More Peg Bundy, Less Rachael Ray

I’m re-posting this, because I wanted to laugh a little today.

You remember how I balked at moving to the suburbs, right? Well, looks like I’m seeing more social action here than I have anywhere else I’ve ever lived at any other time in my entire life, with the exception of a raucous sophomore year in college. Seems lots of moms are itching for connection and interaction. I mean, I knew I was, but the volume of women I met who “just want to get out” is prodigious and somewhat alarming. My theory is that as our kids grow, a certain number of us are re-discovering who we are as women, not just moms, and so are reclaiming our youths. Or identities. Or inner bar wenches.

At any rate, this isn’t so much about that, although I will muse on it a bit later, because I am feeling somewhat conflicted and unhealthy about the amount of times I’ve been out with moms just this month (i.e. the last 5 days). Last Thursday’s Christmas party alone nearly killed me.

No, because I am a malcontent, this post is about how I can’t cook or keep a house.

So yesterday afternoon, I watched from my driveway as Toots and Booger played in the cul de sac. A few houses away, some neighbors also hung outside and soon enough, we all congregated. Next thing I know, other people joined in and there arose a makeshift pub on our cul de sac curb. Well as the day is wont to do, it got cold and dark and none of us we’re ready to distangle from each other, so we tramped into the home we had mingled in front of a few hours before. And here’s the thing: if this had been my house, there’d have been crusty clothes on the floor and maybe a broken Christmas ornament on the couch. Also, there’d have been a whole pot of NOTHING cooking on the stove and probably an Indian food-smudged take-out menu by the phone.

But this place? This cozy home where inside we traipsed? Candles flickered, Christmas decorations festooned, stew simmered, and soft music played. And all just because that’s the way this mom rolls. I mean, she didn’t EVEN KNOW that people would be inside her house, yet it was like a Martha Stewart elf had just left.

And the other thing? Magically, there was enough stew for all six adults and a teen-ager, even though she’d only expected to feed her two children and herself that night (her husband was out of town). And salad with pomegranate seeds. In addition, she had mini hamburgers and mini buns for the kids. Also? LIMES when someone asked for one. Seriously? People have limes about? They don’t run to the store for them on an as-needed basis? WHO WAS THIS WOMAN? (It doesn’t help matters that she is lovely inside AND out.) And her dining room table? The one where we all sat? There abounded stained glass candle holders, fragrant something or others, holly. AND BERRIES! Just ready to go and all prepared for drop-by guests. People do that?

I am telling you all: I would need 48 hours advance notice to prepare my home for human habitation. Not to mention, there’d still be no homemade stew and frackin’ holly.

So I felt pretty lame by comparison.

Until my friend fell asleep in the closet.

Not that I was happy about that or anything, but COME ON! The Universe needed to right itself from all the perfection.

Also, I really needed to know it’s OK if I don’t have a Christmas tree up yet.

P.S. You should see my other neighbor’s yard, literally dripping with inflatables and flashing LEDs. I think there should be a SURVIVOR: The Suburbs edition. It’s dog eat dog out here.