TBogg

AWM&#153: The Return of Daddy

It’s food, folks, and fun week at the domicile of America’s Worst Mother&#153, so let’s get going and see what’s the dealio.

When we last left Meghan, her home been invaded by a marauding horde of Capable Mothers who forced Meghan to do some manual labor of the type that normally pays $4.75 an hour for those who like to work at home, which Meghan doesn’t. With a sense of creeping dread, Meghan realized that her children’s school, Miss Emerson’s Academy for Incredibly Clever Little Anglo-Saxon Moppets, was putting on a Gala dance, which meant that everyone (and I mean everyone) would soon know that Mr. Meghan was no longer in the picture and she would be exposed as (gasp!) single mother. During a rare sober moment, Meghan called her husband at the home of his love slave, Kate O’Beirne, and pleaded with him to come home for the sake of the children: Midge, Clio, Croatia Lee, and Farrago. When that didn’t work, she promised him a certain sex act that Meghan finds particularly loathsome, and he agreed, promising to pick up the mouthwash on the way home.

It’s now several days later when we find the children sitting at the dining room table playing while Meghan nurses a Gin & Listerine and Daddy whistles a happy tune upstairs. Unfortunately, Clio has come down with dreaded Gnat Syndrome:

“I want to have a wock.”

“A walk? Not now, honey, it’s raining.”

Phoebe’s voice takes on the rising scream of a diving Stuka. “I want to have a wock!”

“But it’s too — “

“A wock! A white wock!”

“A rock!” I repeat stupidly, “A white rock!”

Her senses dulled, Meghan marvels at the industriousness of her children particularly since she has been giving them hot meals again, as opposed to tossing them a frozen Hungry Man&#153 dinner with a hearty shout of “Suck on this!”.

Outside, it is pouring with rain. Inside, the children and I are grouped at the dining-room table in a golden halo of Victorian industry: Paris is bent over a large sheet of cardboard, penciling furiously; Molly is doing her homework in careful, curly script; Violet and Phoebe are moving little animals around, and I am dotting the i’s and crossing the final t’s after last night’s Gala Dinner for the children’s school.

Ah, yes. The Gala Dinner…it’s all coming back now.

Meanwhile, my husband is upstairs, showering off last night’s Gala atmosphere. Drinks and dinner were amusing enough, as I had stocked our table with the most sharp-witted and amusing of parents. But then came the dread moment when the DJ warmed up his sound system, flicked on his set of whirling multicolored lights, and love-struck teachers hit the floor —

“Ahem,” came an intruding voice, “Excuse me, but we’re going to have a word from the principal.”

And on came the principal. And she was fulsome in her thanks for this lovely event. And she exhorted everyone to continue having the good time they were having. And then, to my alarm, someone handed her an armful of bouquets.

“C’mon, Meg,” my penguin-suited husband coaxed, prying me off the wall to which I had adhered.

As you can see, somehow there was a horrific misunderstanding and Mr. Meghan thought it was a costume ball, and well, you can just imagine. Meghan begins to drink. Later she spies a teacher dressed in red leather leg-humping her fiancé:

All you really need to know about the Gala Dinner, and all, I am sure, that I will remember, is that the third song the DJ played was Chris de Burgh’s “Lady in Red,” and that the song was requested by a teacher, and that this particular teacher was clad from shoulder to shin in skin-skimming red leather and that during the song, the teacher’s mouth was clamped against that of her fiancée’s, working meaningfully.

Meghan drinks some more.

After that it’s all a blur. The ride home…the police stop…listening to her husband explain that he could see perfectly fine in the penguin head…vomiting on her espadrilles…the “sex”…more vomiting….

All leading to Farrago doing something clever with hangers and Meghan considering hanging herself…but not before she has another Gin & Listerine.

Ugh…that taste….

Next week…Mr. Meghan becomes more “demanding”…

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TBogg

TBogg

Yeah. Like I would tell you....