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My Frenemy

 My frenemy's mother looks and dresses like Sophia Loren. 


In her Florida life, she teaches Kindergarten. (Often, her son says, "My kids are so lucky! Granny is a Kindergarten teacher!")

Surely, Mother Frenemy is the most glamorous Kindergarten teacher who has ever lived, and her contract seems to allow her to fly to New Jersey for long stretches, to raise the child whom my frenemy should be raising.

After a certain party he has hosted, my frenemy declines to write thank you notes. He has his mom do the job. The notes have a little narcissistic twist; each has a staged shot, not of the party guests, but of the party host, and this makes me giggle (just a bit).

My husband clears his throat. "Oh God," he says. "You're going to write about this. You actually don't know who drafted the thank you note. You haven't studied the penmanship of every single gay man on this planet....."

And I just shake my head. "This is war," I murmur. "And whose side are *you* on?"
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