Drag Queens and the PTA, or, How to Embarass Your Children, Part II

In order to give the sagging sales for our school's spring gala a boost, my fellow PTA buddy, Kristi, and I decided that we needed to get out there and hawk tickets ourselves. It's going to be a dressy affair, so we decided it was best to get to the school early in the morning in full length gowns, tiaras, gloves, and jewels and ask each parent in person to RSVP for our upcoming event.

Yes, I am that scary manic volunteering PTA mom you try and avoid. In fact, many parents took one look at us and immediately did a pivot in their efforts not be accosted by the wild-eyed mommies in evening wear. I don't get those parents. How else are they going to find their self-worth if they don't volunteer crazy hours and martyr themselves over the fact that they are the only class parent who remembered to bring in muffins on testing day? And don't give me that whole "inner value" and "self-esteem" hooey. It's all about the hours you log, baby.

Our plan worked, and we managed to pull in an extra $600 in sales that morning. Even better? My daughters melted into the floorboards of the car as I pulled up to the school looking like a drag queen who hadn't had her coffee yet. In order to get everyone out the door and ready that morning and to the school extra early, I had to forego the morning shower. Which is always a nice touch when donning a bright red ballgown.

Their humiliation, shame, and personal agony was delightfully apparent as I sashayed around the school grounds in my slightly rumpled finery. I watched as my seventh grader slinked across campus, pretending to be oblivious to my calls of Have a maaaahvelous day, dahling!

My fifth grader refused to kiss me goodbye so I made sure to blow her plenty of air kisses as she practically slithered on the ground to her classroom.

My kindergartener, a total sexist by nature, gave me a big kiss and a hug and told me, "I like it best when you dress this way, Mama." Yeah, total chauvenist pig in the making. He also likes my hair down, not up, and if I cook his mac and cheese in heels? He asks for seconds.

My toddler was rather non-plussed, save for the fact that my low-cut dress did remind him of his nursing days. Given the amount of teeth in the kid's mouth I wisely kept my distance and stuck him in the car with a movie while I made my rounds. Mother of the Year award here I come!

Ahh, motherhood. Who said there weren't benefits?

The Tenant

"We tried to find the visiting teacher a place, but even the hostels are full. Can you help out? It's only nine weeks."

I thought about this. We have a small guest house that's detached from our home. When we bought the place, it was dark and dirty, but over the past three years we have changed it to an inviting space with wood floors, light paint, and cute furnishings. Currently, its primary use is for sleepovers my daughters host. Still. The idea of having someone we don't know living on the property is a little strange, and I know this won't go over well with Bob.

"Yes, sure! Of course we'll help!"

He arrived on Saturday, and when the principal introduced him, I couldn't place his accent. Vaguely European? He looks like a child, although I will find out later he is at least in his late twenties. He is very thin, with pale skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. He is also very, very gay. This puts my husband at ease with the concept of a male tenant, and also mildly irritates him. Like most straight men who are not homophobic, he is uncomfortable with the sashaying, hand gesturing and giggling that accompany this visiting dance teacher.

"Where are you from?" I ask.

He sighs. It is, clearly, a weighty question. Why have I asked such a question when he is so jet lagged?

"Ohhh. 'Tis a hard question." His voice is nasal, and he sounds strained, as if it is a mammoth effort to speak, so he comes across both bored and pained. And with a slight head cold.

"I was born in Lithuania, but I've lived in Austria, Germany, France..." he trails off. "I need water. It is so dry here."

Later that day, I knocked on his door with a bag of sheets and towels from Target. He opened the bag silently, then took out the package of sheets. He held them in his hand at arm's length, then brought them closer, squinting.

"Are these black?"

"No. I think they're navy blue. But they're flannel. So you'll be warm. It should be well below freezing tonight."

He thrusts the package back at me, and I fumble as I grab the sheets. With a tsking sound he tells me, "They are cobalt blue. I am, how do you say? Allergic to cobalt blue." His body suddenly shudders all over as he runs his hands up his thighs and brings them to his face.

"I get hives. All over. You have tea? I have the ulcers."

He shuts the door. Eight weeks and six days to go.

I need to start saying no.