Queen Of The Cul De Sac

The Annual Halloween party took place this weekend. I could not attend- really. I would have gone and been very friendly. I actually like talking to people and socializing despite how bitchy I must seem. And, seeing as it was being hosted in my driveway, I like to know who is within break-in range of my bedroom. But I could not go because my son had his final baseball game of the season, we had out of town relatives visiting and my daughter had CCD. After spending an hour at the game and then dropping the little girl off at church, I figured I would go home to work on a big Italian dinner while the boys were at the game. I was really relishing this time alone to work on my meal all alone after a weekend full of house guests. I completely forgot about the big Halloween Fest. As I approached my cul de sac and I saw about twenty cars lining the sides of the street I remembered. Of course, since the party was a whole one of two blocks away in the middle of a warm Autumn day it made perfect sense that everyone would drive. I knew that immediately and did not for a second think that someone was hosting a party with 40 out of town guests. As I suspected the entire neighborhood stood just beyond the cars and a giant hayride blocking my hayride. Everyone was there and I could not believe that I had just pulled into the eye of the storm. It was humiliating really and no way to extricate myself- seeing as it is a cul de sac and going in reverse with all those SUVs lined up behind me was not really an option. All I could do was pull up to the pumpkin decorating table and do a slow careful u-turn and slink away. So much for my pot of traditional tomato gravy and meatballs. It would be flash in the pan marinara for our crew. I was just imagining what everyone was saying about me. It wasn’t exactly discreet to take a station wagon in a circle during a block party. I was returning their poisonous vibes and then, I caught a glimpse of the banner. When I moved in the banner had already been made and was carried with pride at the Halloween parade. It was a felt banner with poles haning out for carrying, similar to what the color guard would carry in a marching band. It had the name of our development and Halloween Parade glued on in felt letters. I could not send any bad vibes to people who had once created such a sad, and yet optimistic flag. When they made it the neighborhood could not have been more than a year or two old- what bright hopes they had. They had made this a neighborhood of cuteness and quaint through sheer will power and force. Of course my not going would upset everyone- if we don’t all play along then the illusion might fall a part- then we might not appear to be the “best neighborhood; full of friends and wholesome kids” An iron fist was required to create that environment out of thin air and newly laid sheetwall. So, you can’t feel any animus towards people who glue a felt banner and think it’s worthwhile, you just can’t, even if they lock you out of your own home on a Sunday afternoon.

And, as I pulled away I realized that maybe it wasn’t their insecurity at neighborhood cohesion that made them look askance at me. My one Halloween decoration- a scarecrow on a pole- had been damaged in the storm from the previous night. The scarecrow was turned around on his pole and his pants were ripped off and dangling on the ground. So- I didn’t go to the party and then I mooned them as they set up.

Ahh, the annual Halloween party in the neighborhood. I just got saw the sign at the entrance- the annual Halloween a polooza. Not content with trick or treating or having a little get together with cider and doughnuts, our neighborhood goes all out. There is a parade, crafts, 70 pizzas, cookies, games, and a haunted house. How do we have a Haunted House you ask- well each year a family donates the use of their garage to be turned into a Haunted House.

My first year here- some of the women who took me under their wing- not quite befriended, but did at least give me the scoop- told me all about it. They recommended that if I wanted to show how friendly I was or that I wanted to be “a part of the neighborhood” I should volunteer to help out with the party. I couldn’t make the planning meeting but was asked to help decorate the garage. It was a Friday night and I thought, well even though my kids are too small for a haunted garage, and really, is a haunted garage necessary, it probably would be a good idea for me to go.

I told my husband I could not spend Friday night with him and a bottle of something- I had to decorate a garage. He was skeptical, but encouraged me to “go make some friends” and off I went. They told me to bring my Halloween supplies. Now, I ask you more experienced suburbanites- does that mean anything to you? I have no idea what Halloween supplies are. I know school supplies, I know feminine supplies, and I know survival supplies (I don’t have them, but I could guess). Halloween supplies left me stumped so I took beer. They did not mean beer. They meant fake cobwebs, fake body parts, coffins, etc. You know, the stuff people have laying around. This was hard work- this was not an excuse to hang out with the ladies kind of decorating. This was climb on a ladder and use a staple gun. I noted not to ever volunteer my garage for such an ordeal. Despite being told this was a great chance to network, no one really talked to me. I tried- but the only conversation I had was with one terse lady who said “How do you like it so far” Me: “Good- we’re settling in” Terse: “Are you moving soon?” Me: “Not that I know of.” I went back to fastening my dangling skeleton and she, satisfied, walked away. I later learned that it’s common in the relocation circles to move pretty quickly- but it did not feel warm and fuzzy to me. Finally, after several hours and no opened beers later, no yukking it up later I begged off. I got home just in time to catch an episode of late lamented NBC series Las Vegas and have a few beers with my husband, and to bemoan my lack of success.

The next week, it was passed along to me that my appearance at the work party had not gone unnoticed and some people, presumably the royal circle, were impressed. No other messages were relayed like, how about coffee Tuesday, at least none that I could decode, but I figured maybe after a Christmas Village creation and a hosted Easter egg hunt, I might actually get a smile and a hello.

Disclaimer: This is not a political blog. This will not be a political blog. I just couldn’t help myself. Now, on to today’s post.

Theres a giant doing cartwheels, a statue wearin high heels.
Look at all the happy creatures dancing on the lawn.
A dinosaur victrola listning to buck owens.

Tambourines and elephants are playing in the band.
Wont you take a ride on the flyin spoon?
Doo, doo doo.
Wondrous apparition provided by magician.

Credence Clearwater Revival

I’ve been thinking that I may have sold myself short. There are so many things in life that I have not fully appreciated when they were all right there within my sights. Whole careers and areas of expertise all around me and I have not embraced it. After hearing Sarah Palin explain that her foreign policy expertise stems from being able to see Russia (granted a really small and remote part of Russia), I thought I should revisit all the things that I can see from my home. Since I don’t live in Alaska, but in the middle of suburbia, I am at an advatage over Governor Palin as there is more for me to see. If I just look out my front door there are a mulitude of topics– topics that need urgent assistance– that I can offer my expertise.

First of all, I can see a lot of cars. Some of my neighbors even have three cars- all different kinds of cars. Now, I know that gas prices and viability of the American automotive industry are causing people a lot of trouble. I’m planning on taking a good hard look at all of those SUVs and sedans I can see for some insights to help out this great nation.

Now, our neighborhood is pretty diverse. Right across from me- I can actually see Korea. Well, really just a large extended Korean family. But, from what I’ve heard, some clear insight into Korea would really help these days what will North Korea attempting to set off nuclear weapons and all that. Don’t think I won’t be using my lucky perch to really look hard at that family to sharpen my knowledge of solving that crisis along the 38th parallel.

There are also quite a lot of trees- not just in my neighborhood, but actually on my own lawn. Lots of ‘em! So I guess you know what that means- I’m thinking of getting out of politics and maybe starting a tree care business. I mean, I can see them- how hard must it be to understand them?

I could go on and on as my front door view really does allow a lot of specialized knowledge. And that’s just the stuff I can see without bincoculars. Whew- the shit that I’ve seen go down with the aid of my night vision power zoom, you would not believe!

I have all kinds of nicknames for some of the parents on my son’s sports team. It helps to diffuse my hostility towards their over the top interest in sports for the Under 10 set. They tend to be guys who come from work, wearing clothes that have their business’s logo embroidered on the shirts- like Advance Tech Logic, or Super Power IT and are wearing lanyards around their necks. They also are very hard on every effort the boys make, despite not looking like they were ever really that athletic. As an aside, I recently found out that a few used to be coaches, but as the teams consolidated in the advanced league, they are no longer- so frustrated careerism is at play as well. To be fair, I don’t think they like me much either. I think they find me a bit suspect. The only thing I ever shout is Yay! and I always ask  “Is he back in” referring to when my son comes back in to play, i.e. the only time I am interested in the game.

So, since we don’t really chat all that much, I have to use nicknames for them when I complain later to my husband. As in, ‘Flamingo kept shouting and yelled at some one else when they didn’t make the kick’ or ‘Joe isuzu thought he was so cool when he tried to show off at the end of practice’ Flamingo is a tall man who has very skinny legs and a very wide and round middle. While he does not lift one leg, he does pace back and forth.

The other night I was at practice watching my son and sitting with a bunch of these guys, while I sat there quietly. Only once did I speak up- when one Dad tied his son’s cleats Flamingo interjected- IN MY HOUSE, if you want help with your shoes it’ll cost you a quarter. I felt bad both for the Dad on his knees and the 8 year old being helped, so I spoke up. With all the cool diffidence I could muster I asked “So, what kind of return are getting on that- a safer alternative than the stock market?” I tried to cock my eyebrow and look disdainful- like Dorothy Parker, but sober. He seemed chagrined and said ‘well I always give the money back to them’ As we left practice I was feeling pretty cool, confident, and victorious. That was, until I saw myself reflected in the car window- I was wearing a workout t-shirt and I guess it was colder than I thought as I had two enormous headlights beaming out of my shirt. And, since I am not well endowed, the effect was one of a hypodermic sticking out of a lemon. So, as it was later pointed out to me- we’re even. They must have a nickname for me now too.

On days like today, when the sun is strong I engage in criminal behavior. Blatant and unrepentant criminal behavior. Oh, I try to be as covert as possible as I am trying to avoid detection or a possibly unpleasant confrontation. But, it’s very hard to hide when you are trying to line dry your clothes. In my neighborhood, in an attempt to homogenize and beautify our properties and insure that the Beverly Hillbillies don’t move in, it is against the homeowner association rules to use a drying rack or clothesline. The consequences are vague, but severe. I admit I have a problem with pointless authority, but I also have a problem with using a drying machine on a day that is 100 degrees and sunny. Throughout the summer in the middle of the day if you were to take a walk around my neighborhood, you would be alone so you would be able to hear all the dryer vents blowing out full blast. All except mine, at great risk to my standing in the community, not to mention probably a big fine.

I don’t put out underwear or unmentionables, nor any dirty sheets- just shirts, shorts, and  freshly bleached mattress pads and flat sheets- the mattress pads don’t even fit in my dryer and they drip all over my floor if I hang them inside. I know, I know you’re thinking, ‘I read last month that you don’t even wash your sheets- now you tell us you wash your mattress pad?’ Well, I figure if I’m going to tge effort of stripping everything off anyway- I just grab from the bottom and pull. That aside- none of my justifications have been able to sway people. Even when I tell people I thought would be sympathetic, they still say that clothes lines just smack of West Virginia. Even though I am a New York City snob, I still don’t think of clothes lines in a derogatory manner- not even if you smear them with allusions to Appalachia. Luckily, I have not told anyone in a position of power and as of yet, none of my neighbors are informers. Or, maybe I’ve just been lucky. Maybe the “Board” is just waiting and accumulating evidence against me. They will spring it on me at the next block party or during trick or treating this year.
I’ve thought about my defense. Should I wrap myself in environmental outrage? Should I cite the precedent of the pre-Civil War Nullification Act ? That didn’t end well, so maybe I’ll say I’m saving up for granite countertops, or hiring a gardener and need to save money on energy. When in doubt, always know what your audience wants to hear.

The other day the sun was shining and I was out with the children admiring the leaves and riding bicycles. Full disclosure, they were biking, not me. I don’t own a bike. I just felt I should admit that lest you picture me flanked by children as we sped down a leafy street, stopping to deliver some freshly baked organic pies.

I digress- Anyway, we were not enjoying the great outdoors alone. Nearly every neighbor was out in front of their homes, music playing on portable radios, chairs pulled out for the occasional rest, and lots and lots of boxes of decorations. Everyone was getting into the holiday spirit by completely decking out their homes with Halloween decorations. It struck me that this is what it must be like to decorate for Christmas in Los Angeles or Miami. Warm weather and lots of decorations. I’m wondering since when did it become standard suburban practice to decorate your house top to bottom in ghoulish decor. I’m telling you, the ground zero of the current economic crisis is a door wreath that says Boost Wishes and Have a Scary Day. The amount of decorations are truly staggering. The windows around me are papered with spooky cats and floating ghosts. The yards are covered with grave stones and body parts- driveways are lined with spiders and cobwebs. And the stuff is not even pretty- at least with Christmas decorations you get pretty lights and greenery- so I’m not sure why everyone is trying to out-decorate Christmas. Everyone, that is except for me. If you follow my analogy, I’m essentially the Jewish person in the neighborhood- decorated house, decorated house, Jewish house, decorated house, decorated house. Except in this case, since its Halloween, perhaps people think it’s because I’m an Evangelical Christian with a distaste for the occult. Maybe I should go with that explanation- years ago I asked my children’s Pentecostal babysitter if she was getting ready for Halloween. She answered very matter of fact- “Oh, no. I don’t worship the devil.” That’s going to be my answer if the neighbors come looking for my decorations.

In Manhattan, my son attended a school self-described as Progressive. The big open nursery room was filled with different stations to explore while the children milled around and were encouraged to talk to each other. At circle time, one of the teachers would pull out her guitar and they all sang together. It was really right out of the 1960s- but it was also known that when the children grew up they all got into “very good schools,” and all the parents were very happy. Once in the suburbs we won a spot into one of the most desirable nursery schools. At the new school, the children sat in assigned seats, went to chapel and practiced writing and after all that did not get into “very good schools” but like the New York parents, these parents were happy with that result.

So, back to school night the teacher tells us that they have a new program for our four year olds called Handwriting Without Tears. I silently wondered if that was because the Handwriting Under Painful Duress didn’t turn out so well. The teacher then showed us their assigned seats and assigned stations for each day. After the presentation I went to the teacher to introduce ourselves and give her some insight into our previous experience. I told her my son’s last school was less structured- they could play at will etc. She gave such a look of distaste as if I said they were nudists or something. I then went on to say well they didn’t have assigned chairs- she said (with incredulity) they didn’t sit? I had to explain that sitting does not always require an assigned place. I tried to explain that since we just moved I was trying to give her some insight in case my poor sweet son was out of sorts on the first day. This was not going to be the source of any sympathy. As I moved out of the way, dismissed by the teacher, I heard her say to the parent waiting behind me “Sorry about that, now, how can I help you.” It was as if I was leaving a cash register after having my credit card declined- dismissed and humiliated. For some reason, I persisted in being tortured by not only attending this school for two years, but by serving as the class mother. But, that’s a whole other story.

<!– /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:”"; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:”Times New Roman”; mso-fareast-font-family:”Times New Roman”;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} –>

Last week I had to take my Volvo in for its 60,000 mile check-up and my “Service Representative” sat me down to explain what would be done. “Um hum- just tell me when to pick it up.” Jose seems concerned at my flip attitude. He wants me to read the list of what will be done, so I glance at it and mumble “yeah, sure.” He urges me to keep it “for my records.” I want to tell him that the list and its phrases mean nothing to me- pilot bearing rotation, flip vent reversal….? Well, it turns out he was trying to soften up my brain because as I’m leaving he says “This service is so extensive, yes? It costs 900$. Yes?” A few hours later I find out that it costs 995$ to be precise—the pads needed changing in addition to all the rotating pilots. And he had to point out they had to remove large quantities of “cookies stuck in the back seat.” As I drove home I was fuming at the thought of what I could have done with that money if I didn’t need a car. With precise timing, the song Hit Em Up Style by Blu Cantrell came on. You know this song- she sings about discovering her man cheating: Oops! There goes the dreams we used to say/ Oops! There goes the time we spent away/Oops! there goes the love we had

I have discovered the chorus is “oops” but at the time I thought it was “poof” which was exactly how I was feeling. As she sings about all the things she lost due to a cheating partner, I sang along thinking of all the things I lost due to the car. Herewith, I share my version with you:

While Jose was fixin’

I was waitin’ with the donuts just trippin’

Can’t believe that I found out the cost was nixing

all of my plans. they were deep sixin’

Poof-

There goes the lipo I could prepay

Poof-

There goes the dinners out, cause I still have to pay for ballet

Poof-

There go the shoes I loved but the Volvo needed service and that’s that for now

Poof-

There goes the love I had for the Caribbean sea

Poof-

There go the jeans I thought about- that might make me look skinny

Poof-

There goes “We’ll soon see Rome”

Poof-

For all the miles I drove, this is what I owe

My apologies to the entire R and B music industry

One of the things that I found reassuring about the house we purchased in the suburbs was that there was a little fruit and vegetable stand a little down the road from us. If there were sidewalks, which there aren’t, and we weren’t in a development along a busy road, you could actually walk there. I felt relieved that I would still be able to do some shopping at a small independent venue as I had done in the city. On our way home from the park or school my children and I would stop in to the little groceries along the way and it all felt so quaint. I kept reassuring myself that our local stand would be a good replacement.

The first time we got there I immediately discovered that it was not authentic at all. And by authentic I mean having little gourment baskets of fruits and vegetables or organic displays. There were certainly no darling little crafts or jars of preserves as I would expect from a local fruit stand in the Hamptons or 87th and Lexington. That first shock registered, I tried to talk to the farm folk at the behind the plywood. Knowing the local farmers would make this new town feel more like a small village instead of a sprawling suburb.

“Are these all from your farm?”

Disgusted look

Undaunted “This looks so fresh- are they all from the local farms?”

“Nope”

Pressing on “Where do you get them from [use compliments] they just look delicious”

“We drive up to the Amish and bring it down. There ain’t no more local farms- they’re all houses now.”

Farm lady says this as I am writing out my check- which has my address printed on it- which the street name happens to be the name of her farm stand. What a coincidence. Hopefully, she won’t notice.

Still believing thatwe’ll all be the best of friends someday like something out of sitcom, we head home with our (somewhat) fresh produce. As we peel the corn an adorable little caterpillar is discovered on the kernels. I’m so excited to point out to the children how amazing this is. Trucked in Amish or not, I’m determined to make the best of it. I point out the wonder of getting fresh produce and being so close to nature and its bounty. Then I put the corn on the deck and lock the door.

Later, the children run out to check on their new friend the caterpillar and his eating progress. When we peer outside, we find a large spider devouring our caterpillar. Lesson learned finally- Nature is not pretty kids.

Do you know the scene in Gone With the Wind when Scarlett is helping the wounded from battle and she is overwhelmed by their injuries? She runs out and come across more soldiers in desperate shape. In a panic, she runs away only to find the crowd larger and larger. As she crests a hill in her escape, the entire landscape spreads out covered with sprawling, moaning, dying soldiers on the battlefied, spanning the entire horizon. I think of that every time I go to a soccer game.

Our soccer league has a center that rivals the fields of Gettysburg. It is not apparent at first that you are entering the Siege of Soccer when you first approach it. There is a long driveway with an unassuming sign as you enter and curve along a hill. I was unprepared for the first game, being used to t-ball games at that time, where there were a very limited field size and baseball fields being easy to pick out. As I entered the parking lot filled with hundreds of cars, I thought I should have maybe noted what field number we were due to play on. I had assumed that we would just “see our team.” It was also our snack day, so I was carrying the folding chairs, juice boxes and Doritos, and was trailed by my son and my reluctant daughter.

WIth my entourage and large pack we entered the fray of fields. Everywhere you looked there were fields- covered with scrambling children and lined with frenzied parents. The scene swirled around me and I could not find a familar face. I started wandering in a daze hoping, praying that I would happen upon our field. The minutes ticked by- late already as we were- and I sought a face that I could perhaps ask for help. Everyone was distracted by the battles around them. Finally, sweating, dragging and a bit confused I heard my name being called. A neighbor was waving hello to me! It was one of the Queens that regally lead our local ladies. Ignoring both sidelines and protocool, I ran up to her- “Where- where are the small children’s games?” She looked concerned and said “I think they play on field 2 and 3″

“What field is this?”

“This is field 12.”

Field 12- how can there be twelve fields? Slowly I stop and circle around. Digesting the scene for the first time- really seeing it. I realize there are tens of fields- thousands of people. As far as the eye can see. But, now I have hope- I at least have a guide.

“Where is field 2?  Do I head back to the front or press on to the back” I ask my new savior.

A pause- she recognizes I may take this hard. “Fields 1-4 are on the lower fields. Back over there and down.” She points to a high hill in the distance.

I try to process this. There is more land that what I see? And there is a hill to climb before I even see if I’m in the right direction? I swallow hard and press on. The road will be long, the dangers many- but I have snack to deliver. Back up the hill we go and then overland. Finally it comes into view and then, just like Scarlett before me. I see the horrible truth. It is endless. Fields as far as one can see. Players stretching out forever. The finished warriors push past us on the path. To my right, a looming steeple rises (the fields share land with a Baptist church) giving me divine inspiration. Our side shall not fail. Finally we come upon our side- our colors waving. Safe harbor at last. I may be tired, late, and in trouble with my husband for completely screwing this up, but God as my witness I will never be lost here again.