I intend to call her back, I swear!

I intend to call her back, I swear, but not from the bathroom this time. So I finish my business and go back outside when – there it is: “unavailable” calling me… again. As much as I don’t want to, I answer. “Hello?” “Avary, it’s Ruth,” she says. “Hi,” I say, as though we are old friends and she didn’t just berate me for having spoken to her while I was going to the bathroom. “Chloe is very worried about the girls’ safety and would like you to go get them at school,” she says. “Now?” I ask. “Yes,” she says. “With that prowler on the loose and everything…” I let her babble on as I think how ludicrous this has gotten… and now Chloe actually thinks there is a “prowler”?! Insane.

A half-hour later, I find myself standing outside of Spring and Summer’s school, a rather pretentious place where all the Hollywood stars’ kids supposedly go (though I could care less).

I am standing amidst a group of mothers – all of their faces look my age (the all look like they could be the spokeswomen for Botox – though not good Botox), although the rest of them does not. (What is the point of Botox, anyway, if everyone knows you are doing it? It’s not like they’re fooling anyone into thinking they haven’t aged; all these women are doing is telling us they have aged and prefer to get cow something-or-other injected into their cheekbones. How backwards.)

The mothers try to make small-talk with me, welcoming me with, “You’re new” and “When did you move to Bridgedale (we’ll call this the rich town I’m in)?” Every time I start to explain that I’m not “new” here, nor am I a mom, another Botoxed mom trying to pass for twenty-five interrupts. This makes things easy for me, as I just get to smile and nod.

Finally, the bell rings and kids scatter outside from all directions, running up to their mothers (and why are no fathers here, I wonder). The kids are awfully cute, the boys in button-up shirts and pants, the girls in cute dresses… and then come Spring and Summer, wearing mini-skirts, mid-riffs, and black pleather boots up to their knees. They look like they’re from the movie “Clueless,” yet far too young. Apparently, another mother thinks this, too. She stares at the girls, then at me. “How could you dress them this way?!” she hisses at me. “What?” I say. “No bellybuttons allowed,” she says as she points to Spring and Summer’s bellybuttons, clearly visible. “It looks like they’re wearing bikinis! I’m on the Bridgedale School Board and these girls are violating the dress code,” she says. Um… what? First of all, I didn’t dress them. Secondly, who is her Botoxed mouth to talk? I admit that the girls look a bit… slutty. But cute-slutty, not going-out-clubbing slutty.

Apparently, her quiet hissing at me didn’t work, as all the other mothers start to gather around, too. Spring and Summer have run off by this point, leaving me all alone, surrounded by collagen and cow hormones. The mothers’ eyes dart from me to Spring and Summer, then back to me again. I tune them out as a barrage of comments come at me: “They look like little tramps,” says one mother whose way-too-short sundress dares to say anything. “You have a lot of nerve,” says another, whose own less-than-motherly outfit is doing her no favors. “Wait until the School Board hears about this,” adds another. “Your husband let them leave the house like that?” says yet another.

Then the initial mother hands me a slip – a demerit, of sorts, forbidding the girls to come to school with skirts above their knees, no more bellybuttons showing, and no more boots above the ankle. Wow. She’s tough. I actually agree with her, but I DIDN’T DRESS THEM! I was too busy being arrested, caught napping, and eating blueberry pancakes, remember?

Just when I think I’m in the clear – I can finally take Spring and Summer home – the principal comes out. “Mrs. Tableau? I’m Principal Wells. I just wanted to say how sorry I am about the attempted break-in at your house today.” I can’t help but smile as I thank her – first, for assuming I am Dean’s wife; second, for saying she’s sorry for the attempted break-in I attempted. How can this personal assistant job get any worse (or better, for that matter)?!…