Blacklisted from the PTA by Lela Davidson Page B

officers expected to find. No criminals here. Just a bunch of adults with too many mayonnaise-based salads and a beer fridge full of milk.
    My husband, who hadn’t been too hot on the party idea, gave me a look that said this never happens while watching World’s Greatest Engineering Feats . But we’d had a great time. Who can argue with burgers, brew and ‘tater salad? The only thing missing were his cigars.
    The big question—other than, don’t the police have some Meth labs to eradicate?—was who would call the cops on us? Did the shrill of our under-primed voices at 10:15 on a Saturday night rile the neighbors? Was backyard karaoke now a crime? Bad words crowded the tip of my well-behaved, un-pierced tongue.
    Wary of the fuzz and their dreaded breathalyzers, we retreated, sharing stories from Fondmemoryland where life was one big kegger. We recalled busts long past and embellished tales of daring escapes and stealth camouflage in basements and shrubberies.
    I accept that booze must now be tempered with chips and dips, that the babysitter needs to be home by eleven, and that I really shouldn’t swear in front of the children, but can’t we have any fun at all? On the drive home I wondered if the OnStar people could fine me for singing off key to the radio.
    I wanted to be irked about the cops showing up to ruin our fun, but truth was, the party was pretty much over by the time they showed up and nothing can make you feel like your old rebel self like getting busted by the cops. Even if it was only for really bad singing.

Used To Be
     
    R
EMEMBER HOW IT USED TO BE WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG AND YOU had no responsibilities? Life was one big party and your biggest dilemma was who to hook up with at the end of the evening?
I do, barely.
    My husband had been working in Mexico, and going on and on about this fabulous place he’d been going to with the people from work—the young people. You can imagine my excitement.
    “It’s great,” he said. “You start out eating at these long tables and then slowly the music gets louder and louder and pretty soon everybody’s dancing!”
    I remember dancing. But contrary to the way my husband portrayed himself during our courting phase, he’s no dancer. It’s not that he doesn’t want to dance. A severe lack of rhythm prevents him from doing so. When we were young it didn’t matter. We used to be the life of the party, dancing on speakers and deep dipping. But now—well, all that used-to-be went out the window with the I-Do’s, the real jobs, and the flannel packets of baby.
    Except that now my husband is out dancing again.
    “That’s nice,” I told him. “I’d do the same if I weren’t busy cleaning sand out of your children’s hair.”
    “It’s a cultural thing,” he said.
    “I’ve also been keeping the mildew at bay.”
    “It’s a different life down there.” Wistfully, he gazed out the window. While I may have a touch of used-to-be syndrome, my husband suffers from a bad case of somewhere-else-is-better. He’s never accepted that life is different when you’re just visiting. No place is one big party all the time. Eventually the alarm clock rings and everybody goes to work.
    I’m not the only one who likes to reminisce. I called a friend recently to wish her a happy birthday. It’s been 15 years since we lit up the town, but we remember.
    Remember that one time? We were so drunk….
    Didn’t you flash a cop?
    Was that the night someone puked off the porch?
    Who was that anyway?
    Good times.
    Good times.
    Last fall I went to a bar for girls’ night out with some friends. Half the “girls” couldn’t make it because of sick kids and work deadlines, but the rest of us set off to see a live band in a bar. We stepped back in time, into a place where you emerge at the end of the evening with no voice and reeking of smoke. Too many bodies pressed up against each other sucked up all the oxygen. Third world countries had better bathrooms.
    After a long wait