Blacklisted from the PTA by Lela Davidson Page A

shown into its inner sanctum. Date Night rocked.
The grotto grooved a different vibe. Retro, with booths, hoola-dancer lamps, and pop-art. Very Bradys-go-to-Vegas.
    “Good choice, gorgeous,” my husband said. But as I waited an unreasonable interval for my Chardonnay, I missed the candlelight upstairs. How soon would all the eye paint settle into my not-so-fine lines? Once the wine arrived, I tried to pretend it didn’t taste like yesterday’s tea. The soup had to be better— Cream of Asparagus and Crab could be nothing less than divine.
    “Do you notice anything about the people down here?” I asked.
    “No,” my husband lied. But everyone around us sported thicker waists and thinner hair.
    “I think this is the Old People section,” I whispered.
    “Nah.”
    As I forced myself through cold, starchy soup, springs dug into my motherly rear. I poked at mediocre shrimp and soggy salad. Date Night evaporated like a mirage. Not having spent time on eye make-up, my husband was less vexed.
“This place might not last long,” he said.
    “It’s crap,” I said. The whole place looked like a yard sale that had been plowed over by a wood-paneled station wagon. This basement sucked.
    Just then, a Cowboy and his Girl moseyed in. Neither Old nor Beautiful , and worlds away from cool, they cleared things up. We had been banished. Not to be seen by the real clientele. Hidden away like a cousin with Herpes at the church picnic.
And me with my best mascara.
    I knew complaints wouldn’t earn me a place upstairs. But such a severe humiliation required resolution. I needed chocolate.
    At the steakhouse a friendly waitress promptly served us a fudgy cake-frosting-sauce concoction, which delivered more than it promised. As our cheeks blushed under the light of a Budweiser sign, we found the satisfaction that had eluded us all evening.
So maybe we should start at the steakhouse? Nah. After all, dating is all about the chase.

Busted

    A T MY KIDS ’ RECENT PHYSICAL , THE DOCTOR BUSTED ME .
    “Anyone in the house smoke?”
    “No,” I said, totally telling the truth.
    “Mom,” my daughter said. She looked at me wide-eyed as if I’d said a bad word. Then she turned from me to her new role model, the kind and presumably honest doctor.
    “My dad smokes,” she said.
    “Busted!” said the doctor.
    Cut to me backpedaling and using way too many words to explain away my husband’s weekly cigar. Or was it nightly? Either way, he smoked outside so it didn’t really count, right?
“Right,” the doctor assured. She was nice, unlike the little traitor I’d been feeding for half a decade.
    That brush with not-even-bad behavior made me want to let out a rebel yell. Being a grown up can be so lame. We’re not allowed to do anything!
Last summer I got busted at a friend’s backyard pool party.
    By the time the cops showed up, we had dwindled to a dozen thirty-somethings around a half empty keg making really bad karaoke. (Back in the day, I rocked a pretty hard Love Shack baby, but that involved way more alcohol than my adult liver cares to process.) There I was, having fun in a mature and nonrebellious way, drinking beer not purchased by anyone’s older sister or boyfriend, but by the tax-paying homeowner himself. We’d already gathered up our bags and started goodbyes when two young officers appeared inside the gate. I would have sworn they were strippers. Either that or our host put them up to it to make us all feel younger and badder. But they were totally serious. After interrupting a particularly heartbreaking rendition of Prince’s “Kiss,” they said to the homeowners—and I quote—“Don’t make us come back out here.”
    Had someone been watching Cops ? I was dying for the DJ to cue up that Bad Boys song. What-chou gonna do? What-chou gonna do when they come for you? The guy who’d had to stop midFalsetto looked like my eight-year-old when I say lights out: Just a little longer? Pleeeeeze!
    I wondered what the