Queen Of The Cul De Sac

If there were any lingering questions about a conservative conspiracy over at Fox, you have to look no further than the chosen Fox Network line-up in the Spring of 2003. As we headed to war in Iraq and the specter of Orange Alerts and mushroom clouds were floating around us like anthrax spores, Fox released the delicious and wonderful reality series Joe Millionaire to take our minds off of all that unpleasantness. For those of you who missed it, or don’t remember, the series featured a hunky bachelor who was ostensibly a multi-millionaire, but really a construction worker. He had to choose a girlfriend from a selection of women who thought they were going to be mistress of his Parisian castle and live in flush excess. The conspiracy over at Fox worked like a charm, at least for me, as I was able to caught up in that over the top god awful production and allow myself to drown out the god awful production of real life and pretend nothing was happening. Those rose ceremonies over at ABC certainly weren’t going to take anyone’s minds off imminent cultural destruction. The ridiculous behavior and repartee of what can only be very talented actors (no one is that bad- right?) staved off total nervous breakdown and frustrated outrage at current events- Mission Accomplished over at Fox. No one protested in earnest and overseas actions pressed on despite a recession, despite expert advice and despite no clear benefits for us at home. Ahh, at least we had Hunky Joe and the exchanges with his lovelies- one night there were subtitles for a hushed romantic exchange and one read “Slurp.”  Pure Genius!

But now, you’ve abandoned us Mr. Murdoch. Just when we need you the most. I’m guessing not even you guys could have forseen that things could have possibly gotten this bad– but please, don’t you have something, anything in the can that you could pull out to dull the droning bad news? Have you stopped supporting the current administration and are actually hoping to direct people’s attention to the bad news and incompetence? Well, let me tell you something- it’s too late. Now is no time for reality, at least not real reality. It’s just too bad out there and I refuse to face it. I want reality with “slurp” please. At least give us a minor uppage in dosage- just enough to help us pretend for a little while longer that the whole world isn’t crashing. Even Jon Stewart’s comedy coating of the news isn’t enough- it’s just becoming sad as his jokes are not written, they’re just the latest words off the AP wire, no added satire necessary. So, I’ll let you guys over at Fox convene until you can come up with something to make looking at the television stop hurting so much. Until then, I’ll be watching Hugh Hefner and the Girls Next Door, but that’s only going to last me so long. Get to work!

I spent close to 80$ at the supermarket today and for that amount I purchased nothing that would have been considered food, much less packaged and sold, before the advent of preservatives and modern processing techniques. I needed to run in and get some more Gripz, the little bags of snacks, for the lunches. That was all- then I realized I was low on a few other things. This is what wound up in my cart:

2 chocolate chip Gripz

2  packages Jimmy Dean sausage, egg and cheese frozen biscuits

2 super sacs Doritos multipak

2 boxes of Capri Coolers

Trident Gum

2 packages Aunt Jemimah pancake, egg and bacon sandwiches

Smart food popcorn

As I walked through the supermarket with my basket of junk and trans fat, I realized how awful this looked. So, I went on offense and looked everyone daring, just daring, them to judge me for my disgusting choices. I tried to prepare myself for a snappy response if anyone gave me a dirty look or directly questioned why I was buying that stuff. Oddly, it didn’t appear strange to anyone. I was feeling very defensive because I would like to think of myself as one who buys organic produce from a local market and only serves my family fresh, wholesome food. So how did I find myself with a cart full of the opposite? I was snack lady for the soccer game so that explains some of it. But, is this what suburban living does to you? I can’t even make my own fresh egg and biscuit sandwiches anymore? At least when I bought them at the corner deli for my son, I saw them make the eggs from scratch. But, alas, no more corner deli. The cashier told me my total was 80 dollars for essentially nothing of any nutritional value- the whole cart, now bagged and ready to go felt like a crushing condemnation of me. As I snuck out to my car with my packages, I had to remind myself, oddly not for the first time, that the supermarket is not a metaphor for my life or its failures. And then I had a bag of Doritos.

Every year a wine and liquor store in my area hosts a huge sale in which everything in the store is sold at one dollar over cost. I make it a point to always stock up on some more expensive wines at a discount. Wine is one of my pleasures. I enjoy drinking it- for obvious reasons- and researching expensive wines give me (1) something to do, and (2) an opportunity to feel superior as I know something my neighbors don’t. I’m assuming they don’t as huge jugs of Yellowtail and Coors Light don’t require much research. [For the record, I do love Coors Light and will, in practice, drink anything]. (more…)

For Christmas my children begged me to get our cat, a 14 year old, twenty pound cat, a present. They chose what was admittedly a hilarious gift. It was called the Cheese Chaser and consisted of a motorized mouse with a cheese shaped remote control device to make it zoom around the house for your cat to chase. After Christmas had come and gone and the cheese chaser seemed to stop working for a variety of reasons- low battery, not reading directions, and a general lack of interest anymore, I decided it was time for the cheese chaser to disappear. Now, I’m no rookie at the art of throwing away toys or stuff my kids like. I know that you can’t just put it in the garbage can where it can and will be seen, only to be retrieved and cried over and accusations thrown. No, I was careful to hide the evidence inside a shoe box and stashed away in the laundry room for garbage day removal.

Somehow, the boy discovered this and the usual recriminations began but I used plausible deniability. I have no idea how the cheese chaser got there. Why would I put what is clearly the cat’s favorite toy in a shoe box. Crisis averted, but cheese chaser was back in circulation. Thus began a game of cat and mouse, if you will between me and the machine. I am beginning to think it has a life of its own- calling out to my children no matter where I put it, alerting them to the danger. Every time I was this close to getting rid of it, it appears once more somewhere different in the house. I’m not even sure those two children even have anything to do with it anymore- it’s between me and the cheese chaser now. No matter where I put it, paper recycling, garage cans, it still comes back.

Today as I was clearing off the counter top that is in what serves as my junk room (I’ve upgraded from junk drawer) I discovered the little orange wedge once again! I was certain I had actually placed in the can destined for the curb last time. I have no idea how it managed to sneak back into my house. If the children had anything to do with it, they surely would have confronted me directly. Oh, that cheese is a sly one. If I had a wood chipper, I’d use it- metal antenna and all. Now it is wrapped in a garbage bag and placed in the can outside. We’ll see if we meet again monsieur cheese.

I’m sitting on my front steps watching the children run around the various swing sets in the cul de sac. Due to unusual and creative lot engineering, you can see front yards, backyards, and side yards of a multitude of houses simultaneously. A car comes careening around the curve and pulls up to the driveway next to ours and a visibly angry man steps out and slams the door. Although he appears to be in his 50s, he looks strong. And did I mention angry, very angry? There is no one else around and he starts walking up to me. My mind is racing as to what I should do, where I should go- optimistic, but prepared for the worst. He looks at me and says, pointing to the house of my neighbor ‘Joe,’ and asks “Is that where ‘Joe’ lives?” It is a command, not a question.

Now, when a very angry and large man pulls up to you and asks where your neighbor lives, do you point him in the right direction, or do you send him around the corner and call the police?

I chose to point silently at Joe’s house and nod. Now, I was a little stunned and hadn’t the luxury of time to contemplate the ethical implications, but also, not much exciting stuff happens here. So, I stayed around to see what would happen. A typical day in my New York neighborhood involved me seeing a middle aged man naked save for a sheet wrapped around his waist, blood streaming from his head and talking to police officers with an expression on his face that conveyed his confusion as to why any police would be interested in him. But I digress. Back to the show.

In perfect suburban fashion, the beef with Joe was not a gambling debt, not retaliation for “snitching,” nor was it a dispute over a woman. I was imagining all of those possibilities. It turns out that our angry visitor lived in the next cul de sac and believed that Joe was still the Board president and Angry Visitor was outraged at the construction of a fountain in his neighbor’s yard. As I heard it, A.V. had had enough, ENOUGH of their “ugly ass” yard decorations and he could not stand the thought of more, and again, I quote, “their ugly ass shit” within his vantage point. A.V. wanted the board to look into the matter of whether this fell under the permit requirements of the development. Joe (and wife at this point) heartily agreed and there was back slapping and soon joking and understanding all around. So in this situation, I chose correctly to point Joe out, although I’m guessing A.V. cannot be responsible for his actions should the neighbors put up one more freaking bird house.

In New York, everyone has a steel door on their apartment and they have peepholes to see who is at their door, not full length windows on either side of the door. Here in my suburb, the developer offered and everyone bought the option the upgrade to surround windows around their front doors. Now, when I saw this, I immediately, and sensibly I might add, thought what am I going to do when I don’t want to answer the door? What am I going to do when I’m in the bathroom (located in front of the front door) and the doorbell rings? I don’t want whoever comes up to my house to be able to see me before I can see them. I don’t want them to see me walking out of the bathroom before I open the door. Clearly, no one else has thought of this, which explains what I was forced to witness the other day.

I had been meaning to phone a neighbor to ask her a question, but while I was outside the other night I saw her front door open beyond the screen door and decided it simpler to ask her in person. The door was open, the television was on, but no one was coming to the door. So thinking that my daughter had not pressed the ringer hard enough, I peered into the glass of the screen door and knocked. That’s when I saw the man of the house, the type of guy who is present at every party, adept at telling jokes, and the holder of several prominent positions on our neighborhood board, run down the stairs and jump past the door into the hidden part of the house. What’s unusual about that? Oh, right, did I mention that he was naked except for a pair of tighty-whities? My first thought was ‘huh? tighty-whiteys? Really?’ Then I thought- Retreat!!!

So, now I’m stuck pondering the imponderable as I try to get this naked, leaping, vision out of my head. If you are upstairs, where presumably your clothes are, why did you come downstairs without them? Why did you even come downstairs- as no one ever came to the door anyway? And most importantly, why didn’t you install a peephole instead of windows if you’re going to be in your underwear at 6 in the evening? I’m sure some of my former New York neighbors wore much less and much worse than Hanes briefs, but thanks to the foresight of the architects of the apartment buildings, I never had to unwittingly find out about it. Except for those times the neighbor in question thought I was into that kind of thing and opened on purpose. But that people, involves choice. Peepholes are about the freedom of choice. The thing though, my guy from the other night just whizzed by in a blur of hair and white cotton, and never even slowed down to see if I was interested.

When I first arrived in the suburbs, my first concern was lining up some friends. I am not good at being on my own- I need a group. I’ve always had a group. When I quit my job to stay home, I had a group within six weeks. They were my colleagues and then they became additional best friends. It wasn’t that hard, so I figured if I just looked around a little, pretty soon I’d be filling my calendar with get togethers and crowding my living room with new people. This social landscape, however, proved a bit tricky.

When I met one of the new neighbors, a woman about my age with children my kids’ ages and clearly an important figure in the hierarchy, we discussed my eagerness to get together and meet new people. She agreed wholeheartedly and told me the oft-repeated phrase I’d heard, that this was a friendly neighborhood. Well, I said, I’m looking forward to getting to know everyone and really be a part of that. I hoped that I could really join in with the clearly tight-knit families. What she said next struck fear in my heart. She said, gulp, and this is verbatim, “Don’t worry. You’ll have no problem. You’re good looking and have cute clothes.”

There are several problems with that. One is- pardon my shock, but excuse me- did she just say that my looks and clothes would insure my acceptance? Does anyone over the age of 15 really think that? Well, I guess yes, everyone thinks that- but who actually verbalizes that? Really, that kind of honesty and clarity should have been refreshing to hear, at the least for it’s brave openness. But I was too terrified to be refreshingly pleased. The second problem, and much more pressing, was that I am not and have never been, ‘good looking,’ at least not good looking in way that insures your social success caliber and I certainly do not have cute clothes. I merely copy what the women on the streets of New York are wearing and try to find a very cheap facsimile. I am, at best, neutral, so when my other qualities come out in an environment more rewarding for my talents, at least glaring warts and leg warmers are not distracting anyone.

So, this was my dilemma within weeks of arriving. I had no choice. I was going to have to stay three steps ahead of this clearly very important social contact in order for her to maintain the illusion that I had “cute clothes” and looked good. That was going to be so much work- like a first date every single day. The stakes were very high and a lot was riding on my ability to trick her. My only option was to play along and say “Thanks and can I sit with you and your friends at the cool table in the cafeteria?”

I often wait for at least a half hour in the carpool line at my children’s school. Most times I read a book or talk on the phone, but sometimes there is nothing to distract me so I become engrossed in the imaginary lives of others. The following is the stream of thought that happened the other day while waiting. You can be sure that I remembered a book the next day.

I got here too early. Is there anything to read in the back- How old are those newspapers? Oh no, there’s that Dad who’s so annoying and needy. Look at him talking to those former teachers of his kids. He will talk to anyone and his voice- uggh, so whiny. I don’t even know him and he talks to me. Oh come one, that’s called being friendly.

But, really? Remember how awful it was. I wonder what his wife is like. Uggh, that whiny voice, he must be so awful to live with….maybe…maybe, he’s awful to live with because she’s always putting him down and not respecting him.

She’s probably just awful to him. Maybe after all these years of her putting him down he became so needy and annoying. I mean, after all, she probably treats him like shit. Why does she treat him like that? That’s terrible- why would she marry him in the first place if she was going to treat him like that? He had dreams and was so good to her and now he’s left talking to everyone else for attention. I don’t know how you can fix that. You can’t fix that- it’s over. Wait! I don’t even know their names. I know nothing. Why didn’t I bring a book????

“Why are there pancakes in the backseat?”

The three of us (me, the boy, and the girl), sitting in the car respond simultaneously without consulting each other “They’re not pancakes.” We give no other explanation as my husband gets into the car. Apparently for him, it is not a satisfactory answer that we merely know they are not pancakes. He, for some reason, does not think it is par for the course that something resembling, but definitely is not, pancakes would be in the backseat and that everyone else is aware of this fact and untroubled by it.

For the three of us- it is standard operating procedure that one or more discarded food items  would be lingering in the backseat of the car- beyond the power of anyone to remove. I for one have taken the position that I have enough problems with simply maneuvering the car and getting safely from one place to another that to expect me to concern myself with the goings on of the backseat is crossing the line of acceptable duties. It seems my children are fearful of starving to death as they seem to hoard every item of food they ever receive in the car and store it away for later. Even when I clearly say “TAKE ALL YOUR GARBAGE!!” that does not work as they do not believe this food is garbage. For the record the following items are also ‘Not Garbage’: party favors, stickers, CD wrappers, empty pretzel bags, and dirty clothing. In respect to the last item, I agree that is ‘not garbage’ but recognize that in order to become clean laundry, they should be brought inside periodically. I am alone in that thought.

The whole drive my husband wanted to know more about the mysterious backseat.

“Well if it’s not pancakes, then what is it?”

Us: “It’s a chicken patty” (with its bun– that should have been obvious)

“Why is it back there?”

Really, was that necessary? The fact of the matter is that it is there, analyzing why it’s there is beside the point.

“Why is it still there?”

By this point the three of us are no longer interested in what seems like regular backseat features. Why not question the universe? Why not question the natural order of things. Or perhaps, he should take my cue, which is to never, repeat never, look backwards.

For those of you who don’t have a cleaning lady changing and washing your sheets, I’m wondering what is an acceptable amount of time to wait between washings. I love the feel of new clean washed sheets. I am not about to denigrate or minimize the importance or enjoyment of clean sheets. It is like getting a whole new bed- but the problem is, especially when you have three beds in question, that it is a lot of work and a lot of time. I’m usually lucky that everyone doesn’t run out of underwear or that the sports uniforms are actually clean. The sheets are going to have to go to the bottom of the pile so to speak. This is always in the back of my head but the other day I was talking to another mom from school and we were joking about our old college days and how dirty our laundry used to get. She commented “Ugh, remember how you never used to wash your sheets? Now that we’re always changing them you can’t imagine that.” That made me think that perhaps other people were doing this on a pretty regular schedule. Don’t get me wrong, I do not go a whole semester worth without changing everyone’s beds- but it is not clockwork either. And, there are times when I do strip all the beds and wash all the parts, but by bedtime, everyone is sleeping on a spread out blanket because I have not had time to re-wrap all those mattresses and pillows. So perhaps in an anonymous forum you can help me figure out where I am on the spectrum ranging from the ideal (weekly and with starch) to the worst (college dorm style- through out at the end of the year). Next, we’ll debate whether you wash your towels after each and every use….