Soccer Moms Do It With Style
/A girls night out, interrupted
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I will never forget the look on his face as my husband, Ted, stared at me from the other side of a smudged plate of plexiglass. It was a mix of comical bewilderment and admiration. I wiped the tears from my mascara smeared eyes, picked up the phone, and started at the beginning.
It was Soccer Club Night. No, I didn’t play soccer, I was part of a group of women who fit the “Soccer Mom” profile to a tee. Dedicated mothers, members of the PTA, and tenaciously driven to raise the perfect family. We got together once a month to eat, drink, laugh, and release.
It was a beautiful night, 75 and breezy. I pulled up my Spanx and head for the closet. Sitting at my vanity, I worked meticulously on my hair and make-up. My husband leaned against the door frame, watching me.
“I think you’ve found yourself a new man! You never spend two hours beautifying yourself for me!”
“Darlin’, I only have eyes for you.”
He smiled.
I stepped into my blue sundress and leaned in to give him a kiss before leaving.
“My rides here, love you!” I said pulling away.
“Gwennie”, he said sharply, then much softer, “come home tipsy.”
I was the last stop before heading to The Olive Garden. The door to the Caravan slid open as laughter escaped from inside. Squeals filled the cab as I greeted my best friends.
We arrived at the restaurant and immediately ordered two bottles of iced, cold moscato. Vera grabbed a bottle and started filling glasses in that precise and efficient manner she had.
A young, and incredibly attractive Italian man sauntered to our table.
“I am Adolpho. What can I bring you lovely ladies tonight” he asked; his accent thick, and apparently capable of raising the ambient temperature around him by at least ten degrees.
We all sat there. Staring. Speechless…
“Would you like to start with our never-ending salad bowl and some breadsticks, maybe?” He asked in that voice capable of manipulating nature.
Sheila, always the brave one in our group, rose to her feet and stood before him as rigid as a two by four. “Yes!”
Adolpho stood for a minute longer, shrugged his shoulders, and sauntered back off to the kitchen.
Jill was the first to burst out in laughter. It was enough to break the trance and we all joined in. Jill had always been the light hearted, bubbly cheerleader in our group. She raised her glass to the group, “Cheers to us!” she said with that beautiful California smile.
“Cheers to our husbands, who will reap the fiery benefits after a night with our fiery server, Adolpho!” boomed Ashley, who was by far, the most “experienced” in our group.
“Cheers to baby number eight for Ashley in nine months!” giggled Alex. You had to love Alex. She was the last of us to marry, just last year. She was quiet and shy, but had the biggest heart I had ever seen.
A chair screeched across the wooden floor. We all turned and saw a matronly woman dressed in black, glaring at us.
“Do. You. Mind!” She hissed.
Alex, beet red, looked down at the table. I stared, unable to form words. Sheila folded her arms across her chest, and Jill stood up to apologize.
“Oh! We are…”
“I can see EXACTLY what you are!” Old crone wailed.
I heard a gasp and saw pasta fly; spaghetti landed and disappeared into old crones cleavage. I turned to see Alex; shy, quiet, Alex, grabbing more from the table next to us.
The crone, looking as if she would implode, grabbed her pocketbook and started to swing it like a Samurai sword at us.
Sheila grabbed the bottle of wine and dumped it all over the crone. I grabbed a menu, and tried to block the swinging purse. Jill threw breadsticks in rapid fire while she jumped from chair to chair. Vera grabbed the never ending salad, and dumped it precisely over the crones head. Ashley stared as Adolpho ducked behind a booth and dialed 911…
“They put handcuffs on me and took me to jail!” I finished.
Ted tried for almost a full minute to look comforting, then burst in laughter. I looked down at myself, my blue sundress spattered with marinara, and started laughing, too.
I looked up to him and raised one eyebrow, “Well, I guess that old crone won’t be messing with a group of soccer moms again!”
By Tracey Koehler
From: United States
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