wacky wednesday waffs

Friendless in FW

Children enjoy playdates. They look forward to them. They get excited about them. At the thought of them. Pre. During. Post. The thrill of playing with a BFF. The thought of having devoted playtime. Play at home, outdoors, at a park, or at a playdate venue (which there is no shortage here in Texas for money-paying mommies). Playdates can cost money... especially if you take your children and their friends to a water park, Disney World, the Bahamas, or your playroom.

Playroom? Yes, your own playroom. You know, the one you spent $15,000 on in just the 660 square foot addition alone. Plus the $2500 for the muralist to paint a most fantastic scene. The one filled with just the right storage shelves, located on page 24 of Pottery Barn Kids catalog (Averaging $3,499 for storage) The bins of the storage shelves filled with the PERFECT toys. Baby Einstein toys (because, yes, we are smart!), Leapfrog toys (because, yes, we are NOT technologically challenged!) and Imported toys! The mini coaster to the right. The ice hockey game to the left. The toys that NOBODY is allowed to touch UNLESS there is a playdate scheduled! (Because they cost too damn much!)

Yup, we could have gone to McDonald's like 8000 times.

So, we DO a lot of Playdates. Like daily. During the summer.

ONLY twenty nine days till school begins. I am counting the days. I am exhausted. I am wishing we had no playroom. No pool. No fun. No friends.

Mommy Mafia

A group of "first grade" moms congregate on the same patch of grassy lawn as school is dismissed. The mafia of moms varies daily. The rich moms. The fit moms. The tan moms. The dowdy moms. The intellectually-challenged moms. The mis-fit moms. The mis-understood moms.

Today the conversation is dull, braggart, and nauseating. We all "pay" the same tuition. We all "wear" the same uniforms. We all "have" the same teacher. We are all "getting" the same education. WE ARE ALL THE SAME. Maybe. Maybe NOT. NOT. Definitely NOT.

Mom A announces, "My Sara is reading on a second grade level already". (Woo Hoo!) Mom B counteroffers, "Dillyn is so smart. She has been accepted in the Children's University for summer!" (Another Woo Hoo to YOU!) Mom C agonizes with her statement, "Lizbeth is reading on the seventh grade level according to the latest testing at ESU" (What is ESU?). Mom D admits, "Where is ESU? My Briella has straight A's". (An amazing feat considering the students do not receive letter grades until third grade!)

I listen without volunteering as the one-ups-man continues in full force. Mom E sighs, "I wish there were another program for the extremely gifted"! Mom F declares, "Yes, I would pay more IF there were only a 'special' extra program for our children"!

I finally interject with my off-kilter humor, "The children are SUPPOSED to be READING???"

Six moms stop and stare at me in shock. They are aghast. It is apparent on their faces. They are oblivious to my sarcasm. Inside I am giggling like a six year old. I am totally pleased with my banter.

Later on, I realize that the gossip has begun. I am its focal point. I am the reason their brilliant children are being "held back" in the classroom. I am the reason their children are just mediocre. BUT, I GET THE LAST LAUGH!!

A new line (that may or may not work) ...

I went out for a social fix -- to "Sam's". Not Sam's Club (although I may try that next). But "Sam's" as in a neighborhood pub. A spin off of 'Cheers'. "Sam's" as in the bartender Sam.

I did not have a current sponsor. So, I sat on a stool with my eyes focused on the television. A sporting event. What game? Don't know. What sport? Don't know. Don't care.

A well-dressed, blue-suited man approached my stool. He gazed upward so that our eyes would be fixated on the same program. I continued to sit in silence. He began to fidget. I am a top fidgeter so when someone else becomes the fidgetee, it gives me anxiety.

After what seemed an eternity, blue-suit smiled and commented on the game. My response was blank. Perhaps, I didn't hear him. So, blue-suit spoke louder, "Where are you from?"

"What makes you think I am from somewhere?" I retort.

"Well," he challenged, "you have a tan and people that live here don't go outside."

"First of all, it is not polite to comment on one's ethnicity or skin color. But to address your question, I just arrived from Tokyo." I informed blue-suit.

Blue-suit studied me and brilliantly proclaimed, "Is that SOUTH of here?"

I gasped. He was serious. Yet, (hopefully) intoxicated, thus, botching his intelligence quotient.

I tried to give blue-suit the benefit, perhaps, he was referring to TUCSON.

(In happily ever after, we married three years later)

Life is NOT Fair

A totally overused cliche to describe something we WANT but do NOT receive:

bigger boobs
lipo'd thighs
botoxed lips
moneyed trees

Recently I discovered the true meaning of "Life is NOT Fair" when I accompanied my friend, Lander, to divorce court.

Wallace served Lander divorce papers as if she were the recipient of a Surprise 40th Birthday Party. After twenty-two years and two children, Lander was shocked, horrified, and bewildered.

Eight months later, Lander and I took our seats in front of the judge. Lander is in need of child support and alimony.

A few minutes later, a tall, striking woman approaches the bench. Wallace's lawyer? Wallace's new companion? Whoever she is, she is impeccably dressed with a definite air of plastic surgery-ness!

The judge taps her gavel three times (for effect). Lander Raney? Claudia Nicole Raney? Please stand!

I can no longer concentrate on the divorce proceedings. Wallace no longer exists. Wallace is now verified as Claudia Nicole on a social security card. Claudia Nicole has filed bankruptcy. There is NO money available to support their two children, presently or for college. Claudia has spent it ALL, having her "penis" chopped off.

(Lander is over the initial shock, but I am NOT! Claudia is lucky that I am not her ex-to-be. Because I have one word: REVENGE!)

Word Kill

Coffee. Check.
Free time. Check.

Every morning, friend B logs onto the computer and begins her daily Internet ritual. First stop, mail. Inbox. And there waiting to be opened is her favorite email. The email that will fulfill her inferiority complex. The email that delusionally sets her upon a superiority stool. The email that ultimately makes her looks like an ass.

The "Word of the Day". The "Word of the Day" is interesting because it states, defines, and pronounces the new word. Unfortunately, however, it does not inform friend B how to correctly use this new word.

In the next twenty-four hours, friend B will use the "Word of the Day" as often as possible. Regardless of the current conversation and its context. Regardless of anything except the word that has been temporarily imprinted into her cerebrum. The WORD clouds out all reason and rationale. Friend B can only concentrate on THE word!

Six of us are gathered and we are currently discussing the political climate in D.C. Friend B interjects, "Based on my ERUDITION, remember, I am an English Major, blah, blah, blah!"

We stare at friend B, stunned into silence. Once again, we continue debating the last one-hundred days of the new president. Ten minutes later, friend B exclaims, "The ERUDITION I received at Kalamazoo College - now worth one-hundred thousand dollars - gives me the authority to be an expert on president B, blah, blah, blah!"

I cringe. Nobody speaks. I ponder erudition (extensive knowledge acquired chiefly from books). "Era-dee-shun" as friend B enunciates the "D" as if she lives in Spain. UGH! Friend B needs a "Webster" intervention.

Husband of friend B, speak up! She is torturing my ears. I cannot take this blatant word-kill. Friend B-husband has previously tried to curtail his wife's word obsession. But he is reprimanded and scolded with the overused "I AM AN ENGLISH MAJOR!"

Friend B has a desire to appear to be THE smartest person in the room. And in reality, SHE is the smartest dumbass in the room!