Archive for October, 2010

The Play Date

October 5, 2010

First of all, what sick, creepy, pervert decided to market “come over to play” as a damn “play date?” What’s up with that shit?

I happened into a conversation between two 4th grade boys at Beasley’s school and all I processed was, “…play date at Christopher’s…” and “…he got to second base…” There were talking about some Wii baseball shit, apparently, but I had to be the one feeling like a sick, creepy, pervert because somebody re-branded “come hang out” as some sort of a fucking “date.”

I refused to use the term because of my sick, creepy, perverted mind and instead danced all around kid-social opportunities by asking (other) moms, “Hey, uh, hi I’m Ty and I’m Beasley’s mom dad and maybe we can schedule a specific time and place for your little Jillian to hang out with my little Beasley and participate in developmentally and socially appropriate activities while you stay and have awkward conversation with me or use the time to shop for groceries or get your giant SUV washed or masturbate in private or blog about play dates or something.”

“Oh, a play date?” And inevitable I am handed, no flicked, the mommy card of pertinent information. Yep, my mom-peers have this thing called the mommy card. A fucking business card that basically says what I could cryptically scribble on the back of a bar napkin or a matchbook. Maybe that’s the mommy card purpose.  I guess I’m the retard because I do not have a mommy card. Poor black, stingy Jewish father has no parent card (or license), my bad. Maybe I’ll make up some race cards: Hi, I’m Black!

Maybe my brain’s development is arrested at like 19 years of age when anything related to the word “date” was miserably awkward, fake, and every word and gesture was overly loaded like some sort of sex circus ballet. Back when “second base” was heaven, not something to do on a video game like I made up earlier in this post.

And while I’m not saying that dating sucked, it didn’t (I very loudly protest), but it was mostly just so phoney…like the play date where every word and gesture overly loaded like some sort of sex circus ballet.

[I know I have to tread lightly here because I’ve already been accused of “parent bashing.” But since there is no licensing requirement for owning kids in my jurisdiction, there seems to be a lot of variation in parenting ability and style. And like most things where no training is required by the socialist state, most people suck. I’m just holding up mirrors, people]

The Wiki says:

The intention of a playdate is to give children time to interact freely in a less structured environment than other planned activities might provide. Playdates are different from organized activities or scheduled sports, because they are not usually structured.

What?! Unstructured?! Since when? Have you seen the moms parents at these things? Oh, I see, the key word here is “intention.” Most of the parents I’ve witnessed participate in the play date are hovering helicopter down blanket bubble wrap choke-leashes. The play date seems more akin to some sort of show and tell competition meets Indian dowry arranged marriage business meeting.

Best is when you arrive at these suburban palaces that appear to be straight out of a Mr. Clean ad and there’s sushi, wine, and cheese and crackers from the Whole Foods. I love it when people show off, it’s the best but I just can’t compete or reciprocate. Shit, if my house cleaners haven’t cleaned it, I’m not going to just for some kids to come wreak havoc. My place wasn’t staged by realtors. Fuck ’em.

Got no goddamn Purell for the little terrorists either. They can wash their hands. Want something to drink? I have some water. Snacks? No, no snacks, kid. Ask your mother for some snacks when she gets back. And, stay the hell out of my studio, that shit ain’t for Rock Band. I can hardly wait for people to leave.

But if anybody asks, I will now breathlessly proclaim, “Beasley’s play dating now!” What’s next? Play stalking? Play divorce? Play alcoholic aunt? See? Stupid.