Making Friends Where'er I Go

We've lived in San Antonio for a month now. I'd have more friends by now, but most of the women in my path are complete loons.

My neighbor has a daughter slightly younger than my 2-year-old. She has a charming Scottish accent, and she's a stay-at-home mom. Sounds like the perfect setup for a coffee-swilling pal in the mornings, after breakfast and before the round of naps start, right? The only problem is that she keeps having "parties." You know, the kind where you're supposed to buy something. I hate those parties with the burning passion of a thousand suns. Nonetheless, I went to one, where she was the consultant selling children's toys. If going to a sales party will save me from throwing elbows in a crowd of moms at Toys-R-Us over the holidays, by golly, I'm going to the party. I went, dropped a few Benjamins, and got my kids and my nephew squared away for Christmas. Before I even got my goods from her "party," I ran into her on a walk and received a flyer for another "party" she'll be throwing in the next week. What a party ANIMAL! This time, it's jewelry she's hocking. Sweet neighbor, I cannot afford your friendship and I will be avoiding you like the plague.

One day last week, I was in the mommy room at the gym doing time on the treadmill, and my afforementioned 2-year-old, Luke, was in the play area. I had the pleasure of sharing the mommy room that day with an older woman sporting bobbed helmet hair and a huge rock on her hand--the kind of thin slip of a woman who "mists" and then dab-dab-dabs herself delicately while uttering a breathy, "Whew!" Anyway, Luke had a rough start--I had to interrupt my warmup three times to go into the play area to calm him down and tell him no, I can't hold you, and yes, you will play with these toys quietly, and no, you won't take toys away from other children. After my third trip, Mrs. Encouragement told me that her son always wanted to be right next to Mommy, too, but that her "DAUGHTERS have been a REAL BLESSING!" A REAL blessing! I really wanted to ask her, "Don't you have a bake sale to coordinate or something?" Instead, I gave her a tight smile, because, let's face it, her husband is probably my husband's boss. In the end, I was just relieved that she was gone when I left. My pseudo-blessing threw a massive tantrum, and I didn't want any more pearls of wisdom from Mrs. Encouragement.

The next day, we headed to the base library for story hour. It was really well-done--stories, costumes, and an activity. I made small talk with another woman, we'll call her Mrs. Master-Gardener (she hyphenated when she married), who is also here on a temporary basis while her husband trains for one month. We were having a nice chat. I was about to extend to her the ultimate stay-at-home-mom gesture of friendship--an invitation to eat lunch with us at Chick-Fil-A. The idea of having someone to sit with and sip on diet lemonades while children push each other down and refuse to share the slide on the playground was so enchanting! I realize that's moving awfully fast, but we military wives are a fast bunch when it comes to friendship.

Anyway. What happened next made me scrap the idea. Our activity for the day, being the week of Halloween, was to plant a pumpkin seed in a dixie cup. The librarian came around with supplies, and offered us mulch to fill the cup with. Being that I'm constantly a day late and a dollar short, I recognized that she was improvising. Who cares? It's a kids' activity--it's going to end up in the trash within 15 minutes. Luke and I planted his seed in the mulch, and he proceeded to take it out, put it in his mouth, plant it again, take it out, put it in his mouth again...I said to him, "Luke, you need to leave it in the dirt if you want a pumpkin to grow." Mrs. Master-Gardener says to me, "Actually, it won't really grow a pumpkin. This is mulch. Things don't grow in mulch." I ignored her comment, but a few minutes later, it came up again. "Actually, a pumpkin won't really grow in this. It's mulch. Things don't grow in mulch. I know--I used to be a kindergarten teacher." OoooOOoohhh--this time she gave me the credentials. She taught kindergarten, making her a veritable expert of all things grown in dixie cups. I muttered, "Yeah, but it doesn't hurt to pretend for the kids."

It's too bad Mrs. Master-Gardener will already be gone before this month's story hour. With the holidays coming up, I might need somebody to remind me that the turkey we make by tracing our hands isn't actually anatomically correct, or that the cinnamon ornament we make for the Christmas tree isn't actually a cookie, so I shouldn't eat it.