Our pick-up and drop-off area–the one for my daughter’s class at her pre-school– is always cold, always windy; even on warm days. It’s a corridor of concrete and chain link fence and aluminum siding. Squeezed between a large multi-family house and the school itself, sunlight is an afterthought.

We stand and wait in this little wind tunnel, making small talk with the mostly mom populated group. I listen to the Peanut when she talks. Note the names she mentions most often. Match those names to the kids. The kids to the parents.

Playdate targets identified. Gonna get our friendship on.

As we wait for the Peanut in the afternoons, I hatch Operation Charming Bastards. The Pman is wildly handsome and a hell of an entertainer and I’m pretty personable, so I work the angles. Send the Pman out to flash his smile and do a funny little soft shoe as I lay down the friendly chitchat.

It goes well. I really think it goes well. I think all I’ll have to do is say the word “playdate” and the Peanut’s social calendar’ll fill up like her stocking on Christmas day.

I forgot one little thing: My penis.