Yes, You Eat It...

I’m still settling into suburbia here. Not that I don’t love it, I do. And I’m learning all the little things that mark you as one of the lawn mowing, Dunkin Donuts loving, neighborhood tribe.

Like, ‘mommy-banter’. A form of casual conversation that gains you entrance into the mom‘s circle (especially crucial if you’re a dad-dude). It’s the perfectly harmless little morning snippets of convo that go down between parents when you’re dropping you child off at school.

Its winter, so the weather’s always a simple way to wedge into the mom’s circle and spark up some well-meaning gab.

I’m a people person, so while hanging with the mom’s this morning I decided to kick off the first round of neighborly chat.

Dana: “Wow, it is so Frosty the snowman out there, brrrr”.

Niiice. Turn a holiday reference into a clever play on the weather and off we go.

Connie: “Oh, I know—just makes me want to curl up with my comfort foods…”.

Oh man, how easy is this? I may start a service for people who need a casual convo starter. I’d be like those little logs you use to get your fire roaring, but you know, I’d hang out at parties. Find a clique of party-mutes and kick things off.

Dana: “Hot cocoa, cinnamon toast…”.

Connie: “Mmm, soon as I get home I’m making my favorite…beer cheese soup”.

Dana: stunned silence.

None of the other mom’s say anything, so I’m not sure what to do. Though instinct is shouting in my ear that sticking my fingers down my throat and pantomiming spraying chunks all over my daughter’s classroom is probably not the preferred response.

I can feel the seconds ticking by, and now I’m getting nervous that she thinks I’m purposely not responding.

But wtf do I say, coz all I can think is “Did she just fcuking say ‘beer cheese soup’?. I do the math real fast—beer+cheese=soup. Sh*t. I got nothing. I take a deep breath, and manage…

Dana: “Hmmm, that sounds like something you’d make if you were from Wisconsin”.

It’s not much but it’s all I have, and at least for the moment I’ve keep the banter alive. I mean, these are the kids my daughter will be growing up with. If I fail the banter-test, I’m off the Island, the tribe has spoken.

Connie: “Oh yeah, mid-west style for sure”.

Phew, nice save. I figure I have to go for it now, really lean into it.

Dana: “Sounds yummy—what do you use, like Vermont cheddar?”.

Connie: “Velveeta”.

Dana: roaring, epic stunned silence.

Now I’m panicking, because essentially this woman just told me when the temp hits low digits she microwaves a bowl of cheese for lunch. With basically, a beer chaser.

I want to scream. I picture a hunk of Velveeta, slowly melting like the wicked witch into a puddle of orange chemical goo. It seems really hot, so I unzip my coat a little, I need air. And my chest feels suddenly heavy. I try and regulate my breathing like I learned in my wife’s pre-natal class. Now I’m sucking in tiny sips of air through my lips.

I take off my hat because now I’m in a full sweat. I smile weakly and slip a finger onto my wrist pulse—it’s racing. I’m going to stroke. Fortunately, one of the other mom’s chimes in…

“Oooh, good one. We always do meatloaf, with a ketchup glaze”.

I quietly wonder to myself how I came to this. I live in a place where ketchup and glaze can be used in the same sentence, and a bowl of melted cheese thinned with beer constitutes soup.

It’s all just so, new to me I guess. The giant SUV’s, the families of four and five kids, all the father’s working in finance, all the women having the exact same blonde hair with honey-toned highlights.

And after school snacks you can make by simply melting cheese in a bowl and topping it off with a little Pabst Blue Ribbon.

I’m not sure how to work my way back into the conversation. And time is working against me. If I don’t close the circle, she’ll know it. She may not acknowledge it, but she’ll never forget I abandoned her during the cheese-soup bonding.

Do I ask for the recipe? I can’t feel my legs any longer, how can I summon the motor skills to type a recipe into my blackberry? I don’t even know where the
‘v’ key is.

I jab my thigh with a pen, try to get the blood flowing and think of my daughter—I gotta man-up and make this happen, her futures at stake here.

Dana: “Sounds super-fast to prepare…”.

Dude, you are the freakin’ man. Phew, I feel my chest release just a little.

Connie: “Super-fast. You garnish it with popcorn”.

She may as well have said “Oh, and I have a penis”.

I’m frozen in a kind of half-smile, and I’m blinking too rapidly. It’s like my eyes can’t believe what I’m seeing so they’re trying to shut out reality by changing the shutter speed.

Like a fatal car accident caught on high-speed film all I can see is a little snowfall of popcorn, settling onto an orange lake of cheesy-frothy foam. Connie’s saying something else, but I can’t hear her.

A kind of suburban concussion grenade has exploded too closely and ruptured my inner ear. Connie’s laughing now, tossing her head back, honeyed-highlights flashing. The other mom’s giggling, trying to cover her mouth with a mittened-hand.

I blink. And watch the slow motion movie of my life unfold one frame at a time.

I say something like, “Gr…aha…blugher…baw”. It’s not really a word, it’s a language I’ve never heard. On my home planet, it must be some kind of goodbye, because I’m walking away on my frozen-legs, kind of jabbing one in front of the other hoping they’ll hold up.

Connie’s waving, slowly. The other mom’s smile, mouthing something I can’t hear. I hope it’s not “See you at lunch…”.

Back in the car, I rip off my jacket and gulp down fresh, clean air. I turn on sports radio, listen to football scores. Really, really loud. But I’ve done it. I’ve entered the inner-circle, the hallowed ground, the Stonehenge of school culture—the mom’s circle.

My daughter will have play dates, be invited to birthday parties and have sleep over’s at her friends homes. And I’ll just remind her to be polite, say ‘please’ when she asks for something and whatever she does, do not eat the orange soup.