With a white knuckled death grip on my steering wheel, I am driving towards Natalie's house at snail-like speeds, hoping that if I take my time perhaps the meeting will be over before I get there… or at the very least I will be able to concoct some sort of plan to somehow strut into that lioness' den looking fabulous and confident, and revel in the shocked look on Natalie's face. I see a drugstore coming up on the next corner and debate flying inside and tearing up the cosmetic isle, coming out with bags of crap that I will never use again. Then it occurs to me that even if I bought it, it has been so long since I actually had to look stunning that I am not sure I would remember how to put it on. Shimmery blue eye shadow up to the eyebrows is still in vogue, yes?

            In my manic state, I am not sure I would even have a steady enough hand to keep the lipstick from like, shaking up to my cheeks. Not a good look, I am assuming.

            I cannot believe what just happened. I keep shaking my head and rubbing my eyes, but when I open them, the horrible image is still there. So is the back of that Taurus that I am about to slam into because, well, I am driving. Perhaps I will leave the eye closing for a later, non-vehicular moment.

            After gravity turned on me and took my pants, and my dignity, I stood there for a split second, as we both looked down to see my sweats nestled around my knees… and while my urge was to yank them up and run screaming in the other direction, like to Alaska, I instead returned to our steely stare down and said, "Thanks for the thought, but as you can see, I have things under control."  I then calmly pulled up my britches and ever so smoothly glided into my little SUV, never once looking back in her direction as I pulled away.

            Oh God. I am going to get to that house, and they are going to be laughing in those perfectly restricted, never too loud, fake-ass little laughs at my misfortunes. My many, many misfortunes. I mean, if the public attack of dysentery wasn't enough, now they get to add public nudity?! I can't do this. I just can't. I would gladly strap myself covered in Splenda to an ant hill as an alternative to this meeting. What I really want to do is just abandon the whole shebang and go home, hiding under covers and eating ice cream until the laws of civility force me to emerge from my shame-cocoon. With every inch I drive, this seems like a more and more brilliant plan… until I realize that no matter how much I want to, it would be worse to just not show up. They would sense my weakness and eat me alive the next time any of them saw me. Then I wouldn't just be a pathetic loser- I would be a cowardly, pathetic loser. The fact of the matter is that no matter how stealth I may be, I will have to face these people again, unless we moved or something.

            Wait. We could move. Far, faaaaaaaar away.

            Just as I am mentally committing to the idea of moving to New Zealand, I realize I am a mere block away from Natalie's house. It is a pivotal moment. A decision must be made. I hit the gas and zoom right past her perfectly groomed lawn staring straight ahead, pretending not to notice the confused stares of the women walking from their cars up her sidewalk and to the front door. I am focused, I am determined, I am, in fact, the coward. It's too late to turn back now, and I plot my escape from The Town That Saw Too Much, beginning with a chipper and not at all insane sounding phone call to Derek demanding that he ask his company to transfer him to another country immediately, and ending with me dialing a number to reserve my very own U-Haul. It'll be fun! Like our very own version of the Witness Protection Program! Maybe we can even change our names. Just call me Natasha!

            Or not.

            I shake off my fantasy of retreat, and instead guide my car right up to Natalie's curb. It is against my better judgment, and I am sure it is against all variations of sanity, but I know it is the right thing to do. The last few mothers are making their way into the front door, and I feel it is time to pull on my big-girl panties. Deep breaths. That is what is needed here. Deeeeeep breaths. I pull down the mirror to do a quick scan just to see if there are any last minute adjustments I can make to improve the mess that is me, but find little hope. I lick my hand and smooth down some naughty stray hairs, swipe on some Chapstick, and realize that everything is as good as it is going to get. I make a mental note that from now on I will keep some form of designer clothing and an emergency stash of makeup hidden under my seat in hopes of preventing this sort of trauma in the future.

            With a heavy sigh- and I am talking, a HEAVY sigh, I open the door, and head to my doom.

            The walk to the door feels very much like a walk to the dentist chair for a happy combination of root canals and tooth extraction, all with the promise of no anesthesia. You know you are about to suffer, and you know it is going to be painful, and you know it will last for-freaking-ever. My heart is fluttering, my hands are sweating, and I keep rubbing my freshly greased lips together. Just as I reach for the doorknob, I realize I am about to make yet another fatal error....

            And so I tie the drawstring on my sweatpants so tight, I start to lose feeling in my legs.

            I push my way inside, and feel all eyes turn to see the late straggler. I am clearly the last to arrive, and all hopes of slinking by and securing a spot hidden in the back somewhere are dashed. Several of the most vicious women, the ones that you probably hated in high school as well, start grinning and whispering to themselves, every so often looking back at me, before erupting into hushed fits of giggles. Jeez.  I smile and give a polite head-nod as I take off my jacket and attempt to maneuver to a less visible area, but before I even get two steps off, Natalie appears, still perfectly primped, and far more irritating if that is possible.

            "What took you so long?"  She squeals as if we are suddenly sorority sisters, "We left at the same time!"

            There is no need to answer yet. She's not done.

            "Guess you needed those directions after all!"  She twitters, before turning to address the other mothers. "It's okay everyone, she just got a little lost!"

            I hate her.

            "Well, now that we don't have to wait for Ellie anymore, we can get started!"

            Wait for me? I was literally sixty seconds behind the last group that walked in!

            While I want to scream at her that she is being a ridiculous bitch, I instead set my jacket down on a chair and head off to the food area and dive a little too enthusiastically for the mimosas. If you can't beat ‘em, out drink ‘em, I always say.

            Natalie, having gotten in a solid public dig on me, is now flitting about with stacks of folders in her bony little arms, and cooing greetings at the other more appropriately dressed women, before she settles into her chair at the front of the room. She spews pleasantries, thanking us all for coming, glad we can work as a team, and to please not spill anything on the new carpet, as it is from some designer that no one has ever heard of, but that everyone "ooooh's" over anyway. I roll my eyes as I settle into my seat, perched within arm’s length of the mimosa table.

            As one of the caterers glides behind the mass of mommies, Natalie suddenly scolds the poor girl asking her to be more careful when she is so close to her new sculpture. The caterer looks as confused as the rest of us do, as we all search around the frozen-in-place woman looking for this priceless piece of art, when our eyes come to a collective stop on a little figure not more than a foot tall, and a clear five feet away from the frightened preparer of food.

            "I'm sorry?" the woman says, understandably confused, "I'll, um, try and be more careful…" and then scurries back to the kitchen.

            "People can be so disrespectful of other peoples’ property."  Natalie sighs and shakes her head disapprovingly, which sets off a sickening display of her fan club doing the same.

            The real reason for the unnecessary warning became clear as our hostess launches into a nauseatingly detailed story as to how she came about procuring that statue from her last vacation in Hawaii that her family recently returned from. She babbles on about its cultural significance, and uses it to segue into a recap of the entire trip, from the fabulous caviar they had in First Class on the plane there, clear to their unpacking when they got home. I was near the point of choking back vomit when the room filled with coquettish laughter as Natalie recounted pulling a hotel towel from her husband’s suitcase.

            "I mean, can you imagine?" she giggles, hand to her chest as if she has just told the most hilarious story ever and must find a way to compose herself from the raucous laughter. "I was mortified!"

            I polish off my mimosa, trying very hard to figure out how a man taking a hand towel from a hotel can elicit laughter from… well, anyone… and grab another much needed drink. Although, I must say that I am thrilled that my humiliating antics have taken to the back burner, and are not the focus of any of the ass-numbingly boring conversation taking place around me.

            I glance at the clock, and am genuinely shocked to see that I have just wasted twenty-three minutes of my life getting a blow-by-blow account of that evil wench's lavish holiday. I could have been napping for crying out loud. I could have been running much needed errands. I could have been pulling my toenails off with rusty pliers. Any of those activities would be more enjoyable than this.

            I am getting restless, and start to squirm in my seat. Why can't she just hand out those ridiculous folders and get it over with? I mean, she spends so much time yammering on and on about her grand existence that by the time she remembers the supposed purpose of our congregation, it is time go, at which point we are handed one of those folders that contains a glorified calendar- professionally printed mind you- that holds the sacred details of mandatory parental involvement for the next month in our children's classroom, with absolutely no explanation, even though that was the whole point of the stupid meeting in the first place.

            I tune out the brain-melting banter, and study the living room in which we all sit. It has been redone since last months’ gathering, I notice. This is the third variation of this living room I have seen in the last year. I wonder how much money has been spent on redecorating for the sheer purpose of impressing a bunch of bored, sheep-like housewives, but decide not to put too much thought into coming up with an actual dollar amount as I am sure it would just piss me off more.

            Whooooo. These drinks are yummy.

            I hate to admit it, but the decor is flawless. Preppy and full of itself, but impeccably done. Mellow and perfectly complimentary pastel colors, inspiration derived from Natalie's wardrobe it would seem. Furniture that was no doubt hand-carved by someone famous from somewhere that no one has ever heard of. And let’s not forget the new carpet, a perfectly fitting, yet painfully pretentious shade that she describes as ‘eggshell’, but was what we normal poor people called ‘white’. Tiny figurines and other miniature expensive things lay about, and it is clear that no one is allowed to touch anything in here, ever. While sure, it is pretty to look at, what it really does is make me feel sorry for her son, Nicholas. How sad it must be to grow up in a museum, where nothing is for playing and best behavior is mandatory at all times.

            I remember at the carnival the school threw to welcome the children after orientation, poor Nicholas was acting like what I would call a normal kid, but what his mother referred to as unacceptable, and during a rousing game of tag he dove away from another kid to avoid being tagged, and in the process got grass stains on his perfectly creased khakis. I swear I saw smoke billowing out of Natalie's ears as she yanked him away, followed by his Nanny who was getting the scolding of a lifetime for not being more watchful and allowing that kind of horseplay. She sent a heartbroken Nicholas and a brow-beaten Nanny home, because as I overheard her say, she didn't want anyone to see her son ‘looking as filthy and unkempt as the rest of our vermin’. Yes, she called our children vermin. How does somebody even get that snobby and heartless? She must have been potty-trained at gunpoint.

            An hour into this drone-fest, and three mimosas down, the conversation has steered away from vacations and was now focused on obligatory declarations of having five more pounds to lose, and what new diet is the "in" thing to try. Those active in the conversation combined weigh as much as my left butt cheek, and they visibly ignore the rest of the normal sized women, who are trying to pretend they don't hear, while they drown their self-consciousness in the highly caloric booby traps that were set out to snare those who dare to eat actual food. This further enforces my deep-rooted belief that Natalie is evil incarnate.

            Just when I think we are about to get on with it and discuss, oh, you know, our children, in prances an impossibly tiny dog in a way that makes me think that if you were to look on the other side of the doorway that pup just walked through, you would see a person that was instructed by the Dark Princess herself to toss that poor canine out at precisely that moment so as to allow her to launch into yet another spiel that could be pulled from a list entitled "Things Natalie Has That Make Her Better Than You".

            It is a cute little dog- a full grown Pomeranian, perfectly groomed, just like it's master, and when we are informed it's name is Gabbana, I once again feel quite vomit-y, but settle for a hard eye roll. Everyone squeals and fawns over little Gabbana, and Natalie beams as if they were calling her "the cutest widdle fuzzy wuzzy ever!".

            Oh, ick. The dog and Natalie are wearing matching nail polish.

            "And he's of course purebred." she continues, "He comes from a long line of blue-ribbon show dogs!"  She holds the little dog, stroking its impossibly soft fur in a way that brings to mind a James Bond villain.

            "Ooooh! He's precious!" gushes Karen Fitz, a perfect Natalie clone, and lifelong member of the Natalie Fan Club, "What show line is he from?"

            Oh yeah. If I recall correctly, I believe that Karen's sister is a big wig on the dog show circuit. She seems genuinely interested in hearing the answer to her question, but for a brief instant, Natalie seems to search for her words. I think I may be the only one who sees it, but for a mere nanosecond, she had a flash of panic in her eyes. Aha! She is lying! I know it!  I would bet good money that her Blue Ribbon Blood Line Dog is just another overpriced accessory, but that obviously wouldn't sound as impressive as a descendent of prize-winning champions, so my guess is that she made it all up to get another shot of attention. Being in the spotlight is like crack to Natalie Brimawich.

            "Well," she clears her throat, "His official papers haven't been sent over yet, and I don't remember any of those silly details."  Her composure is intact once more, and her answer has enough of a bitchy tone to squelch any further inquiries. "I can't even remember how old he is!" she finishes with a chuckle.

            I don't know if it's the fact that I just witnessed a tiny crack in her ever-perfect facade, or maybe it's because I am pissed she wasted yet another morning of mine for absolutely no viable reason, but whatever the inspiration, I select this particular moment to chime in.

            "Why don't you chop his tail off and count the rings?"

            I am treated to seeing thirty heads turn in perfect unison, all plastered with the same expression that is equal parts horror and disgust, as I finish off my drink with a satisfying swig.

            "No. Wait." I lament, "That's trees."

            It's possible the mimosas had a hand in that.