Free 32aa by Michelle Cunnah Page B

she is. But her variety of sympathy is more the “pick yourself up, dust yourself off” variety, rather than the “poor old you” variety.
    “Emma, Rachel, you must both come over tomorrow night,” Katy announces as she sails full steam toward us, and I cringe, because Katy can be rather overenthusiastic in her quest to fit in with the Pre-Preschool PTA mothers (or PPPTA for short). It’s not that she’s pushy, she just tries really hard.
    “Marion and the girls are all coming over for the evening. I’m doing snacks and margaritas. It’ll be fun.”
    I’ve just changed my mind about Rachel. She is so no longer my favorite best friend because she has slipped quietly away with some lame excuse or other about getting a drink, and has left me to Katy’s tender but insistent mercies.
    Now Katy is lovely, but Marion Lacy (chairperson of the PPPTA) is a huge pain in the butt. And at the moment, Katy is trying to prove herself a caring, interested parent. Marion (and I know this because I’ve met her twice) believes herself to be the world authority on what a caring, interested parent should be, so when she says “jump,” poor Katy becomes an Olympic-style hurdle jumper.
    “We’re forming a group,” Katy tells me.
    Not another one. Oh God. I remember that last time she persuaded me to join one of her protest groups. It was Parents Against Drunk Drivers, or PADD for short. I spent one very unmemorable evening with Katy and Marion, driving up and down the New Jersey Turnpike between the Lincoln Tunnel and Newark Airport, carefully scanning the lanes for erratic driving.
    Not that scanning roadways for drunk drivers isn’t worthwhile, because obviously it is. But that’s why we have the state police. And anyway, I think Katy’s main reason for wanting me there was so that Marion had someone else to intimidate.
    “We’re calling ourselves Mothers Against Sexual SPAM. MASS for short. What do you think?”
    “Er, very catchy. What is it for?”
    As soon as I ask the question I regret it. I do not want to spend any more time in Marion’s company and if I show interest, it will be hard to say no to Katy.
    “Well, it’s basically mothers against sexual SPAM on the Internet.”
    I feel very stupid because I think that SPAM is chopped meat that comes in a can. But sexual SPAM? My mind boggles at the thought, and I don’t want to display my complete ignorance by asking.
    “You wouldn’t believe the trash mail that Alex gets in his e-mail. ‘Add extra inches to your penis,’ ‘Visit this site for sexy young girls.’ We are talking about kids being corrupted by stupid, mindless idiots. I mean, my kid’s only two. He doesn’t need the exposure to that kind of trash.”
    “Yes, but he doesn’t, you know, technically need to have his own e-mail account at two years of age, does he?” I point out.
    Let’s face it, the kid can’t read yet. But I don’t say this, obviously.
    Alex is a great kid. Unlike Jack Junior and Joe Junior, my half brothers, he restores my faith in reproduction. If I could have a kid (which now looks uncertain due to my lack of fiancé), I’d want him or her to be exactly like Alex. Unfortunately, Katy—although a completely great mother—has him enrolled in all kinds of classes that help his personal development. Because Marion and all the other mothers told her to. Actually, they didn’t tell her to at all, just sort of implied it…that PPPTA crowd can be pretty intimidating. I would not want to cross them.
    “I know,” Katy sighs. “But Emma, you wouldn’t believe how important it is for preschoolers to get to grips with modern technology. All the other preschoolers have their own computers. Marion says that if we don’t give them the basic skills they need for school, they’re behind before they can get ahead.”
    We both sigh. Me, because Katy is so nice, and trying so hard to fit in with the other mothers. I tend to forget, sometimes, that most of her friends (us) are