What I Saw at the Elementary School Game Night

It's Game Night, or Silent Auction Night, or Get Fitness Night, always something . . . and all of these events qualify for the discussion which follows.

As always, an event at the elementary school is something I anticipate. I love to go there and just watch the people. The people-watching is not nearly as good as at the mall on a weekend, or at the airport, or on a busy downtown corner on a sunny day, but it's still pretty good. It's folks I already know, or at least know by face, quite a few personally, and some by reputation and gossip, so there's not a huge amount of variety. It's the interaction, the dress and dress codes, the posing that goes on, all of that. I watch them being themselves, and not being themselves, trying to do this and that, and it never fails to entertain.

First there's the vice principal. The principal at the school is a joyless crone on the downhill slide of increasing incompetence, who's just lost her will for the responsibilities she's got. She's more engaged in district politics and public relations to care about what the students are doing and how they're being taught. She cares more about parking spaces than class size, more about paintballers in the woods behind the school than incompetent teachers who belittle and under-serve the kids. Her focus is almost exclusively up and out, rather than down and inside her building. Thank goodness for the vice principal, the guy who really runs the school. He is universally respected, and I think he's earned it. He truly cares about the kids, and he's a no-shit disciplinarian, too. He'll drop a suspension right on down when it's needed, which too many administrators are too fearful to do these days.

But the VP here also considers this space his very own. Hell, he's been in the school for close to 20 years (what kind of conclusions do you make about a guy who's been a Vice Principal for 20 years?) In an environment dominated by women, all of those female teachers and administrators and librarians and the lunch staff and the custodial and specialist staffs--all women, all perfectly menstrually synchronized--he is the center of attention. The women know it, and so does he. He's the cock of the walk, and they way he moves in the school clearly demonstrates that. I was introduced to him last year--he already knows who I am--and the jerkoff wouldn't even look at me while we shook hands and I offered my introductory hello. He couldn't be bothered to acknowledge another parent, another man inside his space, so he just wouldn't even look at me as we made our nice-nice talk. He was busy scanning the room, 'doing his job' or some bullshit. Instant turn-off. He dresses well, and is respected in the building, but he's got to let go of this perception that men in his building are somehow a threat to his turf. He can have that turf. At first glance, a school like this is the ultimate target-rich environment, tons of women, and precious few men (and what men there are, are either gay or effectively dis-masculine). But then again, the school is a henhouse, too, and those women absolutely thrive on gossip and yap. If there isn't any drama or news or gossip, then they'll make it up, so it's a very dangerous place, from a target-rich environment standpoint.

So, it's Game Night this time, and all of the parents of the K-6 kids are there. It's barely ordered chaos, with the kids running all over like crazy, totally psyched, and the parents chit-chatting. There are the ever-present volunteers, the same women who volunteer for everything. They're always here, at every event, at the pool for every event, doing the Girl Scouts and the Boy Scouts and the sports and anything else they can get themselves into. What I see in them is a desparate, clinging, pathetic need to be seen and valued and told they're doing good. They feel they lost themselves in motherhood, and it seems pretty clear their men don't pay any attention to them, so it's neck-deep into the activities and volunteering so they can have a sense of place and worth outside the home. Pretty sad, if you ask me. They always look so harried, so rushed, so busy, and their kids seem to be the ones who are more in need of parental love, affection, and attention than a lot of the other kids. Go figure.

Then there are the young hotties. These are the moms, usually of the younger kids, who got married early, and are now moms early. They're late 20s, usually with the older (4-8 years) husband. (Background: we're in a community of professionals who clearly waited to have kids, so there are a lot of 40-somethings with elementary school-age kids.) So, he's a contemporary of most, and she's a comparative youngster. Hell, just a few years ago these women were hard-partying sorority girls going to Cabo for spring break, showing their tits for roving video guys. I don't quite get the vibe of them being lost in motherhood yet; they've still got all that young energy so that it's not pulling them down and in. They're still focused on doing good, at whatever they do, and looking young and hot and sexy when they get the chance. And at a thing like this, they certainly do. They're thin and attractive. Their clothes are tight, and fit very well. They're great fun to look at, with great teeth, great hair, and such perfect skin. These are the MILFs of dreams, just the kind you find featured in certain places. But, alas, still a bit too young for me.

Then there are the professional moms. These are the ones who arrived 90 minutes late, along with the professional dads. They're in their professional clothes, that sad and sorry, asexual Nancy Reagan-looking pforessional garb that makes them look older than they are. They're hard at work, and the required transition to Mom at the school function is a fascinating one to observe. The uniform they've got on requires formalism and that raging professional detachment and authority, just what's working for them in the office. But there with the kids, it's mom-this and mom-that, and they've got to shift into the mode. That's a very tough switch for more than a few of them to make. Great fun to watch the dynamic tension between the two.

And at our school is the US senator's kid. The guy is so perfect, he looks like some guy from a Ralph Lauren ad. The perfect hair, with the perfectly graying temples. The perfect slacks and Harris tweed jacket. And when he really gets his informal on, he pulls off the jacket to reveal a button-down custom-tailored shirt that looks like it was made for James Bond. His shoes are perfect, and so is his belt. The break in his slacks is right out of the catalong. His smile is flawless, and he's always smiling. He knows a few folks, but still works the room like the goddamn politician he is, unable to turn himself off. He'll look you in the eye, give you a nod or say hi, but other than that, you're just another vote. You can't engage him on anything of real substance or import, because he could be quoted or cited. He doesn't know you, so there's no way he's going to trash-talk the shitheads on XXX Lane who don't mow their lawn, or talk about drinking beer all day with his buddies as he put up a basketball goal. None of that from this pretty boy.

The senator's wife is there too, and she's the slightly backgrounded context model from the same Ralph Lauren ad. Perfect clothes and hair and smile, too. Perfect body, a good 15 lbs below ideal weight. Always smiling, always gracious, practicing for when she's the First Lady. Yeah, like she isn't thinking that exact thing over and over and over. Her role-playing is perfect, the hip and informed yet wonderfully and handily ignorant home-maker, the perfect companion and well-read partner who has no opinion on any issue. All referrals are to the executive assistant, to the handler, and to the husband. Of course, their kid shows signs of emotional neglect, so needy for attention, approval, affection and love. Sad, but not unexpected.

And then there are the moms who are just beaten down by the whole gig. They were barely competent to act as adults in the first place, then they married and bred. Now the ones who pay are the kids. These are the moms who can barely get themselves dressed and the house together, let alone prepare and care for kids. Their kids are the ones with the snotty noses, dirty clothes, who run loose because that's all they know how to do. These are the kids in ratty t-shirts with long hair, doing whatever the hell they want because that's all they know how to do. Either the parents just don't car, or don't have the intellect to realize what's going on, but it's certainly not responsible parenting.

Even worse than those who just can't cope with kids are the ones who can but refuse to. They're still too wrapped up in themselves, consciously and actively maintaining a life they imagined they had before it was "impacted," even "ruined" by the arrival of children (I've overheard both of those words). These are the ones spending their money on clothes and cars for themselves, who hire the au pairs and the foreign nannies, the women who truly raise their kids. These are the parents who are too wrapped up in their careers, in the next promotion and raise to care about being a scout leader for their kid. These shitbird parents are too busy thinking of themselves to be a sports coach for their kid. These are the parents who drop their kid off at the day care at 6:00 a.m. and don't pick up the kid until the very last minute in the evening, at 6:00 p.m. So what kind of interaction does a child like that have with that kind of parent? Yeah, rushing, moving, getting to a specific place at a specific time so the parent can drive off and do something that's clearly more important than what the kid thinks is important. You think the kids can't figure this out?

Then there are the partyers. These are the successful professionals who just can't let go of that weekend partying. These are the dumbass parents who are always on long weekend to Cabo or Jamaica, the ones who host the (often notorious) neighborhood parties. These parents are tight with the lifeguards at the pool, because they buy the lifeguards beer, and the lifeguards think they're cool to be hanging with the hip oldsters. These parents are the ones with guitars who've taught themselves a couple of Dylan or Eagles tunes, and they stand around and have ridiculous sing-alongs at their seriously alcohol-fueled parties. Hey, if that's their gig, then fine.

Hell, we've even got a few swingers in the neighborhood. I find that extremely amusing, and it's so fun to watch this group of roughly 8 interact in public. I always have to wonder if they're thinking that I--and everyone else that knows these gossipy tidbits--is studying all of them and thinking what kind of sexual combinations have and will go on between them. It's like fitting imagined puzzle pieces together.

And then there are the magnet kids and parents. Our school gets a bunch of kids from a real shit-hole area on the other side of the Big Road. Lots of crime and immigrants and that kind of unhealthy mix. The kids are usually pretty good, although by elementary school it's already clear which kids are going to end up in prison or dead from drugs and which ones will succeed. It's surprisingly easy to make this determination. Usually, these folks don't come to these things. They can't, or don't want to. I can't say I blame them, as they'd feel and genuinely be out of place. That's sad, sure, but it's true, too.