THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL. Yup, all caps, bold and italicized. That’s how epic it is in my mind. Everyone is so clean and excited! Backpacks are fresh, sneakers are squeaky, and pencils are sharp. Take this same snapshot mid-November and it’s a whole different story.
We make our way down the well-worn hallways of Vivs’s and Laura’s old stomping ground, William H. Taft Elementary School. When we get to room 147, we find the prettiest and preppiest person I have ever seen standing at the classroom door greeting people. She has long blond hair, which is kept back by a pink headband. She is wearing light-pink-checkered pants and a white blouse with ruffles. I hope she owns a smock.
As we approach, she hits us with a dazzling smile and holds out her hands.
“Is this Max? Oh, my goodness, Max, I have been so excited to meet you! Is that a new shirt? Purple is my favorite color!”
Well, color me impressed. Miss Ward is a real charmer. She has obviously studied the pictures we all sent in at the end of the summer. Max hasn’t said a word, but wears the goofy smile of a man smitten. So does Ron when I look over at him.
“Hi, Miss Ward, so nice to meet you. I’m—”
“No, no!” Miss Ward interrupts me. “This is not about Max’s parents. It’s all about Max today. Come on in and find your name on your desk, sweetie.” She ushers Max into the room and he eagerly follows without a backward glance.
Ron and I look at each other. I shrug.
“It’s all about Max.”
As we head out of the school, Ron asks what I’m up to.
“I’m going to meet my new trainer.”
He looks at me skeptically.
“I know what you’re thinking, but after that debacle at your store I feel like I need to step up my workouts.”
“Or, just, you know, start them.” He smiles and gives my shoulder a squeeze.
Here’s the thing. Ron’s sporting goods store is one of the biggest in KC. A few months ago, they hosted a mini mud run to promote our governor’s “Get Fit” initiative. When he mentioned that he needed participants, I volunteered. That was my first mistake. I thought I was in shape, thanks to my twice-weekly visits to our neighborhood Curves, which I had joined shortly after Max was born. So when I got to Ron’s store that day and saw the course setup I was, like, “No problemo.” That was my second mistake.
Let’s just say that the upper-body strength you get from hauling a toddler around for a few years doesn’t exactly prep you to climb a rope or swing from monkey bars or even drop to your belly and crawl through mud, although that was the easiest part.
It was weeks before I could show my face down at the store again. I mean, it’s not great when the wife of the owner breaks down and cries because she can’t get over the wall. Plus I was sore for days in areas I didn’t know existed.
“Who’d you get to train you?” Ron asks when I don’t acknowledge his dig. I can tell he is annoyed that I hadn’t consulted him on the decision.
“Someone my mother recommended. He comes to your home and works you out. I figured I’d finally start using Ron’s Gym and Tan.” That’s my nickname for the home gym Ron has set up in our basement.
Ron gives a fake gasp. “You mean you’re going to give up Curves?” He’s never been a fan. Ron’s kind of a gym snob.
“See you later.” I give him a sly smile and head to my minivan. “Hot new trainer’s awaiting.”
Ron frowns. “Hot? You didn’t say he was hot.”
I laugh as I open my car door. I actually have no idea what he looks like. But with a name like Garth, I have high hopes.
* * *
My mom has actually told me very little about Garth, just that he used to be a trainer at the local Lucille Roberts gym. He had to stop for a while and is now getting back into it. He’s very cheap for an in-home personal trainer—$30 an hour. I just hope this isn’t a case of “You get what you pay for.”
I pull up to the house and see a white Prius parked in my driveway. My new trainer is ten minutes early. Me likey. As I get out of my car, he does the same, and I get my first look at the man I will be spending two hours a week with.
I wish I could tell you that everything turned to slow motion and “Dream Weaver” started playing in my head as he whipped his hair around and flashed me a dazzling smile, but that would be lying.
Garth is about 5'6" and mostly bald, and he looks like he’s in his midfifties. He reminds me a bit of the actor Michael Chiklis from The Shield.
As I rearrange my expectations in my head, he walks over and guess what? He does have a dazzling smile! It makes me like him immediately.
“Hi, Jennifer, I’m Garth.” He shakes my hand and nearly crushes it.
“Ow. Hi, Garth. That’s a good grip you’ve got there.”
“Oh, good gravy, I’m sorry,” he says and lightens up his vise grip immediately. “I always forget to take it down a notch for the girls.”
“No problem. Clearly I need to toughen up a bit.”
“Well, that’s what I’m here for.” He smiles and follows me to the front door.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask while throwing my purse on the hall table.
“Nope. Thanks. I always bring my own.” He proudly holds up a gallon jug full of water. Clearly Garth is old school, and fancy water bottles are not his style.
“Umm, why don’t I show you our workout area and then I’ll run up and change.”
“Sounds good.” Garth smiles again. “After you, my good woman.”
As I lead him down to the basement, I wonder just how old school he is. Not for nothing, but I’ve been at Curves for five years. That’s some pretty advanced stuff.
Ron’s Gym and Tan is located in a corner of our basement, right next to the laundry room. It consists of a treadmill, a bench press, free weights, a mat, and one of those big exercise balls.
“This is fantastic!” Garth declares, and it only takes me a second to realize he is not kidding.
“Really?” I ask. “Do we need any other equipment?”
“No. This is perfect. Why don’t you get changed, and I’ll lay out a workout plan.” He actually sounds excited.
“Okay. I’ll be right back.”
As I run up the stairs to my bedroom, I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.
* * *
I’ll admit I have a somewhat acerbic way of presenting myself, but I had no idea how many parents I could offend with just one email. Actually, it wasn’t that many, but it only takes one to stir the pot. Nina calls me just as I am getting out of the shower after my workout.
“Oh, my God, what did you say in your class email?” she screams.
“Just the usual stuff. Why?” I toss my wet towel in the hamper and head toward my closet.
“I just got off the phone with Asami Chang and she is pi-issed!”
“About what?” I ask, rifling through my T-shirts.
“She says it was an inappropriate way to address kindergarten parents.”
“So?”
“So, was it?”
“Probably. But I can’t believe anyone took it seriously.”
Nina sighs. “That’s what I thought. But you know your, um … humor is sometimes lost on people. Asami wants you to step down as class mom and let her take over.”
“Well, I think she is absolutely right. I am not fit to liaise with parents.” I make a mental note to send Asami a basket of fruit.
“Not so fast, funny girl. You promised me you would do this.”
“Yes, well, the people have spoken. I’m not wanted on the voyage.”
“I want you on the voyage. I think it will be good for you to meet some people, and I know Max loves it.”
“Ooooh. Good one, bringing Max into it. What about what’s-her-name?”
“Asami Chang. I’ll deal with her. So we’re good?”
“Define ‘good.’”
“And you’ll tone down your emails?”
“Not a chance.”
Nina laughs. “There’s my girl. How was your new trainer?”
“Interesting,” I say. “Different from Curves, that’s for sure.”
“Different, good, or different, bad?”
“Well, I certainly haven’t done a burpee in a long time.”
Nina cracks up. “A burpee? What the hell is that?”
“I’d really have to show you. One thing’s for sure, my ass is going to be sore tomorrow.”
“Well, that’s a good thing. Okay, I gotta run. Remember, play nice with the parents!”
I hang up and pull on my jeans. I admire Nina for the way she successfully navigates both sides of the fence. She is the perfectly perfect ideal of what the PTA president should be, but she can also slum it with hoi polloi. She is this cute little five-foot-tall dynamo with skin the color of cappuccino and a very short Afro that she keeps threatening to take “native.” She’s like the bunny that never runs out of batteries. I don’t know where she gets her energy. Being president of the PTA is not a job for sissies. It’s a full-time, relentless piece of crap that very few people would want to inflict upon themselves. But year after year Nina manages to squeeze it into what I know is a full schedule running her graphic design business.
She and I met about ten years ago at a bicycle shop. It was so random. I was looking at cycling gloves and she was getting a new tire rim. A man walked into the store and announced to no one in particular that he had a loose nut. I swear to God, at the exact same moment we both said, “Well, you should see a doctor about that.” And that was it, soul mates for life.
Nina is a single mom, but you’d never know it. She is totally on top of things and never complains about being alone although I can tell she still carries a torch for Sid, the father of her daughter, Chyna. He left her two weeks before Chyna was born and basically fell off the face of the earth, but she still hopes he will come back. I’m not sure I understand why because he sounds like a total skeeze. But the heart wants what it wants, so she has kept the candle burning for lo these twelve years. I’ve tried to set her up with a few guys—mostly customers from my hubby’s sporting goods store—but no one has caught her fancy. I guess it’s hard to measure up to the stellar example that was Sid.
Chyna is just like her mom—petite, dynamic, and full of shit. I can’t wait till she’s old enough to babysit for me.
We bonded as single moms, but even after I hooked up with Ron we stayed close. In fact, Vivs and Laura used to tag-team babysit for Chyna.
To: Parents
From: JDixon
Date: 9/18
Subject: curriculum night party
Hello, fellow parents,
Now that the awkwardness of last week’s attempted coup on my class mom fiefdom is behind us (no hard feelings, Asami; I understand your people’s need for power), let’s get on to some serious business, like who is bringing the wine.
September 27th (aka curriculum night) is fast upon us. It’s my favorite night of the year, because it answers burning questions such as “Who has the hottest husband?” and “Who spent a little too much money at the ice cream truck this summer?” Plus, I want everyone to think that Miss Ward’s class is the place where people PAR-TAY! To that end, we need some provisions.
2 kegs (I’ll bring the funnel)
Jell-O shots (lime and cherry, please!)
“Special” brownies—Wolffe family, I’m counting on you for these.
If you’re still reading and haven’t yet speed-dialed Principal Jakowski, here are a few other things we MAY need.
Mini quiches (the microwavable kind)
Small cheese platter
Small veggie platter
Yummy cookies or brownies
Cups, small plates, cocktail napkins
Sparkling and flat water
Red and white wine
The phone lines are now open, so run, don’t walk, to your keyboard and volunteer to bring something. Don’t be shy!
Thanks in advance for what I’m sure will be an overwhelming heed to the call. Response times will be noted.
Jennifer
* * *
Just as I close my laptop, my two favorite men come in the back door.
“Mom! The tent is up!” Max yells even though I am sitting right there.
“Already? Wow. Are you guys sure you want to do this?” My question is really for Ron—he’s the one with the fifty-year-old spine.
“Camping out is a time-honored tradition among Dixon men,” my husband says.
Max nods solemnly. I know he is all in on this camping adventure, but it’s hard to take him seriously when he’s wearing a sombrero and poncho.
“And besides,” Ron adds, “we have the Kodiak Canvas Flex-Bow Deluxe out there. We could go to base camp with that baby, right, buddy?”
I roll my eyes. I know it’s what he does for a living, but I still can’t believe how jacked up Ron gets about any type of sports gear. Max, on the other hand, is putting on his game face. He’s not really an outdoor sporty kind of kid, but he’s trying to be one for his dad’s sake. I worry about that sometimes. They are planning to camp out in the backyard this Friday.
I shrug. “Okay. Just don’t be surprised if it’s a bit chilly out there. You guys should have done this in August.”
“August, Shmaugust,” Ron scoffs. “We’re Dixon men. Besides, we’ll be sleeping in the Nemo Nocturne 15.” He looks to me for a reaction, but I really don’t have one.
“Well, I’ll leave the back door open that night, just in case.” I wink at my boy. I’m not sure, but I think he looks relieved.
To: JDixon
From: Sasha Lewicki
Date: 9/18
Subject: curriculum night party
I am out of the office until September 20.
Thank you,
Sasha
To: JDixon
From: Shirleen Cobb
Date: 9/19
Subject: curriculum night party
Dear Jennifer,
You didn’t mention anything about food allergies. My son, Graydon Cobb, is VERY allergic to peanuts, dairy, wheat, grass, wheatgrass, chocolate, and airborne dust. Please don’t allow any of these things in the classroom.
Shirleen Cobb
To: Shirleen Cobb
From: JDixon
Date: 9/19
Subject: curriculum night
Dear Shirleen,
Since curriculum night is for parents only, I wasn’t going to worry about food allergies, but from your note I can see that Graydon’s situation is very serious and he could hive up at any moment. Just how big is the bubble he comes to school in?
Jennifer
Why, oh why, is it always the mother with the most allergic kid who is, herself, a nut? I mean, I get it, allergies are serious. Life-threatening, even. They’re nothing to joke about. But when did this all happen? When did peanut butter become the grade-school equivalent of anthrax? When I was in second grade, I sat beside a kid named Alan Ervine who smelled like peanut butter all the time. I’m convinced he dabbed it behind his ears like cologne. No one in our classroom had a problem with it. The banishing of PB is a problem for us because PBJ sandwiches are the only ones Max will eat. In the name of peanut butter, someone needs to figure this thing out. I would, but you know how busy I am being class mom.