I wonder if the three flannel clad Seattle dudes that opened the coffee-house that would lead to Starbucks ever thought that their little bean store concept would become the morning hang out for every evil/hot mom and aspiring evil/hot mom, in America. Probably not. But, if you want to observe class wars, mom cliques, eating disorders, boobs that have been, thanks to modern science, hoisted to shoulder-blade height and nostrils that have been hot waxed, cleaned and steamed (Don’t tell me you thought you could only do that to your car?) all one needs to do is head to any suburban Starbucks closest to a country club, private tennis facility or elementary school where you can play Hot Mom Car Bingo. In this version of bingo the center square is, of course, the Escalade. The Escalady is as common to an elementary school morning drop off scenario as a $128 Vera Bradley backpack for a kindergartener. The other squares consist of the Lexus SUV, the Lexus RX 350, the Land Rover, the BMW SUV, the Denali, the Suburban, Volvo SUV, the big ass Infiniti SUV, loaded Sequoia and there’s always one Porsche Cayenne. If it’s a Turbo Cayenne, that bad boy cost well into the six figures and it’s giving all the other mom cars the middle finger. Trust me, if you find a Starbucks that meets 2 out of 3 of these requirements you’ve hit bitch gold.
That’s why the next morning, after last night’s meeting with the group of moms I’ve code named “Nut Ups,” I found myself at an unfamiliar Starbucks casing the joint. I had on my uniform of track pants (yes, how shocking), a fleece Kohl’s Tek Gear hoodie, and for privacy reasons, a baseball hat, pulled down low on my forehead. My only salute to fashion was a high ponytail threaded out of the back of my hat. I had ordered myself a hot chocolate (my Diet Coke was lovingly waiting for me in the car) and had positioned myself so I could watch the door.
Very early this morning I gone on Facebook and checked out the list of names the Nut Ups had given me. I don’t mean to slow down this story, but there’s always time for a safety lesson. People check your FB privacy settings. None of the six moms whose names I had been given had much, if any, privacy settings. In fact, I have a theory, the more obnoxiously braggy you are on Facebook the less privacy settings you have. It’s as if you want to shout out to the world, “Look at me! My life is fab! I take amazing vacays! Please track me down and kill me.” So suffice it to say I already had a lot of intel on these bitches. But, I was big game hunting so most of my attention would be focused on Priscilla Davis – PTF president at Spring Creek Elementary.
I gagged a little on my hot chocolate when Priscilla walked into Starbucks. FB did not do her justice. She looked like a combination of a not aging well Taylor Swift and Goldilocks gone bad. Like if Goldilocks had a really big problem finding the bed that was “just right” so she keep on “trying.”
Priscilla had faux gold hair that went in ringlets all the way down her back. People, I like long hair and don’t ever propose that the middle-aged female population goes back to sensible, short hair and high-waisted, tapered to the ankle denim. But, hair that hits your butt crack is, in my opinion, not a good look when you achieve double-digit birthday status. Especially hair in ringlets that hit your butt crack. She also had a heavy hand with the eyeliner and some gold hoop earrings that could double as a towel holder in your downstairs half bath.
It was her outfit that was most telling. It showed weakness that I would exploit. Priscilla had on a tennis skirt, tennis warm up jacket, a fur vest, yoga pants under the tennis skirt and of course, freaking Uggs. Many women where I live wear yoga pants under their tennis skirts. You can’t go to the grocery store and not see at least 3 Tenoga moms. I would bet a portion of my 401 k that not a one of these moms even plays tennis or has ever done a “plough” on a yoga mat I call it the “active douchy mom on the go” look. What was high value intel about Priscilla’s outfit is that it showed a woman who was afraid. Excellent.
Blame it on the recent Sherlock Holmes movie, but I fancy myself a modern-day mom version of Holmes. By dissecting Priscilla’s appearance from the head down I found out that she: Has an abnormal attachment to super long hair – signaling a need to hold on to her childhood. This most likely is due to some kind of childhood trauma. (Parental divorce etc). The hair is also her security blanket. She can’t let it go. The fact that she couldn’t wear just a tennis outfit and had to mix it up with Uggs, yoga pants and that really tacky fur vest suggests she refuses to be stripped of any of her physical trappings. For instance if she walked into Starbucks in just a tennis skirt, hoodie and tennis shoes with that icky hair pulled out of her face, with no eyeliner she would feel naked, maybe invisible. This chick has a narcissistic need to be the center of attention. The hideous furry Uggs, the fur vest and full make up and hair is how she signals her hot mom pecking order. I had all this figured out before she opened her mouth. It was when the witch ordered a Venti hot water with lemon that I added crazy to my list.
The hot water order says so much. Primarily it’s a female power play. Everyone else at your table is drinking some sort of beverage that has a modicum of calories – sugar-free syrup be damned or while, perhaps calorie free has some kind of chemical additive like equal. You, are better, than that. You, are drinking only hot water. That means you win. By that one simple order you have signaled your superiority. The hot water is the big FU. The lemon is your nod to the food groups and your prop. You can squeeze it, stir the juice in your cup of hot water, and caress the rind as it lays flaccid on your napkin. This keeps everyone’s eyes on you, your hot water and your absolute control. It’s as if your saying, “Go ahead you losers at my table. Drink that crap. I will sit here, sip hot water and make you feel as uncomfortable as I can.” The hot water ploy is also a 100% guarantee that at least one person will make the comment, “That’s why are your so skinny. Oh my Gawd, I wish I had your willpower.” Yes, it’s all about the power.
Once Priscilla set down with her flashy flock of aging crows I scored a seat, not right next to them, but across the aisle. The morning sun was shining in the windows so it didn’t look weird that I had on my sunglasses. I did the 21st century version of “I’m important” and stared down at my phone. What I was really doing was listening. They talked about their appearance, dissected other’s peoples appearance, shopping for “darling” jeans, their children and finally their children’s school. This women were ripe for a takeover. They were full of themselves, puffed up, and cocky. They were all, “We’ve got this.” I was hoping that by next week I could ensure that what they got what was exactly what they deserved.
Two Days Before the PTF Meeting
On Monday morning, two days before the Wednesday PTF meeting, I invited the Nut Ups to my house for a rehearsal. I needed to make sure these 5 women knew exactly what they needed to do. I couldn’t have anybody get scared, squeamish or confused. At exactly 10 a.m. I hear a rumble in my driveway. It’s the freaking conversion van. The Nut Ups had carpooled. I welcome them into my house and gave extra credit to Eleanor who brought me a fresh Diet Coke, in a 32 ounce styrofoam cup (my beverage container of choice) with my favorite kind of ice – crushed. I shooed everyone into my dining room where I had muffins and assorted drinks laid out plus paper, pens and a handout. Because I believe in leaving nothing to chance I had produced a time line for the take over of the PTF meeting. I also had given our mission, for fun, a code name, BBG -Bitches Be Gone.
The meeting started out on the wrong foot. Immediately, Orphan Annie objected to the word bitches. Apparently, she was still “reeling” from my “cursing episode” at McDonalds. I do a swear word inventory in my head and can only come up with 3 that I probably used – damn, hell and bitches. Which are itsy bitsy, teeny, tiny curse words. It’s not like I was spewing F bombs. This made me f’ing mad. To think I baked from scratch for this group.
I said, “Orphan Annie, seriously, we are about to do battle with a sorority of evil. To do this you and everyone else at this table are going to have to leave Goody Two Shoe Land where you’ve allowed, that’s right, ALLOWED yourself and YOUR children to be victimized and enter the world of Kick Some Ass. If you feel more comfortable wearing a Forever Lazy of “Oh look at me, I’m so sweet and gentle that cursing hurts my feelings” then we need to just stop right now. I need devious, sneaky, smart women sitting at this table.”
I paused to catch my breath and to cool down. I was still super ticked. As I’m exhaling, Moisturize More, bangs her fist on the table and says, “I’m in!” and then to my delight, she shouts so loud my dogs bark, “I want to get those f’ing bitches!”
Oh yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. A show of spirit and cursing all while shoving a blueberry muffin in your face. That’s my kind of girl
Eleanor soon follows with, “Hell yes, we want to do this!”
All Business even stands up and says, “BBG is on.”
Cute Blonde responds with, “I’m kind of scared, but I know I’ll regret if I don’t do anything so let’s go.”
All heads turn towards Orphan Annie, I’m thinking to myself, “Girl get a backbone,” when she looks up at all of us and says, “Oh my God, oh my God, I’ll do it, but please tell me it will all work out alright?”
I looked her right in the eyes and say with every bit of sincerity I have, “Yes, it will all work out alright. I’m sure of it.”
Although, I wasn’t, but I figured it’s what she needed to hear. You know kind of like when you tell your husband sex was great, but the whole time you were really going over the carpool schedule for the week in your head and thinking your husband might need get that mole on his left shoulder checked. Orphan Annie then had a moment of conscience and wanted all of us to pray about whether or not we should really do the PTF meeting intervention. That felt weird to me. I’m so over people using prayer as an excuse to never have to make a decisive decision in their life. It’s not that I don’t believe in prayer. I was praying right now that the Conversion Van wasn’t leaking oil in my driveway because my husband wouldn’t notice me mowing the lawn naked, (to be fair he probably would, but only to tell me to put some shoes on) but oil on his precious driveway well, I’d hear about that as in, “Where did the damn oil leak came from?”
So I said,” Really, do you think we should pray for the downfall of others – even if they are daughters of Satan? I suggest, we continue with the meeting then in private do our praying.” That appeased Orphan Annie so finally we could get to my timeline.
I walked everyone through exactly what I was going to do at the meeting. Then I had everyone role play about what they were going to do. We went over and over it. I wanted everyone to be confident and not timid. When I felt all the Nut Ups had their parts down I approached the subject of what they should wear to the meeting. No frumps allowed. That meant the anti hot mom outfit of jeans, generic fleece top and clogs would not be allowed. I encouraged every women to dress up, not be afraid to use concealor and shared that a little eyeliner was good for the soul. I slyly managed to mention that a new European Waxing studio had just opened and they were doing a first wax for free promotion. As I’m saying this I make eye contact with Orphan Annie. I told Cute Blonde she needed to channel her inner hottie. We needed her to take her youth (I found out she was 25 freaking years old!) and just rub it the face of the peri-menopausal PTF board. She had what they no longer were and could never be again – young. I instructed her to strut her slut all around the cafeteria that night. It would distract and piss off the PTF bitches and I needed that diversion if we were going to pull this off.
Last on my list for the meeting was a get away car. I had learned the hard way (see Warning A Science Fair Can Be Hazardous to Your Health.) that if you’re going to stir things up you better be sure there’s a car waiting to speed you away from the land of hostile moms. Orphan Annie perked up and said she could drive the get away vehicle. I think, no where in the heist, scheme or covert operation arena, would one’s first thought be, “Hell yeah, a 13 passenger Conversion Van makes the perfect quick get away.” Before I can politely say, “We probably need something a little smaller.” She shouts out, “I can use my husband’s car. He drives a BMW M3 Coupe.”
This totally distracts me. My mind instantly goes to a marriage where the wife would be stuck with an aging crap ass van while the husband drives a top of the line sports car. I was thinking Orphan Annie had much bigger problems in her life then a mustache and the PTF board. But I file away that thought for another time and say, “Yeah, sounds great. You’re my getaway driver.”
The meeting lasted almost two hours. The Nut Ups left my house pumped. I was feeling optimistic and excited. The show down was in T minus 56 hours.
Coming soon – The PTF Meeting
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