There are some situations in which there is no good explanation, even if it is perfectly innocent. Yesterday I bought a tiny bottle of brandy for a recipe and rather than taking a bag, I popped it in my purse. I remember thinking “this could look bad” and briefly thought about making joke to the cashier about re-stocking my daily necessities or how I like to keep it handy. Then I remembered though that no one ever thinks I’m funny. After that I promptly forgot that it was there.

That afternoon I went to school to volunteer with the children- so wholesome. A desperate alcoholic would never do that. The problem is that I am a complete mess and throw my stuff everywhere. This is when my stashed airline bottle of “mommy’s pick me up” was exposed. A choice had to be made and I erred for once on the side of caution. I realized that there is no way that it could come out sounding good. Even the truth would sound a little contrived: well you see I forgot it was there because I was going to use it for a recipe. Yeah that’s it a recipe. I never drink brandy especially not during the day

So I said nothing and acted as if it was normal and hoped that no one actually noticed. So if you hear anything, it’s not true. Although, this post does sound a bit defensive

I recently learned something at a neighborhood that may come in handy for certain social settings. It turns out molestation is never, ever funny. I’m guessing you can tell I learned this the hard way. Now, for the record I am talking about high school student/teacher molestation, which, in my opinion is borderline.Anyway—the ladies of the neighborhood were discussing the fact that a local high school teacher had been arrested for sex with a student. Further clarification of my position- this is not funny in and of itself—a little gross, but not funny. But then they mentioned that it was a Mr. Schlongslinger that was the teacher in question (note; his name is not Schlongslinger but in order to protect the victim, the perpetrator, and myself avoid libel, I will use a name that merely conveys how funny and ironic his name was. In truth, Schlongslinger is only a little bit more unbelievable than his actual name). At this point I burst out laughing and said “you have got to be kidding- the guy having sex with his student is named Schlongslinger?” Hysterical laughing ensued. True, I was only the one laughing. At this point I gathered myself and looked around at the silent disapproval. So rather than moving on like I think some people would or explain that I was crying in outrage, I tried to salvage it.

“Get it? His name is Schlongslinger” As if once it was clear we were talking about his name everything would be different.

Silence—yet I don’t quit

“Isn’t that hilarious?”

No more silence. “No- it is not hilarious. There is nothing funny about adults having sex with children. Nothing” The extra nothing was I guess, to really explain it to me.

So, I tried to explain that yes I agree but after all, well you know.

Then, an interesting twist.

One woman asked “Why is Schlongslinger even funny?”

I really should have faked an asthma attack at this point and just gotten out of there but I was in too deep and I think, a part of me believed that once I explained the meaning she would burst out laughing and I’d be redeemed.

That didn’t happen but now at least she knows that there is one more name out there for male anatomy. I think that’s something.

Once home I surveyed some other friends and they all agree that not only is a teacher who is named Schlongslinger hilarious by itself, but once he starts using it inappropriately, it is pee your pants funny. At the very least, polite laughter worthy.

And, in my defense, these same women have been known to use cocktail snacks as pretend schlongs after a couple of drinks. I’ve seen it. And I think middle age women staggering around drunk with fake anatomy is a lot more upsetting than some hot teacher/student action. But now I know that no one else in suburbia does.

Consider yourself warned.

Once again-not a euphemism for something more exciting. Chasing a runaway cat is actually what I have been doing the past few days. WE have two cats; one a friendly little kitten and the other, a very reluctant and frightened older cat. He usually spends most days hiding under a bed and only ventures out when he believes everyone is asleep. Well, he must have been plotting his escape for a while because when we finally had some nice weather and opened up the sliding door to the deck to prepare the outdoor table for dinner, he bolted from upstairs and out through my legs. Considering that I had to not just promise to the animal shelter that I would never never let him out and that my children have grown attached to this phantom cat, I was forced to give chase. Of the two, I will say that I am more afraid of the animal shelter guardians than of my children’s reaction as they are not fooling around over there when it comes to their feelings on outdoor cats. So I’m sprinting around my house, back up the hill, through the neighbors’ houses and onto the next cul de sac. As he was running, he actually turned his head to spot me and didn’t not even break stride. I believe I also heard the opening bars of Lynrd Skynrd’s Free Bird as he sped out of sight.

After a night or two of his disappearance, I was forced to make a missing animal report. When I say forced-I mean my children forced me to against my better judgment. They did not hide their disgust at my irresponsibility and my lack of a collar. I tried to explain that I didn’t use a collar as I had sworn he would never go outside. That led nowhere and I was left to canvas the neighborhood. The only problem was that it was also pouring rain and the middle of the day by the time I undertook this task. Now, in New York you can look as crazy as you want and no one will either care or even notice you. Not so when you are the only person walking around outside and in the rain. I was acutely aware of how strange and possibly menacing I might look as I paced around a sidewalk-less neighborhood wielding a blowing golf umbrella. I tried to think how I could make this look more normal to the people who were probably looking at their window and dialing 911 as I approached. I decided to start making kissing sounds and ducking my head so as to indicate that I was indeed looking for an animal rather than just being a wild-eyed soaked psycho. I then realized that a person all alone kissing the air is not much better than brandishing a chain saw-besides, my lips were getting tired. The next day in the dry sun I set out again and begged my children to come with me so I wouldn’t look like the “lunatic from the other day” as I’m sure people would refer to me. It turns out, peering under decks doesn’t make you inconspicuous either, even if you have children with you. Then it got much worse. I approached a woman to see if she had spotted a missing cat and to put her at ease with my presence. She must also work at an animal shelter because the first thing she asked was how he got out in the first place and then, ‘did he have a collar?’ Let’s just say I think she is at this moment writing a letter of warning about me to the ASPCA. So, my chase, like so much about my cat-possibly a euphemism this time, your choice-is not going well. This is the outlook I’m facing. I will have to replace him, but the shelter in all likelihood has blacklisted me. I will be reduced to finding an underground kitty mill and taking home an insane genetically mutated psychotic cat. At least both of us will go unnoticed should we move back to New York. As for here, I’m sure there’s a youtube video floating out there with the heading ‘strange suburban lady wandering and kissing’ and in the distance you will hear the distant strains  ‘and this bird will never chaa aaaa ange.’

If you are like me, I have come up with a proposed addition to our health care system and its protocols that you will be delighted with and will work to make a reality. Now when I say, ‘like me” first ask yourself: when you left the hospital with your new baby did security stop you and say, ‘excuse me ma’am you forgot this’ (this being ten yards of extra hanging flesh)? Or, are you able to make a replica of an old man’s butt cheeks with your lower abdomen? If so, you are going to love this­­­­­—a plastic surgery authorization card. Let me explain.

I need to have a tummy tuck. Now, need is subjective. Not need to the degree some people need a liver transplant, but definitely need more than some people need to stop smoking. But, I also am a little apprehensive about undergoing a big surgical procedure. But then I realized I might someday need emergency surgery- yay! Emergency surgery! That’s my big chance- I mean it could happen. People get stabbed in the gut all the time right? So, I say to my husband “If I’m unconscious and being rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery (fingers crossed) please tell them to give me a tummy tuck while I’m under anyway.” He pointed out that the medical professionals might not take him seriously if he makes that request so I shouldn’t get my hopes up. Outside observers might take a moment to note that he did not say “Good God. If you are in emergency surgery the last thing on my mind is a tummy tuck.” I might remind some observers that I did say “need” not “want” in regards to this procedure. Thus was my Eureka moment. People carry organ donor cards for that very reason- to assure that the medical professionals honor your wishes. So, I propose a plastic surgery card or even symbol on your driver’s license. It will authorize the use of all corrective and enhancement procedures that maybe some of us are hesitant to undergo electively, but “hey- if you’re in there anyway….” I would just hate to see my perfectly gut stabbing go to waste. So write your Congressional Representatives ladies as this idea has legs­­—legs with cellulite to spare.

That is not a euphemism. It seems as if everything in my life sounds like it should be a euphemism for something else. Sadly, it is what it is. I had to prune the bushes next to my house this past weekend. This is a miserable job, made harder by the fact that there are about a thousand bushes planted there. And, I hate them. I asked a neighbor about when the best time to prune was and she told me that in order to not kill them, I should probably do it in the spring so that the sprouts don’t die in cold weather. That is not why I am doing it now. I wanted to kill them, at least some of them, but am just getting around to it now rather than the fall when I had planned my murderous task. So, there they were thriving and threatening to take over my house and each other. I stood there looking at my side yard. There were three hydrangea bushes right next each other, which abutted about a dozen flowering bushes, next to three rose bushes, all surrounded by low green bushes. That’s a lot of bush. My house is flashing more bush than the porno our state university recently screened in the student union. Pondering these bushes that required an enormous wax job as it were I wondered why on earth anyone would plant so many so close together.

The reason, I concluded after hours of squishing in between hostile sticks, is the whole problem behind the real estate boom. Our house was only two years old when we bought it, but it still looked like a landscaped country club. People wanted new stuff and they wanted it NOW. The garden was planted to look good RIGHT AWAY! Screw any careful tending and watching the miracle of growth as you grow older in one place. Nosiree, bushes and trees were planted all right next to each other to look good without any bare spots and provide lots of shade next to the deck as well. Waiting is for suckers, clearly. The problem is, and I know I’m new to this, but even I realize this: plants grow! They continue to grow. If you plant them right next to each other, they will look good for a season or two. Then, they will turn on each other and you, the innocent owner who would have never planted anything at all, much less bushes two inches away from each other, are left to wield enormous clippers all summer long. And, that is why most houses in the neighborhood all have four year old trees that are already encroaching on their windows, decks, and blocking the garage. As for me, I’m considering paving the whole thing with concrete. Now that’s my kind of landscaping.

]]> http://queenoftheculdesac.com/?feed=rss2&p=260 http://queenoftheculdesac.com/?p=249 http://queenoftheculdesac.com/?p=249#comments Thu, 02 Apr 2009 15:13:54 +0000 admin http://queenoftheculdesac.com/?p=249

You know how you ignore things or forget them, but don’t worry too much because you think it won’t be a big deal? Doesn’t it really suck when you find that it is actually a big deal? This seems to happen to me more than most people.

For instance. This Valentine’s Day it was suggested (I thought) that the children make homemade cards with written sentiments for each other in school. I forgot about this, but then figured it was no big deal- I mean not everyone is going to do that­­­– right? Well, for fourteen kids in the class, thirteen of them brought in carefully crafted and individually inscribed notes. Just when I was feeling like a big enough ass, the teacher sends a congratulations email on all the kids’ hard work on their valentines and how it was great practice for doing long term school projects, seeing as they must have all been pacing out their work to get it done. So, not only am I forgetful and inconsiderate and passing all of that onto my son, but I have ruined his academic career as well. Lovely!

But what really pushed me over the edge was the “Around the World Birthday Party” my daughter went to recently. No when I say “went to” I really should clarify by saying “dropped in briefly.” That is because I forgot about the party and was entertaining out of town relatives when I realized that the party (half an hour away) was already in full swing. I bit the bullet and swung into action, speeding off to attend the party instead being an inconsiderate no-show (guessing that inconsiderate latecomer was preferable). In the car, my daughter said “oh no, I forgot to wear my costume.” It was at that point that I remembered that not only had I forgot that there was a party, but that they were supposed to wear costumes from a foreign country. No problem, I thought, I’m sure not everyone will do that. Suffice it say, I was wrong.

I walked in to find children dressed in flamenco costumes, Hawaiian costumes, and three Frenchmen-one of whom had painted on a mustache and made a artists’ palette out of cardboard. I resisted the urge to tell him that the mustached French artist is a hackneyed cliché. Then, I spied her little friend who explained to me that he was “a Vietnamese rice farmer” and had carefully picked his costume from his collection of hats. All I could think of was ‘where does she find these friends?’ But no, it got worse-I tried to help the mom put out snacks and complimented her on the selection of brie and baguettes for the adults, when she told me they were the other “French” kids’ props. Now, I stopped feeling like the worst loser and starting thinking “OK, what the fuck is wrong with these people?” In general, it was an excruciatingly embarrassing afternoon- luckily we were only there for about forty minutes of it.

The kicker of all this, was that when I returned and proceeded to plan the lunches for the week and the practice schedules and pick up from Religious Ed, my husband, who is watching NCAA basketball, looks up and says “I don’t know how you could forget that stuff.”

I really do love that people honk their horns. I know a lot of people who are dedicated urbanites that think the honk is the scourge of the city. I think that  it is a reflection of how wonderful it is to be surrounded by people who will not let the irresponsible and selfish get away with bad behavior. I look at it as a form of communication and a control on our worst instincts. If a delivery truck double parks in front me and does not leave a note as to which building he is in (this is customary) then I am within my rights to honk loudly until he comes out and moves. He will be shamed by all the people waiting and by the fact that I was forced to honk. That is why it has become customary to leave a note in your truck. What a perfect solution!

Also, honking lets people know they cannot get away with breaking the law or being a jerk. If you are driving along and start cutting in or don’t signal where you are going, be prepared to be honked at. If you choose to daydream about how fabulous it would be to chuck it all and grow soybeans in Oregon, don’t do it while you are waiting at a red light in New York. People will honk at you so that you can consider the feelings and needs of those behind you and actually move. Have you noticed that people who drift off into space during a green light will realize it just in time for them to make the light, leaving those behind them stuck for another cycle? That is why they need to be honked at.

I can take as well as I can dish out. If I am happen to lose my attention while waiting at a light I appreciate being honked so that I will not miss my turn or inconvenience anyone else. I do not take the honk personally. I’ve been known to stop and look in my rear view mirror with the “what the?” look when people don’t honk at me to go through a green light. I consider that a favor. Do they think I want to sit there through a green light? And I marvel at the lines of people who just wait patiently behind a car without even the briefest of toots.

But out here in the polite suburbs, if you honk at anyone, even someone making a complete mess of traffic, you look like the jerk. The other day I was driving through the supermarket parking lot when a car was stopped in front of me. The driver was having a chit chat with someone standing in the parking lot. My son, who made me so proud, leaned over from the back seat and said “Mommy, you’ve got to honk at that lady.” Having learned a thing or two about honking in the suburbs I said to him that I couldn’t because, if you can believe it, they would think that I was being a jerk. This, thankfully, dumbfounded him and I had to explain that for some reason out here, pointing out rude behavior was ruder than the actual behavior. A woman from the Midwest explained that to me shortly after I moved here. She said that people knew they were doing things they shouldn’t sometimes (and I grant you everyone does- I don’t have a problem with that) but if you don’t overlook it and you (meaning me) honk to point it out- everyone realizes that you (meaning me) are the bigger jerk. I learned this when I almost drove into a woman who was signally that she was turning but instead went straight. I may not be the best driver in the world, but I do know what the blinkers mean. So, I honked and I’d like to think that she appreciated my honk rather than my front end crashing into her.

I was gratified to see recently that LaGuardia airport in New York has instituted two separate security lines. One is for experienced travelers and one is for infrequent travelers. The intent is that it would allow people who already know to have shoes off, no liquids, etc. to not to be stopped behind someone who once they reach the front of the line need to sit down to get their shoes and unpack their entire pocketbook to find their ticket. Interestingly, the article noted that it would be self-policing. By that, they figured that if people who are dumbasses go into the speed line they will suffer the crowd’s wrath and that would keep everyone honest. I may have paraphrased that part. Essentially, it acknowledges that if you are going to be either a jerk or in general a dumbass, everyone has the right to honk at you. And, in short, that is why the sounds of honks made me feel at home again. I like that type of polite mind-set.

Right before I moved to the suburbs, I was a passenger in a friend’s car out in her suburb. There was some commotion in front and two cars started to switch lanes or something like that. After waiting a little bit, I leaned over and pressed on the horn for them to move (I might add that it worked). She looked at me and said “Oh, they’re going to just love you out there.” I’d like to think that my honking is actually the least of it for my neighbors.

Recently it was time for my annual mammogram. When I made my appointment the woman was very clear-”Do NOT wear any deodorant.” I said a simple “O.K.” This was apparently not convincing enough. She repeated her instruction and clarified them– “no powders or sprays either.” This seemed easy enough for me to follow.

When I checked in, the receptionist asked me if I wore any deodorant with a suspicion usually reserved for TSA officials questioning Middle Eastern men and college students returning from Jamaican spring breaks. I started to wonder if this was the biggest obstacle for most women to getting a mammogram. Is the thought of going without deodorant so frightening they sneak in some Secret Extra Dry?

The interrogation continued. When I entered the dressing room the nurse tried to put me at ease by telling me that when I was done “there’s spray deodorant for you.” Thanks- that’s exactly what I worried about-when I am going to get my next deodorant spray? Then, as they attempted to fit me into a machine designed for women who are a C cup or higher I was once again quizzed on my hygiene. I was now officially asked about deodorant more than if I was pregnant and could be possibly exposing a fetus to radiation. I started to wonder if some chemical reaction would be set off leading to toxic fallout considering the care everyone was taking regarding this one substance.

Everyone was so doubtful that I thought  I should perhaps answer truthfully and put their fears to rest; which would be to say “Lady, not only am I not wearing deodorant, but you are lucky I brushed my teeth.” Most days I have to work to remember to put on deodorant- not the other way around. Between making sure everyone in the house is dressed, getting breakfast, and checking faces for milk mustaches, I have little time for underarms.

The whole experience reminded me of a conversation I had with some other moms regarding skincare. One of them had recently started selling Arbonne- a cosmetic system with about five steps of cleansing for better skin. In deferring any purchases, I told her that I would never do all those steps. In all sincerity she told me “It’s really only two extra steps because you’re already washing, toning and moisturizing every night anyway.”  Is that really what everyone else is doing every night? I guess I am leaving out a lot of beauty rituals considered sacrosanct. So, it turns out the mammogram was very helpful. My health is fine but I have received the diagnosis of rare and malignant stink.

When we first entered the youth sports fray I figured there would be a few crazy people. You’ve all heard the stories and seen the movies-and the crime reports. But, I really didn’t think the coaches themselves would be so truly and deeply insane. Our first experience with a coach that we were not related to started with flag football. Three buddies were co-coaches. led the practice and asked all the parents if we could extend practice for the 6 year olds so they’d get more instruction. That was the first red “flag,” if you will. Then I noticed that they brought large charts with Xs and Os for running plays. Sometime around then II began to call them the “crazy coaches.” It didn’t really bother me because I figured that we just got the nutty guys and next year it would all be better. Now that I’ve been around a bunch of sports, I consider those days the “golden age.” I have now learned that coaching is a wellspring of crazy that never goes dry-it only gets deeper.

There was the baseball coach who would give post game talks that would go on so long parents would stay seated rather than gather up their things. He would also single out players for great plays and give out prizes. He would do this Academy Award style presentation- drawing out the suspense and tension as to who would win the prize that week. Yet, I still kept thinking if we that as long as we didn’t get our old coach, we would be in the clear. As if we just had back luck– again. I deluded myself to think that next time we won’t have the coach who encourages the players to switch hit since “that’s a huge advantage in the majors.”

But, there’s always a but. Then came the coach with the extra training sessions that were held in the pouring rain, the one who ran suicide sprints for 7 year olds, the coaches that had their kindergarteners playing with 2^nd graders because “they were too good” and on and on. This season we have a coach who started out seeming reasonable. He played kids who couldn’t even hold the ball and encouraged those who had developed some skills. Then it quickly got weird and true colors were revealed. His assistant coach (his wife) was asked at one game by the referee to stop shouting at the players. He protested one of our opponent’s roster citing a league rule regarding minutes played to get rid of their best player. They keep track of how many baskets their son makes each game. They installed mini court in their basement.

So, after the last game I started to say to my husband, don’t worry- next year we’ll get a different coach. I stopped and realized there are no normal coaches- just degrees of insanity. The quicker I accept that and deal with them accordingly the better it will go. Maybe even drinking from that well would help. I’m pretty sure some sort of drinking might be necessary.

Not so however in the suburbs. I have needed to call the police twice in a few years. The first time was when I discovered what I thought was a gun in my backyard. After having a big booted officer pull up in my driveway, I learned that it was a toy gun. Now, before you scoff– it did not look orange with a suction cup dart hanging out. It was black and imprinted with “Smith and Wesson” and a warning not to sell to minors. I even consulted a neighbor who had seen guns before and confirmed that it looked like a gun.  In all fairness, had I picked it up I might have realized it was plastic but I have watched enough CSI–never compromise the scene.

The officer and I discussed things in my driveway. He told me it was an air gun that teenagers use and I was trying to make sure there were no unsolved crimes in the area involving a missing gun. After making me feel stupid, he pulled away. End of story– or so I thought.

A few weeks later I ran into one of my neighbors ina store. After some chit chat she said “OK- I’m just going to ask you- why were the police at your house” Clearly, she believed that some disturbance, possibly internal had required the police. There was no concern along the lines of “is everyone allright?” I explained what happened and she said she and her husband in discussing the matter hadn’t thought of that. Days later another neighbor inquired casually. In response to my explanation she said “Oh, I had been wondering…I mean you never know….”  It became apparent to me that not only had everyone seen what happened and speculated upon it, they had come to the conclusion that it was something we did.

To add fuel to the fire, the police were summoned not long ago in regards to our murdered cat. The police were getting a description of the canine perps and filing a report with animal control. Everyone had known about our cat’s demise and was either directly involved or sweetly sympathetic. I figured no problem- obviously the police were here for that. I was wrong.

Weeks later I ran into a neighbor and she had not heard about the cat. So, I said ‘well the police were here and everything.’  She said, quite tellingly, “Yes, I noticed they were here again- but I didn’t know it was about the cat.” Note how she mentioned “again” (even though it was two years ago). Obviously she suspected we were up to no good again.

In response to all this, my husband was outraged. “I am so nice to everyone- and they all think I’m beating you!” My response was “How do you know they don’t think I’m beating you?”  Then I tried to think of all the crimes we could hint at the were guilty of: growing marijuana, illegal betting parlor, underground cockfighting, brothel?  The options are endless. But, I’ll stick with defending our honor instead. Until the next time I guess.