I had thought about a “Mom” tatoo but that would only piss her off and not the desired effect I was going for. She still brings up when I was playing softball and wore short shorts (translation: “booty shorts” for you whippersnappers <<translation: young folk>>) to the ball field. She was our coach and never imagined having to stretch her “Fashion Police” muscles in addition to being given this position of authority on the ball field. Not one to hide my light under a bushel, I had drawn with black magic marker, giant PEACE signs on both my upper thighs. Proud moment for my maternal unit indeed. So I guess permanent inking would be a BAD idea given the “mom look” that I got on the ball field.
And we already did the country club luncheon with the “girls”. And FYI, I am still smartin’ from our little waiter there. He actually “shushed” me…imagine that? Why do I keep getting “shushed” in Leisure World? You would think in a place like this, they’d be asking me to speak up a bit. But NOOOOOO!
OK, here’s what happened. There were 7 of us for lunch at the Alta Mesa Country Club of which many of our group were members. I had not been “jumped in” yet but was def a wannabe and frontin’. So we fine ass ladies strutted our stuff across the restaurant floor and all heads turned…especially with me “raising the roof” and saying “Leisure World representing in da house…let’s get it started, bitches!”.
Mom was especially pimpin’ for I had styled her. She’s a little smug since I’ve asked her to be my muse for my jewelry line (with the over 70 crew, that is…I’ve done my demographics). She’s been drawing little mustaches on Kate Upton and even abandoned her canvas gym shoes for Dr. Scholl’s sandals and is fully pedied…not sure about bikini waxing but I have my suspicions. But I digress…
Well, you know the hound dogs (male golfers) were on full alert and erect in their seats (in other words, sitting up straight and taking notice…get your minds out of the gutter, people!). One especially raucous foursome were adjusting their polos, flashing some toothy gaping grins (and their gang signs as members of the original Illuminati…original OGI) and I think I even heard one hiss “fresh meat”. We KNEW we looked good and sashayed, shanteed our way to the table next to them while they displayed their “game” with comments like “Oh, oh, here comes trouble” and “I would check her ID” and “What year is it again?”. Don’t hate the playah…hate the GAME…anyway…
So this waiter saunters over to us with a clipboard and I think we are going to get our drink on. Oh, no! He is checking memberships, examining our teeth, taking blood, and I think there was even a pap smear performed on one of our group (but she liked it so no harm, no foul). As I was looking at the wine list (Mother/Daughter-Apple/Tree), I didn’t catch the frisking that was going on and when Nazi/Waiter arrived at my side I said “I’ll have a glass of Pinot Grigio”. He sniffed loudly and asked for my membership. Mom sprang to attention because GF had my back and stated a little smugly “I’M THE MEMBER HERE…but give my daughter the check.”. Crisis averted, but I’m pretty sure that I was (again) marked as a dissident and this interchange went on my permanent record somewhere. Shit, and I already have that whole cable company situation–with them watching me through my cable box. Pressure! <insert song “I Always Feel Like, Somebody’s Watching Me” here>.
So once we were properly given a dressing down and those on the outer fringe were identified, then there was the identification of which were the “ballers” and payin’ for all this fun. That was a two hour discussion for this crowd as a meeting was called to order (Robert’s Rules, of course) and Nazi/Waiter drew diagrams on his clip board as to how the food bill was to be divided, correlated, filed, and tabulated…but this little hitler was a pro and knew exactly how to look condenscending and serve at the very same time…an art, in and of itself.
And then it happened…as I was “jonesing” for a Pinot, I just said, “Dude, can’t we get this show on the road and give our check to the gentlemen at the next table?”. OK, Mr. Thang whipped his neck around and pursed his lips (even more than they already were) and put his index finger to them and loudly hissed
I was READ! Heck, even the group of ladies at the next table in their finest “knits” and playing bridge gave me a disparaging look. The one with the oxygen hose attached to her nasal cavity was especially open in her disdain and threw in a “oh, my…”. (this is senior-speak for “you’d better check yourself, bitch.”).
I think I saw my mother mouthed the words “sorry” to Atilla the Waiter and left me hangin. Where my girls at? As this “Server” (and I use the term loosely) recognized that my maternal unit understood who was in charge and had given him props, I was spared further admonishment and he departed with a quick “up and down” at me, another sniff, and even, our drink orders. Ain’t we got FUN (WTF?).
So we settled back in our cushy chairs and talked about people that couldn’t defend themselves, the price of a gallon of milk, how “low” the “rise” is on pants these days, what stores accept double coupons in conjunction with senior discounts, and other riveting subjects. And soon, our waiter appeared with our food (after a quick fluff and douche, that is) and my posse got our eat on.
As we were properly liquored up now and possessing the clarity that the grape brings, one of the crew happened to notice that my mother had lost one of my newly designed earrings!!! Again…wtf? This little fashion model needed some lessons, obviously. Kate Upton would have stapled herself in to those suckers, for shizzle, but as my budget is limited (nonexistant), and in the interest of not sending the “talent” into a tizzy (Pinot helps) I said “Don’t worry…there’s more where that came from…no biggie…practically makes itself”. And I threw up in my mouth a little bit but as I reek of class, I kept it to myself…and besides, people were still eating.
And so it was…Mom’s birthday bash at the Alta Mesa Country Club. And it was a golden moment when our Sado-Waiter brought out some dessert and led us in “Happy Birthday” to mom in his best soprano voice complete with jazz hands (this was an upcharge). Not to be outdone, I sang a little ditty also as a “throw down” to the dancing waiter. It was a birthday song taught to us kids by Mom and performed at each and every Plesha Bday party. It’s sung like a funeral dirge and it goes like this…
“Happy birthday, happy birthday, misery is in the air, people dying everywhere, happy birthday.”
And then (duh, duh, DUH!!!) the checks arrived and our revellers noticed the SERVICE CHARGE on their bills. Bedlam. You don’t “f” with drunk ladies on Social Security and it was the first time that I saw a bead of perspiration formulate on the object of my deflection–the waiter (that I had by now dubbed “Sparky”).
And I heard him squeal like a girl as my shorties “pantsed” him in the parking lot, leaving him tied to the handicapped sign after a stern talking to.
And we drove off…windows down, and music blaring some serious Tommy Dorsey.