“Spam him. Sign him up for every stupid spam email possible.”
“Seriously?”
I can tell by Nina’s face she doesn’t think much of my idea.
“Think about it. There is nothing more annoying than having your In box jammed with hundreds of messages from every website in the world. I propose we sign him up for everything from Jehovah’s Witnesses to the Kardashian fan page.”
Nina starts to giggle. “Or a Green Bay Packers fan site. He hates that team so much.”
“Okay, good. Now you’re talking. What else does he hate?”
“He hates ABBA.”
“The band?”
“Yup.”
“Who the hell hates ABBA? Okay, what else?”
“Um … Oh, God, I haven’t really thought about this.”
“Take your time—”
“Richard Simmons! He hates Richard Simmons—the workout guy. And scary movies—he was always such a wimp. Do they have a website for that?”
“Darling, they have a website for everything.”
Nina grabs my computer from the comfy couch and we pass the next hour listing everything Sid doesn’t like and finding websites we can sign him up for. When Nina runs out of memories, I just start signing him up to get emails from local politicians and the NRA. He’s not going to know what hit him. Is what we are doing small and petty? Yes. Is it an abuse of the Internet? Absolutely. Do I feel bad about it? Not one bit. I hope Sid chokes on his In box.
While we are executing our attack, FaceTime rings, and my two favorite men pop up on my screen. They both have red faces and look exhausted.
“Hey there!”
“Hi, Mommy! How are you feeling?”
“I’m better. How was skiing today?”
“It was cold. Are you feeling better enough to come skiing?”
“Not quite, sweetie, sorry. How long did you ski? Did you go on any blue runs?”
“Nope. Dad says that’s tomorrow. But I don’t want to ski tomorrow. I was so cold,” he starts to whine.
“How cold is it up there?” I direct my question to Ron.
“Today is supposed to be the worst day. It will be high twenties tomorrow. Thirties at the bottom of the mountain,” he assures me, but I’m skeptical. Ron always has a tough-it-out mentality when it comes to Max. I personally hate skiing when it’s really cold, and if I were there I wouldn’t have made Max go out. It’s one of the fundamental differences between Ron’s parenting style and mine. I am much more prone to baby my baby.
“Where are the kids?” I ask, to keep the conversation on a positive note.
“They’re all out for dinner, except Chyna. She’s running Max’s bath.”
Just then a disembodied voice yells out, “Max, have we found your toothbrush yet?” I debate telling them that I know exactly where it is, but decide against saying anything. According to my mother, it’s not nice to gloat.
“Go get in your bath, Maxi. That will warm you up for tomorrow.”