There exists in my neighborhood a gaggle of women who, on the outside, appear as normal as you and I. They lovingly raise children, cook dinners, and support their husbands. They tend to perfectly manicured lawns and rose-covered gardens while wearing strings of pearls and aprons.
But put them in charge of a bake sale, and they start to scare me. These are the PTI (Parent/Teacher Illuminati) movers and shakers – the “Rosemary’s Baby” cast members otherwise known as “The Stepford Moms.”
“Why don’t you come to a PTI meeting?” holier-than-thou, superiority complex-prone President Stepford once asked me as the recess bell rang. I then witnessed her popping a tiny yellow pill, her eyes glazing over while the principal patted her head.
Actually, my biggest reason for not attending is that I am loath to be subjected to (and the subject of) the gossipy subculture I suspect exists there. It’s a lose-lose situation. If you don’t attend, you will be fodder for the juicy gossip-du-jour that evening. If you do attend, you’d better not make any suggestions for change.
The Stepford coven has probably been in charge for the past decade or so, and they are as regimented as a spit-and-shine military squadron. Any unsolicited advice from the peanut gallery might land one of the more outspoken cashews in a cauldron at the next school Halloween party. If I were to speak, I would be exposing my soft underbelly to those who would and could chew me up and spit me out if I dared to even cast a vote against the board members. (I had been warned of this by a former PTI attendee/survivor who now only receives visitors once a week.)
Still, I decided to brave the waters and attend at least one meeting, lest these zombie do-gooders continually remind me that they were holding up their end and mine because I hadn’t made my “contribution.”
When I arrived, garlic and wooden cross hiding beneath my overcoat, the stares from all the glassy and narrowed eyes in the room made me think for a moment that I had somehow managed to leave the house naked. I might as well have been, though, as I was now stepping into their domain. So I decided to just sit, listen, and keep my mouth shut.
It was an eerie feeling, being on the outside looking in. At first, the atmosphere was one of a Mary Kay Cosmetics convention and cheerleader competition combined. At the time, the PTI was deep in the throes of a recent fundraiser, and these PTI goddesses/leaders chanted the mantra of “SELL! SELL! SELL! SELL! Sell no candy, go to HELL!”
They brought out the “hit list” of children whose parents had dared to cross the goddesses by disallowing their children – for whatever parentally correct reason – from hawking the fundraiser wares door to door. As each name was read aloud, the vice-Stepford stuck a pin into a rag doll. I swear I could hear Pigpen scream from three blocks away.
Now seriously shaking and afraid for my eternal life and those of my children, I tried sneaking out quietly, hoping no one would see me. But the door actually slammed shut by itself, just like the gym doors in the movie “Carrie” right before the main character torched the prom. A coincidence? I think not, especially since Prez Stepford wheeled around on her black high-heeled shoes, hairpins flying, her crooked finger pointed in my direction, and cackled, “I’ll get to you soon, my pretty, and your little child, too! Bwa-ha-ha-haaaa!”
I braced myself for flying monkeys to whisk me off to the school’s bell tower. But since none did, I sat as rigid as Stonehenge and made a mental note that should I come out of this alive, I would never allow my child to play with Johnny Stepford ever again.
A motion was put to the floor to dispense with old business and move to discussing new business. The new business was about voting on what the school most needed, and how much money the Stepford PTI was going to contribute. Most of the suggestions ran along the lines of parties, festivals, and carnivals for the kids. This discussion didn’t sound so bad, so I got braver.
This is when I made my fatal mistake. Above the din and hubbub of enthusiastic discourse, I raised my hand and suggested, “How about spending the fundraiser money on what this school really needs…like new computers!” A dreadful silence fell over the room. Thirsty for new blood, this is when the Stepford Moms really swung their brooms into action.
I was treated to a litany of negative reasons from gnarly faced and disgusted coven-ettes that ran the gamut from “Computers are the handiwork of God (and we must be ever-vigilant about separating church and state, even as we practice voodoo at our meetings)” to “Imagine what those evil, ‘we have the last say no matter how you vote and we don’t even HAVE to attend your dumb meetings!’ teachers will demand next if we give them such an extravagant toy as a computer!” The hen clucking and tsk-tsking made me feel inadequate and feeble in my attempt to make the school a better place for all the children. So, as the Stepfords argued among themselves and created a diversion, I bolted for home without looking back.
The following week, my son brought home the PTI newsletter. In it, I read all about the new upcoming school carnival and what fun it will be for all families who can donate $10 per family admission, $3 a hot dog and $2 for a bag of popcorn. It also pleaded for volunteers to man the rides and take ticket money. (This request was cloaked in a spell cast upon those parents who, should they dare not volunteer, would be sorry.) As I thought I had understood it, PTI was going to use the fundraiser money for this, so why am I, as a parent, still expected to shell out money during the carnival?
I dare not complain, however. I’m still recovering from this past week’s worth of pinprick-like aches in my chest. Hubs is mulling over volunteering for the dunk tank. Although the life insurance money will come in handy, I’ll miss him. But I’m sure his sacrifice will be exalted in the PTI Hall of Fame, while my name is burned in effigy in the PTI Hall of Shame.