You’ll be relieved to know the whole me in disguise scenario was quickly abandoned. Nikki, diplomatically pointed out that my, “Personality was too unique to camouflage.” What she really meant was my fat ass, but I appreciated her kindness.
What totally convinced to give up the disguise plan was when Kelly said, “Two words for you – yoga pants. Don’t you remember last year when you said “You were going to try on some yoga pants to see how the other half lived.” So, you went to Victoria’s Secret and got a pair. You can’t have forgotten what happened next?”
“Yeah, I remember. I pulled them on, which left me a little winded from the exertion of getting them up and over my thighs. It was a like a workout with resistance bands and I spent the better of a day walking around with camel toe in the front and butt crack thong in the back. Yes, it was horrible.”
Kelly added, “Your exact words, I believe were, “It was a 8 hour lycra colonoscopy.” You also over shared that you “needed tweezers to get the pants out of your crack.” So, yeah, thanks for that. You do know that all the backstage helpers wear black yoga pants, black T-shirts and, I know you’re going to love this, an apron.”
I maybe could have suffered through the yoga pants, but there was no way I was wearing an apron. Sure, it would have covered the camel toe, but the apron to me said, “I here to serve.” I couldn’t stomach the thought of “serving” those moms. So, I went with Plan B – sneaking backstage and saying I was there to take some behind the scenes pictures for the PTA newsletter. We all thought that would work. Nikki, though, would be doing the heavy lifting. She said she was up for it as long as I was right beside her. We all finished our mojitos, except for ABC who wanted a “roadie.” I gave her a Snapple instead and everyone rounded up their kids and headed home.
The Evening Before the Style Show
Nikki as instructed had signed up to volunteer as a backstage helper. She also e-mailed Charity and said she would be “flattered beyond words” to be her “dresser” for the event. Each mom and child model had a dresser. A person that would help her them get the clothes they were modeling on and off. Charity took the bait and picked Nikki to be dresser. This evening Nikki and I were going to the Bridal Boutique to pick up the gown Charity would be modeling. All the stores that were letting clothes leave their premises for the style show required that you pick up the clothes up right before the event and then return them right after the style show is over. We were showing up the night before for two reasons. One, I had cased the joint and knew that the owner of the store that help pick Charity’s gown did not work in the evenings. I did not want anyone in a position of authority to question us or worse, report back to Charity. Two, that meant only three young women would be working and I felt they wouldn’t question us. We needed that to ensure we could successfully pull a bait and switch with Charity’s dress. As soon as we walk in I go the youngest looking woman working behind the counter and tell her we’re here from Edgewater Elementary to pick up the bridal gown that they’re letting us borrow for our style show. She knows just what I’m talking about and goes in the back of the store to get the gown. When she brings it out. I ask her to unzip the bag so I can confirm that it’s the right dress.
I say, “The woman this dress is for is sooo picky. I don’t want to be the one that brings the wrong dress. Have you meet her? She’s kind of orange.”
The young woman laughs and answers, ‘No, but I’ve heard about it. We all call her the tangelo.”
“Oh my,” I say as I’m inspecting the gown, “This dress is too big. It says it’s a size 8. Do you have this in stock in any smaller sizes? The tangelo is tiny.”
“Wow, sorry. I’ll go check right now.”
The clerk comes and says she had the gown in a size 6 and 2.
I look at Nikki, we’re both smiling, and say, “We’ll take the size 2.”
My only worry is if the manager of the store sees the size 8 gown tomorrow and wonders why no one has come to pick it up. We don’t want Charity to get a phone call. I ask the clerk, “You know now that I’ve thought about I’m just a little worried to leave the size 8 here. What if Charity, the tangelo, had something planned we don’t know about. We’re both, (I gesture to me and Nikki) a little afraid of her. She’s got a temper. Would you mind just zipping the size 8 in her too and letting us get this worked out. I don’t mind leaving a credit card on file with you if that’s what it takes.”
“Oh no, that won’t be a problem. We’ve got Charity’s card so, yeah, go ahead and take the dresses.”
Five minutes later we’re walking out the store with both gowns. Score! We drive to Kelly’s house so she can change the size tags on the two gowns. Kelly is one of those women who is blessed with crafting abilities. She knits beautiful hats and does amazing scrapbooks for her girls. Even the paper she uses would qualify as works of art and she gets very excited about pagination. Out of the four of us she’s the only one who could gently remove the size tags and change them out without hurting either gown. In a matter of minutes the size 2 dress is wearing a size 8 tag. We are good to go for the style show.
One Hour Before the Noon Style Show
I’m en route to the country club for the Style Show. I’ve got ABC in the car with me. She’s holding a box on her lap that contains the Style Show programs. When we get there I’m going “backstage” to check on Nikki, to make sure she’s surviving her Hot Mom Tour of Duty and ABC will be busy putting the programs on every table. I felt kind of bad for ABC. She was feeling left out so I had her work with my son to make up a fake ad for the program. ABC invented a faux Plastic Surgery Clinic. The ad read: The Plastic Surgery Team of Lee, Clay & Martin is proud to support Public Education and Edgewater Elementary. We’re also proud of our patients. Sixteen of the Mommy Models have experienced our surgical artistry in the form breast implants, tummy tucks, fanny lifts, facial injectables and vaginal rejuvenation – proving our clinic can keep you in “model” form.”
I emailed in the ad into the printer from a school computer (good luck tracing it back to me) and yes, it’s mean. So what? Furthermore, if these women don’t want me messing with their program then they need to quit putting me in charge of all the PTA’s printed material. Doing the school newsletter, directory and crap like the Style Show program is deemed, I’m sure, by the hot moms, work for the “attractively challenged”. They also need to proof better. The mock ad was in the final proof and the committee signed off on it. All I’m saying is they need to work on their attention to detail. Plus the ad is like a brain teaser. The audience can play “Guess Who Got a Boob Job” or “Whose Hoo Haa is Back To Full Virgin.” It’s just another example of how I’m always giving back.
We get to the country club and ABC and I go our separate ways. I head straight to a portion of the C.C.’s ballroom that has been cordoned off to dress the models. Bless Nikki’s heart I can Charity squawking even before I get into the room. She’s in four-wheel drive bitch mode, screaming at kids and moms, the country club staff, pretty much anyone that crosses her path. She’s got her hair in hot rollers, is wearing a white silk robe, and some angry-looking stilettos that scream “I have my podiatrist on speed dial,” while her acrylic nails keeps tapping a checklist on her I Pad. I run over to Nikki, put my arm around here and ask her if everything is going okay.
“No, it’s not okay. Charity should not be in charge of anything, ever! I thought she was bad just as a human being. But, add in being the boss, like she is here, and it’s Cruella De Ville drinking crack cocktails.”
“I’m so sorry, but hang in there this whole this is over in two hours and I know it’s going to be so worth it.”
“The only thing getting me through this is the look on her face when she tries to get her orange butt in that wedding dress.”
“About the dress – has she looked at it?”
“Yes, but all she did was unzip the bag to make sure I picked up the right one.”
“Okay, great?” right after I say this Charity sees me and clip-clops over in her heels to ask me what I’m doing.
“You know behind the scenes stuff for the newsletter,” I say very importantly.
“I guess that’s okay,” she spits out. “Just make sure I get to approve what you write and also no photos without my approval.”
“Yeah, sure. No problem,” I say, but in reality if Charity wants that much control over what goes in the lame PTA newsletter then she can write the damn thing.
The Style Show Begins
I duck out and hang with ABC and Kelly. We entertain ourselves by watching people leaf through the program and either gasp or laugh when they see the plastic surgery ad. Right at high noon Charity comes out in a Michael Kors suit and introduces herself and goes to a podium off to the side where she’ll MC the Style Show until right before the grande finale where she’ll come out in bridal couture.
I stay in my seat and watch the show until I see Charity hand over the MC reigns to her Style Show vice chair – the second ickiest woman on the planet Jacardi Monroe. (For more information on Jacardi please see Do You Know This Woman?#2) As soon as Charity starts walking towards the “model” dressing area I get up and follow her. I hang back until she’s out of her Kors suit and begins to step into the bridal gown that Nikki is holding. Nikki gives me a look that says, “Here comes the shit storm” as she’s helping Charity pull the dress up it stops at mid-thigh. Charity begins really tugging at to get it to move. Her face is turning Capri Sun Fruit Punch Red from pulling on the dress so hard. That’s my cue to rush over and ask if I can help.
“No, You. Can. Not. Help,” seethes Charity.
Nikki says, “Charity lets try pulling the dress over your head and see if that works.”
“Good job, Nikki”, I think to myself. That will totally tornado her hair.
Nikki stands on a chair and begins to lower the gown over Charity’s head. The gown makes it as far as Charity’s boobs and won’t budge. The dress has become a chest tourniquet
By this time Charity is having a melt down. She pulls the dress up and off, F bombs are flying like Fritos at a second grade slumber party. Charity screams, “You F’d up. This dress has got to be wrong size.”
That’s when I step over and say, “Nikki check the tag?” Of course, I know what’s it’s going to say, but I had to play this out. By this time we had quite an audience.
Nikki, like she’s trying to tunnel her way to freedom plows through all the dress fabric, finds the tag, and pipes up in a very chipper voice, “No, it’s a size 8!”
“There is no way in hell this dress is a F’ing size 8!” Charity screams. Her bellow was so intense her full body spanx sem to vibrate.
“I know,” I say, “Let’s really loosen the corset ties and try again.”
The gown was one of those bridal dresses that you lace into like Scarlet O’Hara in Gone With the Wind. So, Nikki and I remove the lacings and enjoy the sight of Charity trying to stuff herself into the dress. This time it goes on, but there is no way we’ll be able to lace it together. There’s at least a foot of naked back staring at us, but that doesn’t stop us from “trying.”
“Charity,” I say in a very loud stage whisper, “You’re not pregnant (pause) with twins are you?
Well, then girl you must retaining water like a sperm whale or Shamu is in your family tree because I don’t think there is anyway we can make this fit. Could you, I don’t know, do something like “Quadraspanx?”
“What the hell is that?”
“Quadrapspanxing is when you wear four pairs of Spanx.”
“I’ve already got on a body-shaper and booster butt panties and I’m having trouble breathing. I can’t wear any more F’ing Spanx!!”
“Okay, okay calm down FATTY We’ll figure this out.” Oh, what joy that F word brought me!
Right after I said, that two hot moms are running towards us screaming, “Shut up, shut up! We can hear all of you on the runway, especially you!” They both jab their overly blinged fingers in my face and while we’re talking about fingers whoever thought that “crackled” nail polish look was a good idea was totally wrong.
“What are you talking about?” I ask sounding very confused and innocent.
“Charity, you left your microphone on!”
“I most certainly did not. I took it off as soon as I came back here to get dressed.”
All eyes turn and stare at me.
Charity points at me and shrieks, “You have my microphone on! Why?”
“Hey, you threw it on the floor. All I did was pick it up and clip it on my pants so it wouldn’t get trampled on.”
“But you turned it on. I know you did!”
“I don’t even know how to turn it on.” I rip the mic clip off the waistband of my pants and say, “Here, take it and turn it off.”
While, throwing the mic I’m thinking “Excellent, everything is going just as I had planned.” Remember when we were young and all we needed to get something from a guy was a smile and maybe a deep lean over so he could get a glimpse of our upper to mid boob? Now, that we’re in the cavernous pit of middle-aged to attract a man’s attention we’re forced to use LPC – Laser Precision Complaining. A lethal mixture of angry mom and psycho school librarian. That’s exactly the tactic ABC used with the dude running the sound board at the Style Show. As soon as I headed backstage she got up and started bitching at the sound board guy about how the mics sounded “scratchy” and everything was “way too loud.” “We’re not paying you for reverb young man!” ABC in his face distracted/flustered him to such an extent that he never cut off Charity’s mic which meant everyone could hear the meltdown. This is what attention to detail looks like my friends. Don’t leave home without it.
(Alert Snarky readers will also noticed the microphone mix up sounds very much like the ploy I used in “So, I Was Kicked Out of the Junior League. Is That So Wrong?” Let’s just say I’m a firm believer in recycling.)
I ask, “Could you hear me call Charity a fatty?” I tried to sound concerned and apologetic.
“Yes, and a sperm whale! Couldn’t you hear everyone laughing?”
“No, we were far to busy trying to shove Charity into this damn dress.”
Nikki says, “No worries, no worries. Everyone calm down. Charity focus on getting dressed. We’re just going to lace you in the best we can.”
“You know I have another solution,” I volunteer. Charity you could get back in your suit and have someone else, someone who might actually fight into the dress, model. Like Nikki, here.”
Nikki quickly answers back with, “Oh no, I couldn’t wear that gown. It would just swim on me. You’ll need a much bigger girl.”
I step back and look at Nikki, like a proud parent. Way to come through with the lethal insult! To think one year ago, she was so shy she cried when another mother complained about the quality of the marshmallows she used in the Rice Krispy Treats she made for the winter kindergarten party. (Truth be told it wasn’t the marshmallows that were the problem it was the generic rice cereal. I may only have a B.A. degree, but if there’s one thing I know it’s baked goods and cereal based dessert treats.) And now, with my gentle guidance she’s blossoming into a snarky woman. I couldn’t be more pleased.
Nikki and I begin to lace the gown. It looks wonderfully hideous. From the front the dress is simply horrible. Charity’s boobs are barely contained and there’s puckering everywhere from her body trying to escape. The back, what can I say, the back is a thing of rare beauty. The ultimate fashion no. You see more spanx than dress and the laces look like they’re could give up at any minute. Plus, the combination of spanx, too tight dress and laces that are fighting for their life have funneled any excess skin/flab Charity has into a case of extreme back fat that jiggles when she attempts to inhale air. Like I said, it’s a sight to behold. We lie and tell Charity she looks fine – kind of. I believe our exact words are, “This is probably as good as its going to get.”
Charity shoos both Nikki and I out-of-the-way, stops at a mirror, fluffs her hair, attaches some stupid looking blusher veil and starts walking out of the dressing room to the runway. Nikki and I run as fast as we can so we’re in the audience for Charity’s big reveal. Charity walks out on runway and I’ll give her this, she worked that bridal gown. This 43-year-old, orange, mother of two swayed her hips and sashayed it with everything she’s got, which was a problem. Each time she gyrated the gown’s corset, whose tensile strength was being severely tested by the fact that a size 8 body was forced into a size 2 gown, would become looser and looser. Bring on the double nip slip. It took Charity a couple of seconds to realize her nipples were free, free at last. She quickly turned around to walk back up the runway and that’s when you saw the gown gaping open and the wonder of the back fat funnel. The gasps that occurred when Charity’s nips winked at the audience were replaced with at first chuckles, then laughter and worked it’s way to howls.
That was our cue to leave – quickly. Nikki, ABC, Kelly and I hauled out of ballroom. Our work here was done. As we walked out of the Country Club and headed towards the parking lot I couldn’t help myself, I started singing The Love Boat theme, until ABC told me to shut up. Which, of course, only made me sing louder.
Love, exciting and new
Come aboard, we’re expecting you
Love, life’s sweetest reward
Let it flow, it floats back to you
Love Boat soon will be making another run
The Love Boat promises something for everyone
Set a course for adventure
Your mind on a new revenge.
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