>The Business of Friends

>Parents Nights at my stepdaughters’ high school have always been slightly ridiculous. I love meeting all of my girls’ teachers and putting faces with the names I’ve heard them gossiping about after school. But while their school contains students of every economic class and academic caliber, on Parents Night, we see the very same faces every year. They are the PTA committee members. The career volunteers. The entire Booster Club membership. The die-hard “involved parents.” A few parents do show up who don’t fit the Parents Night mold and they pretty much keep to themselves, but it’s not like anyone else is making an effort to get to know them, anyway.

It wasn’t so very long ago that I attended my first high school parent’s night and got a taste of that medicine (I’d say hearing a mom snort loudly, “What is she, twelve?!” as I left the classroom wasn’t exactly the warmest welcome), so I’ve always tried to be nice to the parents that the other moms and dads aren’t talking to. And that’s exactly what prompted me to sit beside a mom in one of my girls’ English classes the other night. While everyone else chatted before the “class” began, she sat alone, bravely trying to look friendly.

“Hi,” I said, smiling and sitting down next to her. She looked grateful for some company. We chatted a bit about our kids in the class and she told me she was missing her other son’s Parents Night in order to attend this one, and he was mad at her.

“That’s rough,” I agreed. “My husband is following one of my stepdaughter’s schedules tonight, and I’m following the other.”

“Oh, then as a married person, I’m sure that you’ll be interested in what I have to offer,” she said, scooting closer.

“Huh?” I said, confused.

“I have a business that allows anyone who uses it to retire fifteen, even ten years after starting our program,” she recited.

“Uh…” I started.

“There’s no pressure to join,” she continued, “not if you don’t want to retire early and make hundreds of thousands, even millions of dollars in the process.”

I smiled politely. I certainly wasn’t planning on getting into it with her, but if her “clients” really were now rolling in dough, wouldn’t she herself appear to have more than two nickels to rub together?

“You know, I can’t even think about doing one more thing right now,” I said, launching with a rueful smile into what’s become a well-practiced response to just about everything lately. “My husband and I both are so busy, I don’t think either one of us could add one more thing to our plates.”

“Well, that’s okay,” she pressed. “Not everyone has the desire and motivation to be a millionaire. But maybe you have some friends who would be interested in a no-risk method of earning that nest egg you’ve always dreamed of having.” She looked at me expectantly.

“Oh, well my friends are all…” I hesitated, “Latvian. So… They’re… still not clear on the dollar system…”

At that moment, the teacher entered the room and I turned away quickly, grateful for the distraction. I couldn’t help but think of the irony that we had discussed this topic with such vigor here just last week, and that today’s print version of “Suburban Turmoil” details my own history with “friends” who just want to sell you stuff. Read it and weep for all humanity.