Overheard at the Pool – Part 2

It’s summertime and the living is easy
Fish are jumping and the cotton is high
Your daddy’s rich and your mama’s good-looking

On rare occasions I have the opportunity to dip my non-pedicured toe into the waters of the wealthy.  Earlier this summer, my children and I swam with sharks, and by that I mean the offspring of hedge-funders and trust-funders.  It was at an ultra fancy pants country club.  The kind of club you see on TV because it’s the site of PGA tournaments.  The pool was old and elegant.  No water slides, no high dive, no water blasting zone just a large pool plopped on a piece of a land with a beautiful vista of more beautiful vistas.  This, of course, means my kids were disappointed.   They like the Chuck E Cheese style of pool with lots of padded plastic to slide down, jump off and climb on.  I, was awestruck.  It looked like a pool right out of The Great Gatsby.

The kids and I actually get escorted to the pool by what I would call a butler, but what the fancy pants set calls a club facilitator.  He tells me that he will check in on me frequently to make sure I have everything I need.  One word – awesome.  Who cares that my kids and I stick out like the Beverly Hillbillies.   I excitedly slap my Dollar Tree flip-flops on the pool side concrete and suck in my stomach in my Calvin Klein, Ross Dress for Less” irregular” swimsuit.  Which makes it a perfect fit for me since my body could kindly be described as irregular.  I’m also, from what I can tell, the only woman at the pool that is not a size zero.  I’m a size zero + 14.  Although, I don’t know if I’m looking at moms or nannies.  My kids, are also in non-designer swimsuits, but I like to think that the Gap is an American classic.  It’s times like these that I’m glad to be a devoted reader of In Style magazine.  Sure, I could read The Economist or the London Financial Times, but hours of reading In Style is now keying me into the moms in $200 Burberry Haymarket Check bikinis, teen girls in True Religion thongs and loads of tanned wrists with just released waterproof Datejust Lady Rolex watches.  I feel like I’m inside a Neiman Marcus catalog and thanks to sunglasses I can gawk all I want!  I also noticed all the designer pool totes.  Really, Prada makes a pool tote?  If only I could get close enough to smell it.   I crave the smell of outrageously priced Italian leather goods.   A very nice saleslady at one of my favorite lookie loo stores always lets me sniff the Prada whenever I go in to visit.  She gets out her keys, unlocks the case with all the Prada bags, their $3,000 and up price tags tickle my nose as I take hit after hit of all that leathery goodness.  Yum.  Now, I’m becoming a little obsessed with sniffing that Prada.  Luckily, the smell of sun tan lotion is overwhelming my olfactory senses so I settle down.

The kids and I get all country club comfy.  My middle class duo jump into the pool and proceed to shock and awe the other young swimmers with their tales of no maids, no nannies, and a lifetime spent in a mini-van.  They even bring a small group of children to my lawn chair to prove that they are indeed at the pool with their “for real” mother, not a nanny, not a second trophy wife stepmother. Let’s be honest here.  There is no way anybody would mistake me for a trophy wife unless I was married to Methuselah and even that would be a stretch.  I also had to verify that my family did indeed fly “commercial not private” to our current destination.  I then had to back up my son’s claim that yes you do have to take your shoes off and walk through a metal detector before you can get on the plane and that Southwest Airlines does not have a first class section and that everybody gets on the plane and rushes to the best seat. Yes, it is kind of like “musical chairs.”

I was greatly amused by this, mainly because my country club facilitator was making sure that I was keeping hydrated with my favorite pool side drink – the mojito.    I didn’t feel the need to be on mom “red alert level 5 drown status.”  This pool probably had a swimmer to lifeguard ratio of 2 to 1.   The great thing is you never heard the guards blow their whistle.  I was pondering that fact while I sucked on my mojito lime.   I figured it was probably because the club was so fancy pants that the whistles were at a higher frequency that only kids and dogs could hear.  I’m not kidding about this.  Last year, I thought I had a brain tumor because it seemed my hearing had gone down hill fast.  I was relived to find out that “my hearing was fine for someone in older middle age.”  The doctor said the first sounds to go – high frequency.   So, it makes sense that not to bother the over 30 pool-side patrons that the lifeguards would have whistles that only annoyed and alerted the younger set.

As I made my way to the cabana, (no snack bar window at this pool) to order some lunch (I was thinking a smoked salmon and watercress salad with a lemon caper vingerette because it sounded elegant and for sure trumped the corn dog or Smuckers Uncrustables offered at my “home” pool.) I saw a group of lifeguards dining at the “employees table.”  I was so certain of my whistle frequency theory that I set out to confirm it.  I walked over and introduced myself as a guest of the club, complimented them on their guarding skills and asked my question about their whistles.  Cue, the polite, yet gut busting laughter.  Um, it seemed I was wrong about the whistles.  Amid their giggle fit, I asked if I could sit down and then began prodding them about their lifeguard code of conduct.   I assured them that I was just a one time visitor to the club, never to be seen again, so they could feel free to tell all.  After gaining their confidence that I wasn’t a tattle tale (I think it was those Dollar Tree flip-flops that really showed them that I was not a club “regular.”)  the story of the country club lifeguard began to be shared.  My first question was what’s up the whistle?   The whistle I find out is all for show (gasp) like set dressing. It hangs around their neck and is also used for twirling between their fingers as they pace the pool. But, that’s all it’s good for. It doesn’t even have that doohickey ball inside that makes the whistle sound.   Why no whistle?  The guards aren’t allowed to single out the “young patrons” about their behavior.  It could cause, according to club rules, “long term ill effects to the young patrons self-esteem.”  As a former lifeguard, I’m mouth hanging open, stunned. “So, how do you stop bad behavior or behavior that could result in someone getting hurt?”  I ask.   That’s a sticky wicket the guards say.  You’re allowed to “quietly and in a congenial manner” address a safety issue with the child’s nanny, guardian or parent.  But, as a guard you can not speak about a safety issue directly with a child.  This, the guards explain is to protect the guard more than the child.  Because in the past children who had been reprimanded complained/cried to their parents/nanny/guardian that the guard was mean and before you could say spoiled rotten, the guard would end up losing their job.  “If a kid is drowning are you allowed to save them or would that end up hurting their self-esteem also”, I joke.  No joke. They can rescue the child from drowning, but it can’t seem like a rescue.  Say what?   Apparently, when they jump in the water with their red life-preserver thingy they should “attempt to make it appear like they are either doing a practice drill or playing with the child.  In no way are they to tell the child they were rescued or needed guard assistance.”   “Oh,” I muttered, the whole self-esteem thing again. But what if they need CPR?  I don’t see how CPR can be disguised as guard practice.”   Fortunately, the club’s guards have never had to have that intense of a rescue with a child.  They have had to go in after drunk adults and do CPR, but one guard pipes up, “since they were drunk they don’t remember much so you don’t have to be that careful about their adult self-esteem. Amazing.  My limited time in this exclusive east coast country club enclave so explains the national financial crisis.

The lifeguards are like the SEC.  The children are the financial institutions.  The guards (SEC) see bad behavior, but can’t hurt anybody’s feelings by telling them their naughty and could cause imminent, serious damage to themselves or others.  So, they tread lightly and give the (children) financial institution’s boss a very polite and obsequious head’s up.  Then, when our economy (children) begin drowning the guards (SEC) don’t have the practice, experience or strength to save them.

I tell the guards to be careful and offer my middle-aged mom advice. “You’ll never forgive yourself if something bad happens on your watch.  Even if you’re going to get fired.  Do the right thing.”  Apparently, that was old advice because they all said I sounded like their mom.  “In that case,” I said, “Your moms must all be amazing.”  I left the lifeguard employee table went over to devour my salmon salad and thought about how hard it is to eat while sucking in your stomach. Almost impossible. Try it.  See you can’t do it.  I guess that’s another reason while I’ll never be able to hang with the rich – the inability to eternally inhale.  Oh well, I always have my city pool with a high dive that I can bust cannonballs off of causing serious, soul scarring embarrassment to my children.  Now, that my friends, makes me truly wealthy.

*I love hearing your thoughts and comments.  You can leave them here or go to Facebook and hit “like” on Snarky in the Suburbs.   Many heartfelt thanks for sharing the Snarky blog with your friends.

Overheard at the Pool – Part I

comics-expectation-vs-reality-swimming-pool-249641I’ve been doing my summer due diligence – spending vast amounts of time at the city pool. It amazes and amuses me what information one can pick up simply by donning sunglasses and stretching out on a lawn-chair. It’s like one becomes invisible and people feel like they have no need to edit their conversations. Hello, I’m almost sitting in your lap, so I can hear everything you’re saying to your lawn chair friend on the other side. Of course having the eavesdropping skills of a Russian operative also helps.

So far, three weeks into summer, I’ve heard about a suburban swingers club, a pregnant mom who is pretty sure the baby she’s carrying is not her husbands and a single mom who has hooked up with her daughter’s boyfriend while she’s off being a camp counselor. Incredible – right?  I’ve also been busy teaching some young mothers how to tame an “Aggressive Aqua Mom.”

The first day of diving lessons and a group of elementary school kids are ready to heave-ho themselves off the board. Their teacher/coach is a beautiful, sun-kissed blonde college student who first wows the kids with some amazing dives. The moms are all sitting at tables and chairs close to the boards so we can watch our kids master something besides the cannonball. Everything seems to be going well but twenty minutes into the hour lesson trouble shows up wearing a Speedo and tennis shoes.

Uh, oh. The Speedo tank suit on any middle-aged women, except for Dara Torres (at 41 she rocked the Speedo at the 2008 Olympics) is a big fashion no. Primarily because it doesn’t have breast support or tummy control. It’s nylon with very inadequate lining letting your boobs do the slightly smashed and sway dance. Add, tennis shoes to the mix and it’s not good. A five-year old girl, maybe, can pull off the look of walking abound the pool in a Speedo tank and tennies but not a 40 something. Oh, and I forgot to mention Mrs. Speedo’s tank was well used and a little thread bare. It had the whole saggy, baggy butt thing going on.

Mrs. Speedo has two kids with her and she marches up to the diving coach and begins to hijack the lesson. It begins with her introducing her children to the coach (not a problem) but then segues into a dissertation about her kids strength and weaknesses and the areas of improvement she’d like to see the teacher focus on. (Did I mention this was a beginners dive class?) As this continues on for seven minutes (yes, I was timing) the other wet kids stand by the diving boards and shiver.

At some point you hope the dive teacher/coach will take control of the conversation and get back to instructing the kids. In her defense she is young and I’m sure was taught to respect her elders. So, Mrs. Speedo continues to drone on, now were at ten minutes of blah, blah. You can feel the anger seething out of the other moms. None of whom I know. At last, a boy gets sick of waiting and dives off the board which starts the domino effect of other kids diving off the boards and the teacher has to quit giving her full attention to Mrs. Speedo to take control of the class back.

Problem solved I think. The kids are diving. The teacher is no longer being monopolized by Mrs. Speedo – it’s all good. Wrong. Mrs. Speedo, standing at the side of the pool, begins shouting instructions to her children as they dive. Then she hoists herself up on the medium high diving board (eschewing the ladder because it’s blocked with kids) to further yell at them. (Excuse me, I meant she’s offering motherly suggestions given in the spirit of love.) As she’s hoisting her body, which requires a kind of straddle and heave-ho motion to get up to the board, she does a full flash of her lady business to the moms seated pool-side. (Another reason no one should continue wearing a swimsuit with chlorine distressed nylon fibers.)  Now, that she’s claimed the diving board as her throne she uses her body as a barricade effectively blocking any other kids beside her own from using the board and keeps the diving teacher preoccupied with her two spawns as they attempt to refine their belly flops.

By now, all the moms are enraged. They’re talking and planning what to do. I pretend I’m engrossed in making a shopping list. Of course, I can solve the problem of Mrs. Speedo in a matter of minutes. I have, at least, ten years on most of these moms and the adult bully battle scars to prove it. But, these younger mothers have to learn by doing. I feel I must give them their wings and let them fly. The decision among the moms is to confront Mrs. Speedo. (Bad idea.)They decide to wait until after the lesson and go in a group of three. The whole safety in numbers thing.

Right after the kids take their last dive the three moms, two with babies on their hips (I’m thinking human shields), go up to Mrs. Speedo and try to “sweetly” tell her that they “don’t appreciate her interfering in the diving lessons” and that she’s was a “deterrent to the other students learning.” Like putting a match to dyer lint Mrs. Speedo bursts into flames. She gets right in the three moms’ faces and bellows, “Don’t you dare tell me how I can interact with my own children” etc. etc. The tirade continues for about two minutes (yes, once again, timing) the younger moms continue to back away from Mrs. Speedo, one of the two babies begins to cry and then one of the cute moms also starts going all boo hoo.

I, sigh, shake my head, stand up and enter into the fray. I’m nothing, if not a sucker for tears. I use my age, girth and height to assume an alpha dog status. I separate Mrs. Speedo from the shell-shocked moms and begin to show the early thirty something moms how it’s done. Watch and learn my young ones, watch and learn.

Their first mistake was going on the offensive. Any chick strutting around in a Speedo, who flashes her follicle rich privates without even a “begging your pardon” and never takes off her tennis shoes is not someone you can confront. Her fashion sense and bossy behavior at the dive lesson all points to the fact that she likes, and I would guess, even looks forward to confrontation. So, you don’t go that route. You’ll lose. This kind of woman responds to flattery. I lay it on thick.

Step one: I introduce myself as a great admirer of her instruction technique. “Did she use to be on a dive team or a coach? Really, never. You sure wouldn’t think after watching. Gosh, you were really great.”

Step two: Compliment her children. “Your kids were awesome.  Do they have some kind of gymnastic training? They seem athletically gifted. I bet they play select sports.”

Step three: Go in for the kill.  “Don’t you think your kids are too advanced for this class?  Wow, if my daughter was that good I would take her to the Dive Academy. That’s where all the real athletes are. You don’t know about it?  Just in case you didn’t I wrote it down for you. I got the number off my phone. Here, take this. I’d give them a call now and see about starting tomorrow. Your kids are good to waste any more time here. I mean really, just look around, it’s a pretty talent free environment.”

Mrs. Speedo is now preening and actually scratches her crotch while I’m talking. She agrees with everything I say, (shocking – not) and hurries to get her phone to make that call. Problem solved. Mrs. Speedo has been delicately hustled off  to another dive class where she can be some other group of mothers problem. Yes, I’m that good. I turn to see the young moms watching me. One of them says, “We couldn’t really hear you. What did you tell her to get her to leave?”

Another mom fearfully ask, “She’s not coming back is she? What was in the piece of paper you gave her?” I tell this group of young hero worshippers that I would be glad to tell all. My price – an icy Diet Coke from the snack bar. When I receive the drink, the moms huddled around me.  A reverent hush takes over the covered snack bar area and I begin to share my tips for taking down the dreaded, but multiplying in frightening numbers, mom bully. Ah, it feels so good to be needed.

 

 

BP, D.C. The Oil Spill and Why The Mess Needs a Mother

I’ve decided our elected officials in D.C. need a mother.  Someone to kick their butts, give them tough love, and tell them that the world does not revolve around them in way only a mother can.  Because right now if I was “Mommy D.C.” almost every single one of our elected officials would be in protracted timeout.  Their latest childish, immature behavior that has me wanting to slap the bunch upside the head is the Thursday B.P. Congressional hearing.  The problem is it wasn’t a hearing.  It was a bunch of kids waiting for their time to show off. It was all “look at me,” “look at me!”  (Please, I was getting flashbacks to my kids going off the high dive at the pool.) The whole thing was less about the oil spill and more about representatives getting their face time with the camera ensuring that the sound bites of them “showing big oil whose boss” would make it back home to their local T.V. stations and go out in e-mails to constituents.  Do any of them do anything where their first thought isn’t how will this help me get re-elected?  I’m pretty sure the lot of them were already mulling over how they could use their clip of them asking the” tough question” to the B.P. Oil loser in a campaign ad.  I will give Joe Barton some crazy credit for at least going off script and shaking it up a little bit.  Let’s be kind and call Joe an independent thinker, at least, on this.   I also doubt the I.Q. levels of our representatives.  Some of them seem brain wave impaired.  I have no doubt that after their verbal spanking of  Mr. BP a posse of them went to the Capitol Grill and were confused that  shrimp from the Gulf Coast was no longer on the  menu.

It was like watching children at a 5 -year-old’s birthday party trying to break open a pinata.  Each representative took their whack at the B.P. pinata and then President Obama got his turn. He broke it open and 20 billion dollars fluttered out.  Wow, 20 billion dollars that’s a lot of money for mere mortals.  Unfortunately, the oil spill catastrophe will suck up that 20 billion faster than a kid guzzling down a Capri Sun after a little league game played in 95 degree weather.

There needs to be less talk, less pinata whacking and more action. Do we need all the posturing?  It’s about as effective as trying to clean up this mess with a Huggies wet wipe. Let’s say a couple of kids set my neighborhood on fire.  Would my husband and I convene all the neighbors to a meeting at our kitchen table and point fingers.  Would we waste time while our neighborhood was burning down to the ground  for all the neighbors to take turns pontificating and asking questions.  Who bought the matches?  Who thought of the idea to light the match?  No. First we would put out the fire then bring on the world of hurt to the little pyromaniacs.  In this media savvy age we live in everyone knows that grilling of BP’s chief executive Tony Hayward was going to be a giant waste of time.  No surprise that he was in a permanent state of vague.  He was coached in “hazy” speak and the next B.P. dude will be no different.

What would a mother do in this situation?  Her first plan of attack would be to address the mess.  Clean up always comes before hearing about what happened or who’s to blame.  If the mother couldn’t clean up the mess on her own she would call in professionals.  Then she would stand over the professionals and diligently watch their work.  Interjecting (and by interjecting I mean giving them holy hell) when she didn’t think they were doing it right or fast enough.  Even replacing the hired professionals if they didn’t quickly prove their worth. She would also confer with other mothers to get their ideas and opinions to make sure the clean up was being done in the best and most expedite way.  The mother wouldn’t rest, until order was restored in her home.  That would be job one.  Job two would be assessing blame and heading out punishment.  This would be down swiftly and fairly.  No mother likes a long drawn out investigation.  We’re like Dragnet – just the facts.  If Tony Hayward pulled his vague routine on a mom it would go one of two ways.  He would get sent to his room until he could come out and tell the truth or he would get smacked with a wooden spoon.  Step three would be making sure everybody involved in creating the mess learned a lesson and safeguards would be in put in place so it wouldn’t happen again.  Behavior would be changed.  That’s the way moms roll.  That’s why Washington needs a mother.

*Thanks for reading my blog.  If you enjoy it please, please share it with your friends.  To stay updated on the latest posts you can go to Facebook, type in Snarky in the Suburbs and click on like.  I’m also on twitter @snarkynsuburbs.  Enjoy your day!

Vajazzle – Seriously?

I’m stunned. Actuavajazzling-class-card-9lly speechless. Which, almost never happens to me. Who is the idiot, the misogynist, the really, really, terribly bored person who thought up the idea of decorating the “lady area” with bling? I’m talking about “vajazzles.” That’s the term used for paying upwards of $300 to have your already waxed lady parts subjected to being glued with Swarovski crystals, glitter etc. Have women gone insane? Have we lost our ability to say no to current trends and fads?

This happens when I’m still not over the whole “down under” waxing. First, it was just the bikini trim so nothing peaked out of your swimsuit then we leap to the Brazilian wax which is definitely “No Hair Left Behind” anywhere. It’s excruciatingly painful, embarrassing and expensive (because the poor soul who has to do this all day deserves the big bucks). Plus, the maintenance for keeping your nether regions smooth is intense. Hair grows and it seems to grow faster below the equator. So, I’m still traumatized by the need to be hairless and then this bejeweling trend takes off.

Thank you Hollywood celebrities for gushing over the joys of having a lady area “that shines like a disco ball.” I’ve got a couple of thoughts here. First, umm do you really need to shine like a disco ball down there. Any self-respecting hetro dude can find that area without illumination or any additional ornamentation. He’s born with a built-in radar system that will lead him right to it.

Next, I’m thinking in terms of romance wouldn’t all that bling get in the way. I’m talking about some serious glitter chaffing and/or crystal burns. Also, on my mind is the pain factor. You’ve already subjected your delicates to a complete waxing, then someone applies glue, that’s right glue, to your newly smooth surface and starts attaching jewelry. Then once all your bling goes bye, bye from wear and tear (I’m told it lasts about five days) your left with glue residue to pick off your lady business.

Let’s not forget the itch factor. Vajazzlers say it’s high, as in hands down your pants, scratching like you’ve got poison ivy on your privates high. And wouldn’t it affect the way your pants fit? There’s the rub – literally. It’s recommended you don’t wear panties when you get a vajazzle.  The friction between your underwear and the bling affects the staying power of your downstairs decor. In fact, the literature I read suggest skirts or dresses to keep your vajazzle intact.  Skirts and dresses without underwear – not in this lifetime or the next.

In the sanitary department it’s recommended you refrain from washing your family jewels. Now, that’s just wrong. The cost of  bedazzling also ticks me off. I know it’s none of my business how people spend their own money. But, a couple of hundred dollars for five days of sparkle. Ridiculous. If you have this much time and money to spend pondering your privates than perhaps you need to make yourself useful by either donating to charity or doing some volunteer work.

Come on ladies, smarten up!  We need to stand up to  fashion torture disguised as a trend.  I’ll tell you what, when it’s a common practice for men to wax and glue costume jewelry on their twig and berries then maybe I’ll consider encrusting my crotch with crystals.

Hey, Snarky friends please re-like my page on Facebook. I got hacked and had to start my page from scratch. Thanks! Click on the FB icon located at the top right hand of blog and let your friends know that Snarky is back.

 **For more Snarky check out my book  Snarky in the Suburbs Back to School. 

Here’s a little ditty about it: The Spring Creek Elementary School PTA board (a coven of Mean Moms dressed in Uggs, yoga pants, and dermal filler) is up to no good.  Wynn Butler (middle-aged, uncool, and not bringing sexy back) is determined to find out what’s going on. With help from her two kids, a Roomba vacuum turned mobile surveillance drone, and a few good friends, Wynn launches a covert investigation that leads to the “mother of all revenge capers” at the school’s annual Fall Festival.  If you’ve ever fantasized about smoke bombing the idiot parent who has yet to master the fine art of the school drop-off lane, or standing up and shouting, “Liar, liar, Botox on fire” during a PTA meeting, then this delicious tale of payback is for you. 

 

Princesses – Totally Overrated

not_a_princessWho would really want to be a princess? Think about it, historically and in Disney lore their lives have, shall we say, sucked tiara. Major princess of our lifetime, Princess Diana, her life in one word – tragic. Unhappy childhood blossoms into dreadful marriage. I mean, come one, Prince Charles, yuck. What does he have going for him besides the family name? Talk about being a whinny, enormously eared crybaby with no visible means of support except for Mummy’s money. After the marriage tanks she continues on a downward spiral than ends in her untimely death at age 36.

Classic Disney Princesses, as a rule, have been just a smidge worthless. I will give shout outs to Ariel, at least she saved some guys from drowning when a ship sank. And Cinderella survived that evil stepmother with some extreme housecleaning. That takes intestinal fortitude. Oh and Belle did try to rescue her father. She earned street cred for that. But Sleeping Beauty and Snow White, losers.

What did Sleeping Beauty ever accomplish? She’s the original dumb blonde. She’s born, she goes to live with the fairies, she’s grows up, does the one thing she’s been told not to do all her life, and gets her finger pricked with a spinning wheel. This act of stupidity plunges the entire kingdom into deep sleep mode. Poor Prince Philip gets stuck saving her. I’m sure he was like, “What a dumb ass. I’ll kiss her to save the empire but I sure don’t want to be saddled with this piece of work.”

As for Snow White, hello dummy. You run away from your nasty stepmother and the best you can do for yourself is be the live in maid for seven dwarfs. Several of them, I’m sure, are on the “Enchanted Forest Predator Watch List.” Then to further prove you’re an idiot you take food from a freaky stranger. Did you really need that apple? If it had been a delicious cookie, a piece of chocolate candy or a slice of cake dripping with buttercream frosting maybe. But, an apple? Your going to be tempted by an apple? Have you not read the Old Testament?

All this begs the question as to why parents continue to do the disservice to their daughters of continuing the Princess Myth. Sure, it’s harmless enough when our girls are toddlers and pre schoolers and who doesn’t like being a Disney Princess for Halloween? But to encourage Princess behavior once your daughter reaches say, the age of 11 is just wrong. This is the age you need to sit your daughter down for ‘the talk.” You gently explain using the P.A.L. (Princesses Are Lame) method (franchise opportunities available soon) that princesses aren’t what they’re cracked up to be and your young tween must abandon all royal fantasies. Ignore this advice at your own peril. Because if your child grows into an adult princess your kingdom will be experiencing a world of hurt that will wipe out your retirement savings and destroy your mental health.

Most of us have experienced the phenomena that is the Adult Princess (A.P.). It’s ghastly. Ugh, if you’ve ever had the misfortune of “working” with one, having a best friend get married to one, or having one for a relative or roommate. The A.P. is a beast even the Grimm Brothers couldn’t imagine for one of their fairy tales. The defining character traits of the adult princess are as follows:

Royally Unemployable: The Adult Princess finds herself too good to work for a living.  Why mingle with the peasants when her King (daddy) can take care of her. Being a Princess means she never quite grasped the concept of providing for herself and is egregiously bereft of a work ethic.

Always Looking for Prince Charming: The Adult Princess is always scanning the horizon for that perfect man to show up and sweep her off her feet. The problem here is threefold. First, there is no Prince Charming. Secondly, if she thinks she’s found Prince Charming she quickly tires of him and begins the search anew. Thirdly, Prince Charming often becomes beaten down by the demands of his Princess Bride and jumps on his faithful steed and gallops far, far, away to that magical land of “I Told You So” which is inhabited by the Prince’s friends and family. This can lead to many, many marriages for the Adult Princess and many, many trips back to live at King (dad) and Queen’s (mom) Castle basement.

Needs the assistance of handmaidens and ladies-in-waiting: High maintenance doesn’t even begin to describe the needs of the Adult Princess. She excels at being pampered. Be it trips to spas, manicures, pedicures, facials, stylist etc. The A.P. fills her day with others attending to her needs. It’s a lifestyle that requires major coin of the realm. Since the A.P. doesn’t have any visible means of support someone else gets stuck footing the bill. Usually, it’s the sovereign nation of Visa.

Requires a first class horse and carriage: You will never find an Adult Princess in a 1972 Ford Pinto with a rear spoiler and sun roof.  Her happiness hinges on having a nice ride. Even if daddy or the Prince Charming du jour is footing the bill.  An Adult Princess identifier is car bumper sticker or license plate holder that reads: “I’m Not Spoiled My Husband Just Loves Me” or “Daddy’s Girl – Spoiled Rotten.”

Excessive Glass Slipper Shopping: The Adult Princesses views shopping as her life’s work. It is her consuming passion. She will charge (to daddy or Prince Charming) enough in one trip to Nordstroms to clothe a portion of the third world. She has also been known to bankrupt her family in her quest to own the Crown Jewels.

Seeks Constant Adoration: Without excessive compliments, ego stroking and praise the Adult Princess turns into one big, bad Petulant Princess.  Prone to scepter throwing tantrums and dire depression this woman can turn the monarchy upside down with her mood swings.

If you sense you have an Adult Princess in the making stop her reign now.  Sure, it will take some tough love, possibly the assistance of a cult-deprogramming and the saying of the word, NO, many, many times during the day. But have faith. You can do it. If, despite your valiant efforts, you fail at your de-princesses attempts dig a moat around your castle and for security purposes employ a fire-breathing dragon. That should help keep your A.P.  at a safe distance from your 401K, debit card and sanity.

**For more Snarky check out my book  Snarky in the Suburbs Back to School. 

Here’s a little ditty about it: The Spring Creek Elementary School PTA board (a coven of Mean Moms dressed in Uggs, yoga pants, and dermal filler) is up to no good.  Wynn Butler (middle-aged, uncool, and not bringing sexy back) is determined to find out what’s going on. With help from her two kids, a Roomba vacuum turned mobile surveillance drone, and a few good friends, Wynn launches a covert investigation that leads to the “mother of all revenge capers” at the school’s annual Fall Festival.  If you’ve ever fantasized about smoke bombing the idiot parent who has yet to master the fine art of the school drop-off lane, or standing up and shouting, “Liar, liar, Botox on fire” during a PTA meeting, then this delicious tale of payback is for you. 

To stay up-to-date on new posts and take part in my not so deep thoughts click on this Facebook link – http://is.gd/iEgnJ (That’s the abbreviated link to my FB page) or I twitter @snarkynsuburbs.

I Was A Cougar (for five hours)

Screen Shot 2014-03-01 at 9.53.21 AMLet me state that I, in no way, I’m a cougar.  First, on the cougar scale of “hotness” I would be a three-legged cat with mange and a urinary tract infection. Secondly, I’m married which, I’m pretty sure, disqualifies me from cougardom. My excursion into the land of the cougar was purely scientific. I was there solely to observe and report. An acquaintance of mine, (let’s call her Super Cougar) was kind enough to be my guide into the labyrinth of the cougar habitat – Thursday night Happy Hour. Following her instructions I was to meet her at an upscale suburban bar in our neighborhood at 5:30 sharp. Because I was there only in a reporter capacity I didn’t feel to the need to turbo groom, but I did change into a skirt and attempted to blow dry my hair with the round brush that makes my arms hurt after about five minutes. When my hair was reasonable dry I put on my sandals with an actual heel, some lipstick and was good to go.

I arrived at the bar, right on time, and immediately experienced night blindness. Lord, I had forgotten how dark they keep bars.The only bars I usually frequented were the exceptionally well-lit dessert bars at the end of the buffet line. It took me a couple of minutes to spot my not quite a friend but probably now more than an acquaintance – Super Cougar. There she was in all her feline splendor at the bar. A sight to behold. Surrounded by three youngish men she was holding court. They were laughing, she was laughing, and touching them here and there. One guy she touched at the shoulder, another guy she touched his back. It was fascinating. The guys had to be in their late twenties. Super Cougar claimed to be forty-five. But, If I had to guess I would say she was a very well taken care of fifty-five year old. She was hot no matter what her age.  Great body, nice cleavage tastefully displayed in a designer top, long hair (blonde, of course), and long legs. You could tell she had been moisturizing everyday for the last thirty years. Hell, I didn’t look that good at twenty. Super Cougar is a successful real estate agent, who at last count had been married three times and was now in her words, “enjoying the attention of younger men who don’t think they know it all.” I say, you go girl. I walked up to Super Cougar and her fan club and said hi. The men gave me the once over and you could tell I didn’t pass inspection. I’m afraid the vibe I give off is “mom with kids.” It could be my perfume –  Eau De Tilex or the fact that after I shook hands with the young men I got out my hand sanitizer and asked if anyone needed to Purell.  They could tell, right away, I would not be wasting my grocery money to buy a round of drinks.

In another couple of minutes Super Cougar’s entourage arrived. It was a pack of fellow cougars that would prowl the bars together this evening. Super Cougar ditched her admirers and all the women sat down together at a table in the back of the bar that had an excellent view of the action. It was here the women mapped out their evening. They planned to go to three bars. The suburban bar we were now at was the “appetizer” bar.  It was here they sharpened their cougar claws. Next up was the downtown or “entree” bar where there was a bigger pool of youngish men to flirt with and to finish up the evening it was off to a sports bar. The sports bar had the best ratio of men to women but according to Cougar lore the sports bars are also were the largest number of “loser” guys hung out (and I think by loser they meant chubby and married). From what I could tell the women were looking for a night of ego boosting, flirty fun with young men that made them feel good about themselves. No one was looking to hook up (at least that’s what they told me) or in their words “God forbid” start a relationship. I hung out with the Cougars all evening and all I can say is the Cougs were a whole lot more interesting than the prey they stalked. I am now old enough to proclaim that: A large quantity of young men are boring, egocentric, lacking in good manners, spoiled, cheap and most, if not all, are afflicted with some form of ADHD due to massive amounts of time spent video gaming. Plus, since I do hail from the South I can also say without smirking that a gentleman never lets a lady buy him a drink. That pretty much sums up what I think of the Cougar’s prey. I just don’t see the attraction.

So as not to waste anymore time talking about the (yawn) prey let’s go to the good stuff – the Cougar. I have, once again, (see the Suburban Anthropologists Guide to the Elementary School Mother for more of my categorizing talents) in the interest of science, classified a category of species. Here is my “Felis Concolor” breakdown. (In alphabetical order)

Alpha Cougar (also known as Super Cougar): This is the premiere cougar. She is usually one of the older cougars but also the best looking. Her signifying marks are long, flowing locks, the ability to stride through a bar in very high heels and sit on a bar stool in a super short skirt without appearing vulgar. She commands attention and attracts the looks of not just the males in the bar, but also younger non cougar females. They know to be afraid and will place their paws on their males as a sign that they are taken.  The Alpha Cougar considers all males fair game and will not be deterred by any territorial displays. She owns the room. Young women take note. This cougar has claws and will take you down. You may have youth but she’s got the kind of seductive confidence that only comes from experience.

Big Money Cougar: Money is no object to this cougar. She drives a vintage sports car, just got back from an expensive trip and likes to buy drinks for any male under forty. Big Money Cougar is, of course, very popular. While, not always the hottest cougar her bucks more than make up for it. Her signature move is letting the twenty something men “sit” in her sports car in the bar parking lot. Big Money tells the boys if they’re lucky one night they might get to drive her and the car home.

Cougar-In-Training: This woman is a borderline cougar. She’s almost, but not quite, old enough to officially qualify for cougar status. She views the cougar outings as a chance to check out what her future holds. Most of the other cougars view her as a young competitive poacher trying to intrude on their prey. Approval from the Alpha Cougar is needed to allow the C.I.T. into the pack.

Glamorous Cougar: Do not make the rookie mistake of confusing the Glamorous Cougar with the Alpha Cougar. The Glamorous Cougar while very attractive and stylish doesn’t possess the confidence or the skill of the Alpha Cougar. Usually the Glamorous Cougar is newly divorced and can be either a little too needy or too aggressive. Either of those traits can scare off the younger prey. The Glamorous Cougar excels at turning heads – young and old. She delights in giving middle-aged men (i.e. her ex-husband’s age) the cold shoulder while courting the attention of the young 30 ish set.

Grandma Cougar: This cougar is in her 60’s, (although in a dark bar she can easily pass for 15 years younger) has seen her fair share of action and knows it’s probably time to entertain the thought of perhaps dating men in their late 40’s but the attention of much younger men has become like a drug. She has a fitness regimen that would probably tire a Navy Seal and her grooming is flawless. Yet, her hands and non bar lighting give away her true age. Grandma Cougar shuns sunlight like a vampire.

Sorority Cougar: This cougar is trying to relive her glory days when she was her sorority’s social chairperson. Sorority Cougar is always trying to plan mixers, I mean functions outside the bar environment. Movies, restaurants, etc. She hasn’t yet caught on that most Cougar relationships don’t exist in the alternate reality of the non-bar universe. Sorority Cougar is seen as a fun, safe cougar and is befriended by less sophisticated young men that feel threatened by the Alpha Cougar.

Sporty Cougar: Sporty Cougar is most at home, you guessed it, the sports bar. She knows her pro sports and NCAA Final Four brackets like an ESPN reporter. She also runs marathons, has done “just a couple” of triathlons, and plays any and all co-ed rec sports. Sporty Cougar excels at being one of the boys. Her signature move is challenging young men to try to keep up with her on one of her daily runs. Sporty sees the challenge as a “safe” date that could lead to more action. The young men are so sure of their ability to out run the cougar they have no idea they are being played.

Wanna Be Cougar: This little kitty is a timid cougar. She wants to go off with bigger, leaner and meaner cougars and hunt but just doesn’t have the claws for it. She hangs back in all group activities and is the last one to belly up to the bar. Her trademark move is waiting for the Super Cougar’s leftovers.

From my research I have concluded that for a woman to qualify as a Cougar she could be as young as 40, but she has to go after very young prey. For example, a 40-year-old woman who goes after a 23-year-old college students fits the Cougar Criteria. But a 40-year-old woman who buys a drink for a 35-year-old man is not a Cougar. It is all in the age differential. While I do not totally understand the attraction the Cougar has for the younger man I’m all for equality. Men have been actively hunting younger woman since before we discovered fire and the wheel. So, for you Cougars out there – meow baby, meow.

***For all things wonderfully Snarky go to www.snarkygear.com where you can find the new winter Snarky line of clothing and accessories. (Flannel Snarky P.J.’s anyone?) Plus, there’s my book – Snarky in the Suburbs Back to School. (Click here for purchase information.)

Here’s a little ditty about it: The Spring Creek Elementary School PTA board (a coven of Mean Moms dressed in Uggs, yoga pants, and dermal filler) is up to no good.  Wynn Butler (middle-aged, uncool, and not bringing sexy back) is determined to find out what’s going on. With help from her two kids, a Roomba vacuum turned mobile surveillance drone, and a few good friends, Wynn launches a covert investigation that leads to the “mother of all revenge capers” at the school’s annual Fall Festival.  If you’ve ever fantasized about smoke bombing the idiot parent who has yet to master the fine art of the school drop-off lane, or standing up and shouting, “Liar, liar, Botox on fire” during a PTA meeting, then this delicious tale of payback is for you. To stay up-to-date on new posts and take part in my not so deep thoughts click on this Facebook link – http://is.gd/iEgnJ (That’s the abbreviated link to my FB page) or I twitter @snarkynsuburbs.

 

Bridezilla – May I Slap You Now or Would You Care to Wait Until After the Reception?

3q5jyjIt has been a very long time since I’ve been behind-the-scenes at a wedding.  It’s even been a couple of years since I’ve attended a wedding. I’m old enough to have stopped getting invited to baby showers, but no so old that I have friends with children getting married. So, when one of my friends, a successful wedding planner to the upper income set, asked me if I could be part of her “team” at a big society wedding last month I was excited.

My day started out at 11 a.m. Saturday. I was to meet “the team” at the parents of the bride’s (P.O.B.) country club for the bridesmaid luncheon. I was told to wear conservative clothing that was all black and comfortable flats – also black, no jewelry and hair pulled back off my face. I found out from the other team members that this is basic “working a wedding” attire. The goal being that we don’t attract any attention to ourselves and fade into the background like stage hands.

I showed up dressed in my wedding and/or funeral attire and was ready for my assignment. I felt very official when I was given a headset and a clipboard. Lucky me, I got the duty to shadow the M.O.B. (mother-of-the-bride) all day. She seemed like she needed a handler so I was up for it. The M.O.B. was on her fourth mimosa when I arrived and my main job at the bridesmaid luncheon was to make sure she didn’t see her fifth until she got some food into her stomach. I was thinking to myself, “Wow, what kind of mother would get tanked this early on the day her daughter is getting married?” Then, I had the pleasure of meeting the bride.

The M.O.B., female family friends and relatives and the ten bridesmaids were all mingling in one of the country club’s private dining rooms waiting for the bride to make her appearance so lunch could be served. The bride was already 45 minutes late to her own party and the M.O.B. was not amused. She was tipsy and ticked off. I walked over, introduced myself as her faithful servant for the day and offered her a glass of ice tea to replace the mimosa she was sucking down. Score one for me I got her to take the ice tea. It was then that the bride stormed into the dining room. She was a pretty, pretty girl but she set off doppler bitch-dar that could be seen in a three state radius. This was one unhappy bride.

One look at her face and I thought the worse. Did the wedding get called off? Because if the M.O.B. had followed my mother’s wedding handbook that could never happen.  Right before my mother took the box of hand addressed, engraved wedding invitations to the post office for my nuptials she told me and my now husband that if we wanted to back out of the wedding now was the time. “This is it. Got cold feet call it off now. Because once I give this box to John Earl at the post office you have to stay married 365 days from when you receive your first wedding gift. That’s not just my rule, it’s Emily Post’s as well. I don’t care if one of you develops a fondness for farm animals or starts having relations with aquatic life you’re staying married. I’ll be damned if my good name will be soiled with a wedding that was a failure to launch.”

My mom can be pretty scary and we both decided no matter if we had second thoughts it would be easier to go through with the wedding than face her fury.

I, along with everybody else, was waiting to see what had the bride in such a foul mood on her big day when her mom stood up and asked with forced politeness where she had been. The bride answered that she was out trying to return the pearl and sapphire earrings the groom had given her as a wedding present at the rehearsal dinner. Her “mood” was because the groom’s wedding present turned out to be “vintage” and couldn’t be returned. Except she spewed out vintage like she was being forced to resister for wedding gifts at Walmart.

Apparently, vintage in this case meant they were “hand me downs” ( the bride’s words not mine) from her very soon to be mother-in-law. Well, that totally got the mother-in-law supremely angry and the grooms sister joined in the pissed off party because she thought the earrings should have been given to her – the daughter – not the daughter-in-law. The mother-in-law shut her daughter up by saying in a stage whisper that you just know she wanted the bride to hear, “They’re not the good pearl earrings so don’t worry about it.”

The bride then declared that she had a hair appointment and would not be staying for the luncheon and stomped out of the room. Oh my. That was not good. Not good at all.  All brides need to exhibit some grace under pressure and even more importantly it’s never too early to NOT let your future mother in law get the upper hand. The lunch continued with polite chatter and silent texting, but you could tell it couldn’t be over soon enough for all the guests.

The wedding planner team stayed behind after the bridesmaid luncheon to make sure the reception set up was going smoothly in the ballroom. I asked my friend if the little scene we had witnessed was standard issue for weddings these days. Sadly, she replied, it was. She blames the media. I can totally see why. Back in the day when I got married there were only two magazine Brides and Modern Bride. Oh, how I lusted after a Priscilla of Boston wedding gown. My mom shot that dream down fast. She said I could have that dress and a wedding on the courthouse steps or I could lower my expectations and have an actual wedding in a non designer dress.

Then in the 90’s Martha Stewart’s entered the fray showcasing gorgeous weddings most mortals could never attain and Vera Wang showed up with her $20,000 plus wedding gowns. Now, there’s just not wedding reality TV shows, there’s reality TV shows about wedding cakes, wedding dresses and wedding dances. Let’s face it the wedding is suffering from over exposure and the 21st century bride is suffering from unrealistic expectations.

It’s a wedding not a circus designed to bankrupt the bride’s parents. And while I’m at it – who’s the marketing genius that started the second dress trend? It’s not enough to drop thousands of dollars on one wedding dress. Now, it’s di rigueur to buy two gowns. One for the ceremony and one for the reception. If I was a mother who was out wedding dress shopping and my daughter pulled that I swear I would spank her in the store.  That’s right, flip her over my knees and just beat that greed right out of her. As mothers we need to form a united front (M.A.S.D.  Mothers Against Second Dresses) and stop this trend – now!

After overseeing the reception set up the “team” moves to the church  – ceremony central – to supervise the dressing of the wedding party and make sure everything is in place from the preacher to the flowers. I was sent to babysit the M.O.B. She was in the brides dressing room and champagne was flowing freely. I tentatively mentioned that everyone in the room has an aisle to gracefully walk down. One tanked bridesmaid shouts,”It’s not a perp walk grandma” and then laughs hysterically.

Grandma, that really had me steamed. I’m so not a grandma. While I’m contemplating my revenge against that bridesmaid I noticed other young and not so young ladies getting a needle in the face.  Allergy shots I’m thinking. How unusual. Ick. No. It’s bridal botox! Good Lord, I have been out of the bridal scene for a long time if they progressed to getting a little face work done 30 minutes before you say “I do.” Some of the woman taking the botox needle are in their 20’s. Who has wrinkles in their 20’s?  I tell you who.  No one. So why are they filing their foreheads with poison. What happened to the group prayer before you walked down the aisle?  Now it’s the botulism huddle.

As I stand mesmerized watching women jockey for position, “me next, me next” in the botox corner of the room. I get hit in the head with a $200 Mason Pearson boar bristle hairbrush (that just for the record cost more than my wedding dress twenty something years ago). Ouch. I was in the bride’s line of fire. She was going ballistic over her “up do.”  Totally, cuckoo. She’s pulling out the bobby pins and chucking them and it looks like she’s going to take the end of the rat-tail comb to gouge out the eyes of the stylist.

While, still rubbing the left side of my skull I go over and throw myself in front of the hairdresser and asked the bride to take a few cleansing breathes and let her hair guy give the up do another try. She then starts crying and cursing. Really bad curse words too. The ones you don’t hear very often. That in turn has the make up lady throwing a hissy fit because there goes the face paint and she doesn’t have time to start over. I look over at the M.O.B. for some leadership and she just throws back another flute of champagne. I know when I’m beat so I press the button of my headset that calls for help and mercifully, my friend, the professional rushes in to try to restore order.

The make up lady is given more money to stay and fix the brides face, the stylist is also offered more cash to try, once again, for the perfect up do and I’m instructed to clear the room of all alcohol. I start hauling off bottles of champagne and replace them with bottled water. I then sit down next to the M.O.B. and try to get her to eat a Power Bar I had in my purse. That’s when the story of the fairy tale wedding that went south starts. For all mothers with young daughters this is a cautionary tale we should learn from.

It all started out innocently enough. A hard-working couple raises a daughter, tries to give her all the little things her heart desires but the more they give the more she wants. Now, the daughter is grown up and falls in love. She wants a princess wedding. A day no one will ever forget. But, nothing makes the daughter happy. Not a wedding dress that costs more than a car. Not even a boob job so her wedding dress will, in her eyes, look even better. Nothing is good or perfect enough. Now, as the wedding is a mere moments away the bride gets gloomier and gloomier and the M.O.B. in her own words is, “Counting down the minutes until her daughter’s happiness is somebody else’s problem.” Yikes!

Uh oh, the satan in satin, that is the bride, is still not happy. This time her fury is directed at a bridesmaid. “What’s up?” I think. The bridesmaid looks beautiful. Ohhhh, that’s the problem the bride thinks her “lady in waiting” will steal the show. No way! The bride starts telling her almost sister-in-law she can’t be in the wedding 10 minutes before the ceremony is about to begin. Once again, I look over to the M.O.B. for some kind of direction. She’s got nothing. I butt in and sweetly tell the bride that it’s too late in the game to rearrange bridesmaids. The whole count of the wedding will be off. That doesn’t work. So, I ask the bride if the offending bridesmaid will wipe off some of her makeup, hoist up the bust portion of her dress and pull back her long, sexy hair into a “frump do” will that do the trick to get her “back in the wedding?” She reluctantly agrees.

I take the bridesmaid to the other side of the room, tell her lay low, not alter her appearance in any way and then stealthy get into the line up right before the music starts. Praise be to the marriage muse, the bridal procession music begins and yay, everyone is ready to walk down the aisle.

Problem. Out of the ten bridesmaid, half have been drinking heavily. When I thought I had cleared the room of alcohol some of the young “ladies” had been sneaking tequila shots. Walking was going to be a problem. It was going to be more like swaying down the aisle. My friend, the wedding professional, says there nothing we can do but send them down the “runway” and hope for the best. It’s not like you can postpone a wedding until the bridal party sobers up.

At least the MOB had made it without incident to her place of honor in the front pew. Music swells and we send the girls down the aisle. Opps, the bridesmaid who made the “grandma” comment is experiencing technical difficulty with the whole walking upright thing. She sways to the right, she swings back to the center, sways again and then starts falling. She grabs a fistful of the bridesmaid dress in front of her to stop her fall, taking that bridesmaid tumbling down with her, now the bridesmaid behind her gets tripped up and she’s going down. (Thud, clunk and insert curse word of your choice here.) It looks like a WWF bout in princess pink taffeta. For those of you keeping score at home, that’s three down, seven still standing. My friend gets me and two other “team members.” We walk quickly down the aisle, pick up the three downed bridesmaids, hand them off to “team members” who take them to the back of the church and direct the seven remaining to finish their trip to the altar. At the back of the church we fuss with the bridesmaid dresses, and give them a second try at walking. Finally, with a little swaying, but no falling all 10 bridesmaid make the journey safely to the altar.

Now, it’s the bride’s turn. Due to my friends experienced judgement the bride was kept in the church foyer while the bridesmaid debacle happened so she has no idea of the melee that proceeded her aisle journey. Four “team members” are there to send the bride and her father on their way. The bride instead of looking excited, serene, nervous, joyful or a combination there of looks in a word – angry.  Her dad should be the angry one.  He’s dropping major cash on this happy day and his daughter looks like she’s itching for a bar fight.  (Once again, proving the adage that money can’t buy happiness.) The duo makes their way to the altar, the dad quickly and eagerly hands his daughter to the groom, (yes, it does seem like he is also very excited to get her off his hands literally) and then the wedding couple finishes the journey up the steps to the minister.

As the minister begins with his “dearly beloved” the bride, looks up the groom, gazes into his eyes, looks down and then throws up on her soon-to-be spouse’s shoes. Yuck. That’s when the M.O.B. breaks the silence with hysterical laughter, accompanied by hiccups that echo eerily through the sanctuary. The groom cusses, the bride cries, and a bridesmaid falls – again. I look up towards the heavens and praise God in his infinite wisdom for not making me a wedding planner.

***For all things wonderfully Snarky go to www.snarkygear.com where you can find the new Spring/Summer  Snarky line of clothing and accessories. Plus, there’s my book – Snarky in the Suburbs Back to School. (Click here for purchase information.) Here’s a little ditty about it: The Spring Creek Elementary School PTA board (a coven of Mean Moms dressed in Uggs, yoga pants, and dermal filler) is up to no good.  Wynn Butler (middle-aged, uncool, and not bringing sexy back) is determined to find out what’s going on. With help from her two kids, a Roomba vacuum turned mobile surveillance drone, and a few good friends, Wynn launches a covert investigation that leads to the “mother of all revenge capers” at the school’s annual Fall Festival.  If you’ve ever fantasized about smoke bombing the idiot parent who has yet to master the fine art of the school drop-off lane, or standing up and shouting, “Liar, liar, Botox on fire” during a PTA meeting, then this delicious tale of payback is for you. To stay up-to-date on new posts and take part in my not so deep thoughts click on this Facebook link – http://is.gd/iEgnJ (That’s the abbreviated link to my FB page) or I twitter @snarkynsuburbs.