Class Mom

by Laurie Gelman

  “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.”

  “Okay. Bye!” He jumps off Ron’s lap and away from my screen.

  Ron looks surprised. “That was easy.”

  “Only till he gets out of the bath and realizes I’m not on the computer anymore.”

  He lets out a big sigh. “He really misses you. We all do.”

  I’d be flattered, but I know that most of what they miss is everything I do for them. I’m not being cynical. I just know my customers.

  “I miss you guys, too. It’s so damn quiet here. How did everyone ski today?”

  “Great! Well, except for Travis. I don’t think he’s ever skied before.”

  “Oh, no! Did he take a lesson?”

  “Actually, Vivs is a pretty good teacher. She got him up and going, and then we each took an hour with him on the bunny hill. Max loved that he wasn’t the slowest one on the hill. He insisted on teaching Travis pizza and french fries.”

  He’s referring to the way instructors teach little kids how to snowplow and slalom. I can just picture him.

  “Please make sure he’s bundled up tomorrow. You’ll never keep him out there if he’s cold.”

  “I will. I promise. How’s your ’gines?”

  “Getting there. I’m walking pretty well, but getting up and down is still a bitch. I think Garth is going to give me some light stretches to do later this week.”

  “Just take it easy, please.”

  “I will. Give the girls my love.” I blow a kiss to the screen. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” Ron answers, and then the screen goes black.

  * * *

  “Just a little more, Jen. Take a deep breath. You’re doing great.”

  Garth and I have reached a new level of intimacy. He is doing something called Thai massage on me. We are currently on the rug in my living room; Garth is sitting snugly behind me with his arms wrapped around my arms, which are wrapped around my torso. Allegedly, he is stretching me using his own body to enhance the stretch, but I can’t help feeling like this is a joke he and Nina cooked up.

  I take yet another deep breath as Garth gently releases me from the “stretch.” I actually feel really good, so I try to override the feelings of weirdness that keep popping up. It doesn’t help that Nina is sitting right in front of us, watching and no doubt having threesome fantasies.

  “Wow. That felt great. Thank you.” I look at Nina. “Has he done this to you?”

  She smirks. “He does me a little differently.”

  Garth blushes and stands up. “Okey-dokey. That should really help with your stiffness, Jen.”

  “Does it help with your stiffness, Garth?” I ask with as straight a face as I can muster. Nina bursts out laughing.

  “You two are lethal. My gosh, five days together and you have your pay-per-view special all scripted.”

  “You should hear what we say when you’re not here,” I kid.

  “No, thanks. I don’t think I could take it and I was in the military.”

  Nina stands, too. “What time do you think they’re going to get here?” She’s asking about our intrepid skiers, who are due back this afternoon.

  “Ron says…” I grab for my phone and check my texts. “ETA is around six, assuming they land on time. Do you guys want to stay for dinner? We can order in.”

  “No, thanks,” they say in unison. Nina continues: “I want to get Chyna home and unpacked. But you guys should be able to have a major leftover binge with all the stuff I’ve cooked this week.”

  “You are a rock star. I can’t thank you enough.” I really mean it. Nina and I had so much fun—actually, just the right amount of fun. I needed this week of convalescence, but now I’m totally ready to have my Dixon men back.

  20

  You can imagine how thrilled I am to be touring the Elbow Chocolate factory on this fine April morning. Oh, I got my three volunteers from the email I sent out, so I figured I was home free. That is, until Trudy Elder called me this morning to back out … something about Zach having Coxsackie. Oh, isn’t that convenient. Hey, lady, some of us just suck it up and honor our commitments.

  So here I stand in a hell that involves a still-sore groin, the futility of making chocolate bunnies, and the torture of those sweet sirens (milk and dark) being created right in front of my face. I have said, “No, thank you,” at least ten times to samples passed my way. I wish there was a Nobel Prize for self-denial.

  The kids are having a ball watching chocolate turn into bunnies. I guess I suffer from a tragic lack of curiosity, because I have never wondered how they make the hollow ones, but it’s actually knowledge I am now happy to have.

  Our guide this morning is Jacques (effectively morphed from his real name, Jack, to make our chocolatier experience that much more exotic) and he has already showed us how to pour just the right amount of chocolate into the bunny mold and then twist it around until all the sides are evenly covered and there is no excess chocolate, all while flirting with Miss Ward in a disturbingly obvious way. I mean, jeez, there are kids watching! Enough with the double entendres, Jacques.

  Joining me on my chocolate journey this morning are Jill Kaplan and JJ Aikens, who was much friendlier than I expected when I showed up instead of Trudy.

  She and I are standing on the periphery of the chocolate inner circle and have a distant but effective view of the Jacques show.

  “Now, who wants a solid bunny tail to bite into?” he asks the children in an accent that can only have been acquired by watching Maurice Chevalier movies and spending time in North Dakota. We see him wink at Miss Ward, and she giggles.

  “C
an you believe her?” JJ says out of the side of her mouth, in case there are any lip-readers in the vicinity.

  “Well, they’ve definitely got a little something going on,” I counter in a low voice.

  “Uh, yeah, they do. How do you think we got this private tour?”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I hear she’s sleeping with him!” JJ side-talks to me again.

  “Are you sure?” I turn to see if she is kidding.

  “Well, I wasn’t there, but Kim told me.”

  “Was she there?”

  I’m rewarded with a barking laugh from JJ. That’s a first.

  “You never know.” JJ sounds a little bitter.

  I’m trying to play catch-up with all this new info being launched my way. Jacques and Miss Ward are having a fling, and Kim Fancy knows all about it. Kim Fancy who (and I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it) slapped Miss Ward across the face two months ago. I need to know more. I regard JJ and wonder just how much truth serum she has taken today.

  “I haven’t seen you and Kim together much lately,” I fish with small bait.

  JJ looks at me like I’m a drink of water in the desert. “Thank you! I know. I feel very pushed aside.”

  “Pushed aside by who?” I fake genuine concern. “Miss Ward?”

  “What? No,” she scoffs. “By her training.”

  “Her training?”

  “Yeah. She’s spent the last few months training to do a mud run this month.”

  Mud run? I get a little sick to my stomach.

  “She’s obsessed with it. She’s working with a trainer and everything.”

  This news hits me like a punch in the gut. Why, I do not know. I mean, who cares if Kim Fancy is doing the same mud run that I am? It doesn’t make me any less special.

  Yes it does! screams the cocktail party in my head.

  I see Jill Kaplan waving frantically at me from the other side of the chocolate river.

  “We better join them,” I say to JJ.

  As we walk toward where the kids are going to decorate their bunnies, I pull myself together. Jacques has lined up fifteen small bunnies, one for each of the kids to personalize and take home. There are candy eyes, candy bows, candy hats, and even candy carrots for them to have fun with. I notice Max trying to put the candy carrot on the bunny’s nose like he would make a snowman nose, but he can’t get it to stick, so he eats it.

  “Hey, no eating the accessories, buddy,” I admonish him.

  “What’s the assesories?”

  “The decorations.” There is a lull in the constant chatter as the kids busy themselves with their task. I glance up to see Miss Ward and Jacques standing in the corner whispering while they watch.

  “Could she be any more obvious?” JJ sidles up to me to continue her bitch session. I find myself wondering if Miss Ward did indeed whore herself out for a free class tour of the chocolate factory and decide that if she did, she’s a better woman than I am.

  “You know, I’ve been training for a mud run, too,” I tell JJ as a way to change the subject. “I wonder if it’s the same one Kim is doing.”

  “You are?” JJ’s tone is a little more incredulous than I would like.

  “Yeah. I’ve been training since September.”

  “Wow, I had no idea mud runs are so in vogue.” She seems baffled that she would be out of the loop on something popular.

  “Oh, yes. All the middle-aged housewives are doing it.”

  “Really?”

  I smile. “No, I’m just kidding. Do you know which race Kim is planning to run?”

  “Uh, it’s here in April. That’s all I know. Is that the one you are doing?”

  “I think so. I had an accident a few weeks ago and it put me on the disabled list. I get to start training again next week.” As I say this, it starts to throb down there and I realize starting to work out again is going to be a bitch. I’m still tender, plus I’m out of shape. Garth is going to have an “I told you so” field day.

  “Maybe I should do it, too.” JJ jostles me out of my thoughts.

  My God, does this woman ever do anything on her own? She is a professional bandwagon-jumper-on, if there is such a thing.

  “Absolutely. Give it a go,” is all I say to her.

  “Less chitchat, please, moms.” Miss Ward has extracted herself from Jacques and joined us without JJ or me noticing. I ignore the reprimand.

  “Looks like you and Jacques have made a love connection,” I comment.

  Miss Ward makes the face I make when I have smelled bad cheese.

  “He’s not my type at all.”

  I look at JJ and she rolls her eyes.

  “Okay, it’s time to get the kids into their coats and back on the bus.” Miss Ward pulls her purse over her shoulder.

  As the little ones load onto the bus, clutching their bunnies, each one wrapped in cellophane, I give Max a hug and thank JJ and Jill for chaperoning.

  My phone buzzes while I’m starting up the trusty minivan. God, it feels good to sit down! It’s a text from Ron.

  Want a night off from cooking? Let’s go to Garozzo’s for dinner.

  Oh, he read my mind.

  Max too?

  Already got Chyna to sit with him, so it’s just you and me, babe.

  Sounds like just what I need.

  Sometimes I can’t believe how lucky I got. I did kiss a lot of frogs, but it was worth it to end up with this prince of a man.

  My phone buzzes again.

  You look great today.

  Dinner and flattery? Hm … something’s up.

  Thanks! You always look great.

  Seriously? I didn’t think you noticed.

  How can I not?

  Glad you like what you see.

  Typical Ron. He has no idea how cute he is.

  I do indeed.

  You’re making me smile.

  I want to do more than that.

  Aren’t you frisky today!

  You are, too.

  What do you want to do about it?

  I text him my sign for boobs since they’re his favorite part of my body. The poor man hasn’t had sex since my accident. He’s been so patient. Then I have an idea.

  How about we take a little bathroom break at Garozzo’s tonight?

  Really?

  Really. You’ve waited long enough.

  Wow. I don’t know what to say.

  Say you’ll see me at 7, dummy!

  Okay.

  I laugh as I start the minivan and pull into traffic. Ron and I used to flirt-text all the time. It’s been too long. Tonight should be fun. I haven’t had bathroom sex in ages.

  * * *

  Ron has a last-minute work crisis, so I end up meeting him at the restaurant. He is waiting for me in his car and jumps out when I pull up. He seems a bit preoccupied, so to cheer him up I give him a huge hug and let him know I’ve gone commando tonight.

  “Really? Wow. That’s unexpected.” He grins like a goof.

  “I thought I’d make it as convenient as possible.” I squeeze his butt.

  “It?” He squeezes mine back.

  “Yes, it.”

  “Well, this is a nice surprise.”

  “Really?” I stop walking and look at him. “We planned it earlier.”

  “We did? When?”

  “Today. You were flirty-texting me.” I reach into my purse to show him my phone and when I look up I see Don Burgess coming around the corner. He stops short when he sees us. Complete and utter horror washes over me as I realize what I’m going to see when I look at my texts. Don. Ron. Shit. I seriously need to think about getting glasses.

  “What are you talking about? Let me see.” He reaches for my cell and I consider making a run for it. But in the end I know this will all go better if I just ’fess up.

  Don is frozen in place, looking very confused. I’m guessing he’s trying to assess the situation.

  Ron finishes reading and looks first at me and then notices Don.

/>   “Don. What’s up? Having dinner here tonight?” Ron’s voice is way too calm for my comfort.

  “Uh, yeah.” Don, to his credit, looks confused and uncomfortable. “You guys, too?”

  “We sure are. Who are you eating with?” Ron crosses his arms and takes a wide stance, like he’s a bouncer.

  “Okay, okay, let’s not make this awkward,” I say, as though it isn’t already. I stand between the two of them. Don and Ron. Jeez, what are the odds?

  “Did you come here to have sex with my wife in the bathroom?” Ron’s velvet voice is about an octave lower than usual.

  Don’s face shows no sign of the panic that is ripping through me.

  “Um, no. I came here to tell her I couldn’t have sex with her in the bathroom.”

  “What?” Ron and I say at the same time. I’m a little insulted. He’d be lucky to have sex with me anywhere, especially a bathroom. I realize this wouldn’t be a smart thing to say right now, so I force out a laugh.

  “It’s all a big misunderstanding.” I put my hand on Ron’s arm. “It’s actually really funny when you think about it.”

  “It would be funny if this guy hadn’t shown up thinking he was going to screw my wife.” Ron yanks his arm away and glares at Don.

  “Hey, whoa,” says Don. “That’s not why I came.” He puts his hands up and starts to walk backward. Not a great idea as he only has about two feet before he falls over a planter filled with super-tunias and lands flat on his back.

  “Are you okay?” I start toward him, but Ron holds me back.

  “He’s fine.” He leads us both into the restaurant. I mouth, “I’m sorry,” to Don as I’m pulled through the door.

  “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.”

  Irina greets us from behind her podium. I call her the hostess with the moistest because her hands are always wet. She is one of our favorite people at Garozzo’s, and normally I would ask how her kids are and take a few moments to chat, but tonight I don’t dare do anything except give her a quick smile and nod.

  Ron takes the wheel.

  “Irina, can we get the table in the back by the small window?”

  She gives him a puzzled look, but only says, “Sure thing, follow me.”

  She gathers up a couple of menus and leads us through the half-full restaurant to what is generally known as the crappiest table at Garozzo’s because it has the distinct honor of being both by the bathroom and near the place where the waiters congregate to place their orders. If Ron is trying to punish me, mission accomplished.