Here’s the thing. My daughter is taking this theater class that she absolutely loves. She sings, she dances, she mimes (with the understanding that if she ever does that at home I’ll beat the crap out of her), she cavorts, whatever that is. But while she’s doing all this, I’m doing the complete opposite. I’m cowering in the corner of the parents’ waiting lounge counting down the minutes until I can GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE.
I don’t know about you but when I graduated high school, I kind of thought I left all the petty cliques behind. Ehhh, wrong! Apparently my lame ass minivan is actually a time machine that’s taken me back the junior high lunchroom. Because guess what I discovered. Remember those mean girls? The bitches who wore lingerie on Halloween but justified it by popping some little black ears on their head and calling themselves kitty cats, when really we all knew they weren’t kitty cats. They were pussy cats. Minus the cats part. Well, I found them, and they’re all grown up. And they’re in the parents’ waiting lounge where my daughter takes theater.
I think I sealed my fate on day one when I accidentally sat down in the nanny section. As soon as I picked a spot next to the overly maternal woman who wasn’t wearing Uggs, I realized my mistake. Oh how I longed to get up and go sit on the other side of the room with the mommies who were decked out in $100 Lululemon hoodies I could buy at Tarjay for 30 bucks. Plus 5% off!
I desperately wanted to diss the nannies and go sit with them. Even though they were rolling their terrible eyes and showing their terrible claws and gnashing their professionally whitened teeth. Even though they wouldn’t say hi to you unless your kids go to the same school or the same temple or the same nail salon. Even though they were having the most annoying conversation about how sad it makes them that magnets won’t stick to their $3,000 stainless steal fridges.
But alas, when I looked their way trying to telepathically convince them to invite me over, they wouldn’t even make eye contact. Hell, I shamelessly watched my toddler fall flat on his face two feet from them and not a single one flinched. Bitches. Bitches I wanted to be with.
So after six excruciating minutes of being the only person in the room who wasn’t talking to someone, I grew myself a pair of teabags and finally spoke to the woman sitting next to me. “What class is yours in?” The same way closeted gay people say “they” instead of “he,” yours was purposely vague and could mean her own child or the child she takes care of for a living. Just because she had dark skin and dark hair and was taking care of a blue-eyed, blonde albino, I didn’t want to assume she was the nanny. You never know these days, and I didn’t want to seem racist.
I could see the weird look in her eyes. Oh shit, I knew what she was thinking. I swear I’m not a racist! I swear! I love Mexicans! I love Corona and Tecate and Dos Equis (spelling?). I like spicy salsa. I even say hola to my housekeeper. I’m from Texas for crying out loud. And then she responded.
“No hablo ingles.”
So I sat there for the rest of the class wondering, did she really no hablo ingles or was she just faking it so she wouldn’t have to talk to a racist a-hole for the next 45 minutes?
And then when I arrived the following week, everyone was sitting in their same spots again. Like assigned seats in the 7th grade only worse. Because the teacher didn’t pick them this time. They did. And even though there’s always an empty seat in the middle of the mean girls section, not a single one of them has so much as glanced in my direction for the past nine weeks. I’m like the invisible mommy.
So guess where I sit now. In one of those minuscule kiddie chairs in the play area with my son, and guess what I look like.
I like to call it Elephantitis of the tush.You know how they say the camera adds ten pounds? Well so do kiddie chairs, pregnancy, bad genes, and the bad jeans I have to wear because they’re the only ones that still fit me.
I must really love my daughter because I keep taking her every week. But I don’t care if she’s the next Jennifer Aniston (total lie). Next semester we’re signing up for swimming.