Gluten Free

When I pulled into the driveway my ten-year-old daughter was waiting for me, arms crossed over her chest, a grumpy look on her face.

“Thanks a lot, dad,” she said before storming off.

“What’s the deal with our daughter?” I asked my wife when I walked into the house.

“Chloe can’t come over for any more play dates,” she said. “It’s your fault.”

“My fault? How can it be my fault? I couldn’t pick Chloe out of a police lineup if my life depended on it. Which one is Chloe? Why can’t she come over?”

“Because you called the President of the United States a pussy, that’s why,” my wife said.

“I did?”

“Yes, you did, in one of your blog entries. Chloe’s mother read it and was horrified. She thinks you’re a dangerous crank.”

I sat down at the kitchen table. “Well, that’s preposterous. Crank, yes; dangerous, no. Chloe’s mother read my blog?”

“She Googled your name and the Balcony popped up. Apparently, she runs background checks as a matter of routine because she thinks Santa Barbara is filled with perverts and illegal aliens – particularly on our end of Milpas Street.”

My wife set a bottle of petite syrah and two wine glasses on the kitchen table.

“Miranda’s in a dither. She’s lost her BFF. Last week Chloe was her mortal enemy and now she can’t live without her. Alliances change fast in fifth grade.”

“Have I met Chloe’s mother?” I asked.

My wife said -- her voice laden with sarcasm -- that I would have met Twyla Thorn if I were more involved in our daughter’s social life. Meaning, she explained in the same sarcastic tone, the endless phone calls and e-mails and text messages to coordinate pick-ups and drop-offs and sleepovers.

“I’m not emotionally equipped to deal with other parents,” I said. “You have more empathy and patience than I do, which allows you to connect with people easily.”

“That,” my wife said, “is a crock.”

“There’s an entire protocol to play dates that I will never understand,” I said.

“If you don’t stop talking I’m going to get really angry.”

“Admittedly, my character is hopelessly flawed,” I said. I poured wine in her glass. “Tell me about Chloe’s mother.”

In addition to being PTA president and chief fundraiser for the elementary school, Twyla was the wife of a super successful plastic surgeon (offices in Beverly Hills and Santa Barbara), and mistress of a nine-room, colonial style house on four acres in Mission Canyon. In her spare time, she ran marathons and rode horses and raised orchids. She was a committed, proselytizing vegan, and every Tuesday afternoon could be found at the farmer’s market on State Street, shopping for organic fruits and vegetables.

“Now I know who Chloe is,” I said. “She’s the lactose intolerant one!”

“That’s right. Twyla’s one of those stridently anti-gluten types. She gives very detailed instructions on what Chloe can and cannot eat.”

“Glutenites can be very self-righteous,” I said.

“Feeding Chloe is a nightmare.”

“I guess you won’t have to worry about that anymore,” I said. “I can’t believe Twyla Googled me. Seems a bit paranoid.”

“Maybe. She despises Obama, by the way. Buys into the whole Muslim-Socialist-Foreigner narrative. She voted for McCain in 2008 and – you’ll love this --- she believes Sarah Palin is the only person who can save America from social disintegration.”

“And she thinks I’m a crank? If she’s a Palin fan why is she so exercised about my calling Obama a pussy?”

“You insulted the office.”

“She took umbrage,” I suggested.

“Extreme umbrage,” said my wife. “But, look on the bright side – someone read your blog.”

“Ouch! Let me ask you something about play dates. When you take the girls to the movies are you obligated to buy Miranda’s friend whatever she wants? Suppose she demands a super-size slushy, a corn dog, a bag of M&M’s and a Snicker’s bar all at the same time?”

My wife sighed. I try her patience. “You have the right to be an adult and set reasonable boundaries,” she said.

“This would make a good blog subject,” I said. “Play dates, parents, the unwritten rules of reciprocity. I could do something with this.”

“Please don’t,” my wife said. “Please.”

I should listen to her.