••• Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Muffler Shuffler
Here's my scarf in the yarn I bought at the coffee shop in Dead Cow Palace. This is probably the best color shot of this yarn, so far, but it's still not doing it justice. There's a smattering of cobalt throughout that just ties it all together.

We're Gonna Turn This Mutha Out
Last week, I attended a meeting of the Moms, to make plans for the end-of-the-season basketball banquet. Before I get going on this, I’d first like to give you a bit of background on the community in which I live.

In my town, mothers who work outside the home, are a rarity. (And unaccommodated for. No evening PTA meetings. Ever. Never.) Don’t get me wrong, I’m not making fun of mothers who work at home. The mothers in my community are really, really good at what they do. They are professionals.

And I’m not talking Soccer Moms here. Next to these women, Soccer Moms are trifling, whinin’, over-highlighted, amateurish snipe- asses.

The women I’m talking about are the real deal. They are The Real Muthas.

So what is a Real Mutha, exactly?

The Real Mutha is a woman who comes to the basketball banquet planning meeting, straight from a hospital bed, where she has been recuperating from pneumonia. ::cough:: But she’s safe, ::cough:: having been on antibiotics for two days.

Then there are the two Real Muthas Married to Doctors (or Real Doctor Muthas by Proxy) who won’t be outdone by a post-near-death-bed performance by the mere accountant's wife, and commence with the classic We're-Married-to-Doctors-and-Can- Guess-What-Meds-You're-on-in-Less-Than-Two-Tries game.

But this Real Mutha is prepared. She anticipates. Always. She's on an antibiotic the Real Doctor Muthas by Proxy have never heard of. Gasp. Oh, Really? ::exchanging glances:: I’ll have to ask Bobby about that one.

Next, The Real Mutha, with the Real Breath Threatening Disease, pulls out a clipboard. On the clipboard is a 3-page, double-spaced, typed report, summarizing phone conversations with about 25-200 local caterers. Phone calls made, of course, from her hospital bed, during the intravaneous rehydration process. I'll go out on a limb and assume she was also catheterized at that time, although, in fairness to all involved, it never actually came up.

Next was a nauseatingly detailed discussion about the politics of the school district's food service:
....She said we can use utensils and serving bowls, but we can’t touch the ovens. Excuse me? We can’t touch the ovens? I don’t think so. I said to her, technically, those ovens belong to us... And, by the way, I will be taking this up with Carol....
Ahhh, nod the Muthas approvingly, murmuring in unison, Carol...

So far this evening, I’ve said nothing past the introductions.
But I’m thinking.
Who the fuck is Carol?

Anyway, after a painfully tedious narrowing down of the potential caterers list, and an unrelated discussion about beverages….
Mutha Says: We’re serving milk.
Marcy Thinks: Snort. They won’t drink milk.
Mutha Says: My son will drink milk, if I tell him to.
Marcy Thinks: You’re going to make your Freshman son drink milk at the basketball banquet?
Marcy Thinks some more: In front of the JV and Varsity teams?
I hope you have a good therapist.
And, Marcy:And you think your son is going to actually sit with you at the banquet? Honey, he ain’t even gonna look atchu.
Mutha Says: We’re serving milk. It's final. Every freshman brings a gallon.
Marcy's Final Cohesive Thought for the Evening: Ashton? Is that you?
...The topic turned to table decorations.

The Mutha of a freshman asks “What did they do last year?”

I think, “I know this one! Pick me, pick me!” And before I could stop it, I hear my voice say “Shoe.”

The Muthas, like a synchronized swim team, turn their heads, and smile. And wait.

And smile. And wait.

While I count on my fingers, the hours since my early morning Conce*rta dose. 6:30, 7:30, 8:30…....4:30, 5:30.

Damn. Damn. Damn. Rebound.

Mortified at being the focus, at the very moment my neurons are being released from their daily imprisonment, I try to fill a social gap through which, by now, you could drive a twin set of Pamela Andersons.

A Big Shoe. ::I nod:: Filled with stuff.

What kind of shoe? Inquires a Mutha.


::Smiles Waning::

Like, a basketball shoe? Asks Anutha, Mutha.

Yes! Yes! That’s it! I say. It was a Basketball Shoe.
With stuff.

I'm now pleased as punch. I'm making a contribution. A connection. I think they like me. Maybe I'll get to meet Carol....finally.

But before I could dab my tear-welled eye and proceed, a JV Mutha announces: “I was wondering what you guys think about something like this...” And right out of her butt hole, she pulls a cute little Styrofoam ball, painted up to look (and I kid you not) exactly like a basketball. Only smaller, of course.

Ooh, says the Real Muthas Collective.

Then someone says “What about one of those cute little mylar balloons, in the school colors...?"

"I’m on it," says the Back Hoe Mutha, with a wink and a nod, and a deep, writhing twist.

After what seemed like a butt digger's eternity, she pulls not one, but two mylar balloons, from her hole. In the school colors, of course.

Bravo, they sing.

Do you have any Xanax in there? I joke.
No one laughed.

Hopefully, in a plastic baggie. Though.
No one laughed, some more.

Fortunately for all, the meeting concluded soon after that, although I do suspect that they reconvened the following day, to get some serious work accomplished.

These are, after all, The Real Muthas.

And needless to say, I will not be expecting a call from Carol any time soon.

Post edit note: This post originally contained a narration of my first experience running the concession stand at the high school, which also occurred last week. It was a good story, but too long for this already dragged out mutha. Here's the punchline: Exploding weinies, with just a look.

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