Blacklisted from the PTA (14 page)
Read Blacklisted from the PTA Online
Authors: Lela Davidson
’
LL HEAR THEM PLAYING
pretend.
Pretend like I was a princess
Pretend like you were a puppy.
Pretend like we were getting married. And my personal favorite: Pretend like our parents were dead. But that’s another story.
After we watched
The Devil Wears Prada
, my daughter pretended to be Meryl Streep. “Where’s my coffee?” she demanded, dumping gloves in my lap. I don’t blame her for choosing that part. The devil had better handbags.
Grownups play pretend too. Plastic surgeons help us pretend that our breasts are naturally full and perky, that our stomachs are flat and smooth. We pretend to like other people’s children. And quiet as it’s kept, most of us, at least once in a while, still pretend to be a Princess. Everyone knows a princess needs props.
I swooned over the invitation to a purse party. Knock-off Dior and Chloe? Cocktails and couture? Hot. Okay, not hot as in stolen, but as it turns out—just as illegal. I pretended not to know that part. My friends met me for a cocktail. Or was it two? Anyway—by the time we made it to the party, the dress-up chest was already half empty.
Louis Vuitton, Chanel, and Coach graced the softly lit living room. I handled a red Dolce & Gabbana, and no sooner had I set it down than someone else nabbed it.
“If you think you might want it,” a friend whispered, “you need to hold onto it!”
All around me friends and neighbors held multiple bags on their arms.
“Wine?” someone offered.
I accepted and picked up a crocodile Prada while scoping out black and white Chanels and preppy Kate Spades. I’m not even a label girl. Put me in a room by myself with all those “designer” bags and I’d leave empty handed, but surrounded by the other women, I caved. Good thing they weren’t serving Kool-Aid. By the end of the evening I was a proud Prada owner.
The next day when I sobered up and looked at my plastic bag in the cruel morning light, I felt a shopper’s hangover coming on. Crooked logo, crappy stitching, and chintzy metal rings on the handle. Worst of all, some paint was already cracked, soon to expose the telltale fraying strings on the handle. Not even twelve hours later. That’s how long a hundred dollar game of pretend lasts. Talk about a buzz kill.
I knew my Prada was destined for my daughter’s dress-up collection, but I had to enjoy it at least a little. Problem was that I felt funny carrying my faux bag. I know from a distance it is supposed to say I’m chic and successful. But what does it say up close? I’m a fool with a plastic bag and a crooked tin triangle? I’m insecure and need a fake label to feel important? I have entirely too much disposable income, but not enough to buy a real bag?
And then there’s the problem of compliments. My first impulse is not so gracious. “You like it ? Thanks. It’s fake.” This response of course defeats the purpose of playing make-believe. Perhaps I should say instead, “Of course you love it, daaahhhling. It’s Prada, daaahhh-ling.” If they persist, wanting to know where I got it, I can respond, “I bought it on the streets of New York.”
You can do that same. Never been to New York? That’s okay. Pretend like you have.
’
LL GO HOME WITH BRUISES
,
BUT
I
KEEP THIS TO
myself as we make our way between the giant fish-netted fiberglass legs straddling the entrance to the Stripper 101 class. Why? This is Vegas, Baby, not the carpool line, and the four of us upstanding women crave as much attention, novelty, and adventure as we can get—without actually cheating on our husbands. Besides, it’ll be good exercise. This is why we have donned gym clothes and tennis shoes and carried red patent stilettos through lobbies and shopping malls to a dark corner of the Planet Hollywood hotel.
The forty-dollar ticket price included a drink, which we were encouraged to order before class. However, because we are still recovering from last night’s bottle service, we delay the drinking and focus our energy on coming up with stripper names as instructed by the girl who swiped our credit cards. Text message fly as we attempt to include the men back home in our faux-debauchery. Between us we come up with Cherry Pop, Roxy Cock, Misty Storms, Stormy Rains, Candi, Brandi, Peaches, and because I am traveling with Southerners, Dixie McTits.
While we wait, a girl with a camera leads groups of women to a smudged brass pole mounted on a platform in the corner. They make fish lips, lift their chests, and touch each other in front of leopard print wallpaper. When it’s our turn I end up kneeling, as I have in every group photograph since I was seven—short girl front and center, fearing panty reveal. Except now I’m grasping a stripper pole.
After the pictures we are escorted into the club, past the wall of t-shirts with cartoon women in tiny aprons dancing with mops and the slogan “Grab life by the pole.” Because clearly it is every woman’s dream to have not only sex appeal, but also a killer chicken pot pie and gleaming hardwoods. Be still, my beating Stepford heart.
We are shown into a room at the end of the hall, home to a dozen stripper poles, stacks of chairs, and on two walls, floor to ceiling mirrors. Unlike the light absorbing chalky black of the rest of the club, this room is painted in warm tones, which take the edge off my “daytime in Vegas” look—basically eye cream and a shade of lipstick intended to draw attention away from my less-than-glowing everything else.
Our teacher introduces herself as a
retired
stripper, perfectly delivering the line, “My teenagers have no idea what Mom used to do for a living.” Her name is Kindra, with an “i,” not to be confused with Playboy Playmate Kendra, with an “e,” who lends her celebrity endorsement to the class and the line of personal stripper poles sold next to the t-shirts.
“Who has been to a strip club?” Kindra asks. Everyone raises a hand but two of us, an overweight black woman in a nylon tracksuit, and me. My friends are visibly surprised. Really? I’ve never been to a strip club? I scroll through my mind, searching for a single memory of the sticky, glittery, heroin-laced idea I’ve gathered from TV and films. Nothing.
My friends scoot a centimeter away from me while Kindra explains that because pole dancing does not pay as well as lap dancing, most girls in Vegas don’t bother to master the advanced moves, which are quite athletic. She tells us there is even a petition to include pole dancing in the 2016 Olympics, a kind of gymnastics, if you think about it. All I can think of is my daughter: “Mom, Coach says we need the check for my pole dancing costume by Friday!”
After a quick warm up and more reassurance about our sexiness, we learn the basics: the walk, the hip roll, the booty grind, and the general shaking of the jiggly parts. Peppered throughout the dance instruction are tips about the business of stripping. As we learn about everything from getting paid up front to making our quotas I wonder which of the four of us would earn enough to cover her pasties.
It occurs to me that Stripper 101 might be less about equipping novice bachelorettes and housewives with enticing moves and more about recruiting them into the industry. It also occurs to me that this is exactly what would occur to a forty-year-old mother of two who has never actually been to a strip club.
We practice a simple routine, but the most valuable thing I learn is how to distract a man by rubbing my breasts with an open hand. Why haven’t I learned this before? My mind races with practical applications: difficult interview questions, salary negotiations, and anything at a car dealership.
Finally we get to what we’ve come for: the pole.
I get into position. I’m ready for this. I’m in shape. I’m sexy. I’m fearless!
However, Kindra’s instruction has done little to break the spinning process down into manageable components. I fear not bruises, but broken bones. I want to spin like a porn-soaked firefighter, I do. But I realize that navigating the pole in a graceful manner might take years of practice, years that will propel me further and further from Sexy with every cumulative spin. I watch my friends in the mirror. All of them have been endowed with better natural assets, but all are just as uncoordinated as I am.
After a few minutes of frustrating practice, Kindra announces there has been a request to see some advanced pole work. She is all leg, spinning, twisting, flipping. If that Olympic thing comes through she’s certainly a contender, especially with her grand finale, in which, secured only by her biceps, she hovers and undulates parallel to the pole before finishing in a spectacular inverted spin.
Class is dismissed. There is no VIP pass to the front of the souvenir line. And though the t-shirts are cute, it’s difficult to imagine wearing one to the grocery store or during an annual performance review. Even with free shipping, the at-home stripper poles would be an impractical purchase. However, we are nothing if not vain, so we stay in line, hoping that the commemorative portrait flatters.
As we leave the club, moving on to the shopping portion of our weekend, I sip a strawberry margarita from a plastic cup and feel the bruises developing on my shins. What happens in Vegas will stay in Vegas, except for a cheesy picture in a tri-fold keeper that I won’t show my daughter.
. I
AM THE ONE WHO TRAV
-
ELED
to the countryside and handed over the hundred dollars for a darling Italian Greyhound with eyes the color of a good sky. I helped the kids come up with his name. Technically he was our dog. However, from now on, Simon officially belongs to my husband. It happened the last time I took him to the vet, where all I heard was, “precious. “
“Oh, how precious.”
“Isn’t he precious?”
We are not pet people; we keep forgetting.
There were two cats: Cleo, who sneezed green pus, and Pita, who picked fights with raccoons. Our first dog, Sadie the Schnauzer, bit to draw blood and ate a hole through the laundry room wall. Despite our many pet misfortunes, when my husband started working out of the country I decided I needed a watchdog.
Instead of watching, Simon runs. I should have known this. The word, “Greyhound,” should have been a clue. He sleeps on the furniture and demands to be let in and out, and sometimes back in and back out—all at his convenience. We have to feed him every day. As if that weren’t enough, he gets sick. Tumors, rashes, bugs in his ear. At the vet’s office they fawn over Simon.
He’s so gorgeous.
He’s so friendly.
He’s just
precious
.
No one at the pediatric clinic is ever excited to see my human children. They’re treated like the walking Petrie dishes they are. But the dog is precious. In the exam room the vet tech holds Simon in some vet Zen move and takes his temperature rectally. When he steps out to get the doctor, Simon jumps the three feet to the floor.
The tech whips around. “Did he just jump off the table?”
I nod. The tech makes sure Simon is okay before turning his judging eyes on me as if I’d let the baby roll off the changing table. “Bad dog,” I say, trying to demonstrate my parental concern.
The doctor comes in, ignores me and greets Simon with baby talk. She asks me about the rash on his belly and I admit to giving him Benadryl. (I don’t admit to taking veterinary advice from my bug lady.) The vet tells me to double the dose.
I don’t tell her that when my son was so sick last year, when the doctor couldn’t figure out what was wrong, when he lost ten pounds—even then I only briefly considered looking into food allergies. She asks what Simon eats, and I should say dog food. Instead I say, “Purina Beneful—and that gravy looking stuff, the stuff in the packet.” I’m doomed either way because the name of his food does not contain the word science or something unpronounceable.
The vet asks if Simon is bathed regularly and I give my first good answer. She likes that we use oatmeal shampoo. We being my husband. The oatmeal was his idea, which is good considering Simon is officially his dog now.
She says that’s good, but is going to give—and by give she means sell—me some shampoo I’m to use every other week. Every other week. As if I’m going to create a tracking schedule for shampooing the dog. I can’t even keep track of the once a month heartworm pills he’s supposed to take, the ones advertised by the model on the vet’s shelf of the dog-sized heart infested with thin white worms.
In addition to antihistamine for the itching, I’m supposed to give Simon antibiotics for the staph infection brought on by the scratching. The vet assures me this rash isn’t contagious to humans. However, the sore on his neck might be—if it’s ringworm. We won’t know for ten days. In the meantime I need to treat it with anti-fungal ointment. Tinactin, she says.
I’m waiting at the check out counter among things I’ll never buy: designer leashes, pet cologne, and a lit candle that claims to mask pet odor. Suddenly a tiny dog poops and the staff spring into action like in those scenes on every medical drama when a gunshot victim is wheeled through the door. The new girl rushes up with a wad of paper towels, but old hands stop her.
“We don’t just clean it up. We need to culture it!”
Another itty-bitty dog steps in the runny poop.
Surprisingly, the candle works. I don’t smell a thing. The crisis passes and I get my bill. The exam, skin scraping, fungal culture, Cephalexin, and Benzoyl Plus shampoo comes to $101.64, over five times what I pay for my human child to see a doctor. To the vet’s credit, in a couple of days she will call to see how Simon is feeling. Pediatricians don’t do that.
On the way home I stop at Walgreen’s for the anti-fungal cream. The generic brand is cheaper, but also has a different ingredient and I need to make sure I get the right one because it’s not called in-case-your-dog-has-ringworm cream. It’s called something else. The young male pharmacist says it’s fine. He doesn’t buy my dog story. In eighteen years I’ve never asked my husband to pick up a box of tampons. Now I’m buying jock itch cream for his dog.