Queen Of The Cul De Sac

The other night I was supervising homework, cooking dinner and battling pantry moths that had invaded my home- quick digression- my battle led to my trying to wash my pantry ceiling with bleach, using a Swiffer, which led to bleach landing in my eye and on my favorite v-neck tee. Amidst all this hub-bub I said a private thank you that tonight was not the dress rehearsal. And then, it hit me- the dress rehearsal is tomorrow- knew that so safe there, but I forgot that the costumes came with the straps unattached. Presumably, this is so we can acheive an optimal fit but I tend to think that it is part of the psychological warfare intended to break us Stockholm syndrome style.

When I first received the costume (which cost 80 dollars by the way- as is) I briefly noted the sewing requirement and promptly put it in a bin for unpleasant thoughts. It kept rearing its ugly head periodically but I had successfully avoided it.  I don’t sew and I don’t know anyone who does but now I was approximately 24 hours away from needing it complete and secure. I took out my sewing kit (obtained from an Embassy Suites a few years ago) and started to stitch haphazardedly.

The bugs few around, the dinner burned, homework was lost and a ballet costume was completed.

We have now entered the next season- Basketball. With just one week of soccer and baseball behind us, we had already started practice for basketball season. The first game is in December, but it is never too early for everyone to start perfecting their lay-ups for the tough 8 year old recruits this year. But, this morning I received a curious email from my- I mean my son’s- coach. To: Team From: Coach Re: No Practice this Thursday. Sounds find so far, right? I wasn’t even going to read the whole thing- it was obvious that of course practice is cancelled because Thursday is Thanksgiving. But, since I could see the entire message on my screen before I scrolled to the others, I noticed an odd choice of words in the email.

Now, I respect words. I think words have a lot of meaning. When we sit down to write a large group of people something, the words we choose or do not choose can convey a lot of information. So I really had to wonder what was wrong with this coach when I read the email he composed: We will have no practice this Thursday as the school buildings are closed due to Thanksgiving.

He did not say ‘No practice because of Thanksgiving- Have a great holiday.’ He did not say simply, ‘No practice.’ He went to the trouble of explaining that there was no practice because the school buildings would be closed. Now maybe I am reading too much into this but it seemed to me that he was saying that we would have had practice on Thanksgiving if only the idiots at the schools  would open the doors for our crucial practice. There was an apologetic tone to the email- a sense almost of challenge. Like, can you believe that- no practice just because of Thanksgiving. So, the words I will choose to refer to him from now on are: Crazy Basketball Coach Guy- and I carefully considered that.

A while back I commented on how some things- for instance the Cheese Chaser- keep finding their way back into the house despite being thrown out. Well, my frustration continues. My children’s school has a policy of letting them take out as many books from the school library as they would like once they reach a certain grade level. My son takes out huge, heavy books,  like Guiness Book of World Records from the past 6 years and keeps them lying around the house. Then, they are inevitably late or worse still, feared lost. Since it is apparent to me that he will never return them on his own accord I was motivated today to finally take action.

I prowled around the house and his room collecting the books and right before school was dismissed I snuck into the library and deposited them in the return bin. About ten minutes later, my son bounded into the car and said brightly “You thought you could get rid of Guiness Book of World Records?” For a moment I was dumbfounded. This was impossible. I am dreaming right? There is no way he could have found these books in ten minutes and checked them out again. Turns out it was all true. The day I was motivated to return the books happened to be the very day his class had library, last period of the day. And, as he went to check out he was inspired to check the return bin because he told me “all the best books get returned.” He discovered his books, deduced what happened and checked them out with a few minutes to spare before dismissal. If this kind of frustration doesn’t frighten a person, it sure makes them closer to that nervous breakdown I have predicted.

It’s coming. I’m not sure when exactly- but I have started the watch. Each year, I will have a total breakdown. It is just a matter of time- usually around the end of the school year, but it might come earlier this year.

Such an outcome is inevitable when you have agreed to involve your children in several sports, allow them to have friends that want to see them, celebrate birthdays, and of course ballet- an activity which could cause a breakdown singlehandedly.  What happens is there is a low hum of insanity buzzing around throughout the year- it is especially accompanied by needing to be in two places at the same time and is exponentially increased by the number of supplies that are required. An example: If dance  (which requires, leotard, tights, three different shoes, and a hair bun) are at 4:30, and soccer practice (which requires ball-filled with air, cleats, and shin guards) is at 5, and they are not in the exact same place- of course, requires me to be prepared in advance, have snacks ready (before the activity and drinks for during- one for each child)- do you see my point? And it happens each week. And, it’s not just once a week. Do I have to explain how this leads to hyperventilation? So, this low hum starts to ramp up the volume during the course of the year, especially as the stakes are raised. Recital information sheets are sent home, each instruction followed by bold letters IF YOU DO NOT fill in the blank YOUR CHILD WILL NOT PERFORM. Considering that you have spent a lot of money for them all year to perform for 67 seconds, these are high stakes. Combine it with preparing teacher gifts for end of year, championship games, and try-outs for next year’s team- which also follow with bold instructions YOUR SON WILL BE DISQUALIFIED IF…..

The rational minded will just argue that I can opt out of all the madness. I could just say no to those happy little faces. So what do I do then- after listening to the disappointment and tears. The alternative is sitting at home picking our noses and playing video games- a worthy activity notwithstanding, but one I don’t prefer. Perhaps, the people who run every activity should opt out of the madness. Instead of having soccer teams with A and Travel designations- complete with extra training drills- how about just making it an hour of pick-up game at the fields. I’m not sure how to make the dance better, but the threatening tenor could maybe be turned down a little. These ideas will probably not be adopted and I am not about to start forcing the kids to make tough choices at this age- specialize or else!

Instead, I’m starting a countdown this year- so I’m prepared better for the complete emotional give-out than in past years. It’s kind of comforting the inevitability of it all. Trying to hold it off or fighting your feelings just makes for more stress in the long run. I should run a betting pool to see what it is that does me in- is it the tights with a run? Is it getting the field location wrong? Is it baseball and soccer being on the same day? Split the winnings with me 50/50 and you’ve got yourself a deal- I’ll even split a Xanax with you.

If a suburban development is like a version of high school, or middle school (depending on what part of the country you’re in)– and it is, it goes to reason that you will need the right accessories to fit in. Since it is not really middle school, just an uncanny resemblance it is not so easy to make sure you have the right item. In school, all you have to do is convince your parents that “everyone is wearing it” and scrape together to pay for the ludicrous handbag/half-shirt/plastic shoes (well, I was in the boroughs) to make sure you look together. The neighborhood is a harder system to game as the required accessories are children, and not just any children- but the right aged children.

Have you ever been to a family gathering when you were the oldest- like 12, but every other kid was 6? And you felt so awkward and at the wrong stage? Or, did you ever go to an event as a 10 year old and every other kid there was 15? No one would play with you and even though you didn’t want to do what they were doing (probably spin the bottle- wait they were 15- so actual orgy) you felt so left out? Well then you are aware of what it is like to have the wrong age kids in a suburban neighborhood. Much activity takes place around the bus stop, and if your kids are not in school yet, you will have to suffer through listening to people say “Oh- you didn’t hear about the party? She invited everyone– everyone at the bus stop that is.” Or,  overhearing “how about after bus pickup we go get lunch?” When we first moved to the house, I was in the too young category- I had a 2 and a 4 year old. Most everyone else had elementary school kids. So, the women were able to bond over homeroom teachers, school trips, the bus stop, and of course all those free hours in the day. I couldn’t wait until I could be in that group with my school-age children. But then a funny thing happened. My kids got older and the few kids who around our age that I hoped to bond over traipsing off to school, well they moved away. And, the families who remained, the ones I had envied and hoped to join into their little circle, well their kids got older too- so then it was swim meets and chaperoning dances and travel teams. I couldn’t catch up.

New people moved in to replace the demographic that matched mine- quite a few actually. Except now, they brought with them 1,2, and 4 year olds. Not a single elementary school age one in the bunch. So, now it’s like I finally got to buy my leg warmers, but who wants to hang out with the leg warmer girl. It’s lonely with leg warmers I tell you. I’m out carrying around last season’s trend with these kids of mine. And they were supposed to be my ticket in. What makes it worse is that not only are there no moms of elementary school kids for me, there are no elementary school kids for my little ones. They are probably wondering how they got stuck with last season’s mom version. All the cool moms have tons of friends for their kids I imagine them thinking, perhaps on some unconscious level at the very least.  I try to conjure up those wise words from sixth grade through 12th- “If they don’t want to hang out with you because of your accessories, then they’re not true friends” But, I don’t really need true friends, I just need some acquaintances to get through the day. Maybe some day me and my kids will be right on track out here in the suburbs with just the right combination of ages, peer groups, and outlook on the world. Until then, it’s the three of us, playing four square in the driveway.

My new favorite show is on ABC on Tuesday nights. It’s called Life on Mars and features a police officer who wakes up to discover that he is still in New York City, but that it is 1973. Besides the freaky mystery part of how did he get there, I especially love the extremely accurate portrayal of 1970s New York. I don’t know if it is really accurate but when I remember growing up, the landscape they shoot is what I remember, so it’s very accurate to my cloudy memories. The shooting is great that it makes it seem cloudy as if you are trying to remember.  I was thinking about the show the other day during church, the last episode revolved around a church, and the next thing you know I was going down one of those long interconnected random thoughts.

I began to realize that maybe I liked this show so much because I can identify with the guy. You find yourself in a different place where everyone wears different clothes and gets around in different vehicles and talks completely differently from what you expect. The cultural environment is familiar, but you are basing your integration on foggy memories and what you have seen on TV. As expected, hilarity ensues with the confusion. No- not on the show, but at least some of the time, in my life. The show’s police officer has only been stranded for a couple of weeks, but he’s starting to fit in and make friends better than I have after four years. I’m still trying to gauge the landscape and figure out that if I’m going to be here for the long haul- no time warp machine coming for either of us- I’d better start making this work.

In the last episode, it became clear that our hero is stuck in 1973 for a reason. He doesn’t know what yet- but it seems to involve saving people’s lives and creating tolerance and understanding all around. So, I have to wonder, and I was in church after all, maybe there is a reason for everything and if I’m trying to navigate my correct year, but unfamiliar place, then I must be here for a reason. I just have to figure our what it is. I did save a bird that got caught in my garage once- that was a scene, trust me. But, I’m not sure my whole life was changed just to save a finch or sparrow or whatever it was. In 2004, I thought maybe we’re leaving to save us from the next homicidal airplane in New York- our high rise faced LaGuardia airport and it was disconcerting to say the least when the planes took off towards our home on the 31st floor. But, that couldn’t have been it.

So, I’m going to keep on trying to figure out both the new landscape, however long it takes, and maybe even my reason for being here. I just wish I could get to do it like the TV show- with a cool belted leather jacket and 70s psychedelic boots. Not to mention all the reefer.

Sometimes it seems there is a survival supplies list that everyone here in suburbia was able to reference except me. In New York, the only thing I needed for survival was a telephone and Time Out subscription (and if you believe Homeland Security, a gas mask and some duct tape- I’m sticking with Time Out). Out here, the rules are different and I’m amazed at how prepared everyone is. Here is a list of things I don’t have, but everyone else does- it is by no means complete.

• Twine
• Index cards
• a shovel
• a long extension cord (I discovered this when I asked a neighbor how she was able to hook up so many Christmas lights)
• a ladder
• a calculator
• a power drill
• a wheelbarrow

Whenever I express amazement at someone’s stash of goods- their variety and breadth, I am the one who seems like the crazy one. How do you come to own index cards? I have never gone through the supermarket and said “Oh, wait- I can’t forget the index cards. I need them for….” I can’t even think of when you would need index cards at home. That’s not entirely fair. I came to discover that everyone has them when I was complaining that I needed them. My son was given a reading ring in kindergarten filled with words, or maybe it was a word ring. Punched index cards were on a metallic ring. My ring broke and I lost several cards. So I had to replace them. You had better add hole punch to the list also- I didn’t have that and everyone else did. So there I was with wire from a Christmas ornament craft holding the cards together and needing punched cards. Luckily for me, my neighbors had indeed gotten the memo upon moving to the suburbs and they hooked me up.

Maybe someday I can return the favor by lending them some of the things I always have that they might not:

• The New York Times
• Arugula
• My old super’s phone number
• Zagat guide 2007

What else do you really need?

On the heels of Halloween- I have a spooky story to share with you- one that will keep you up at night trying to keep nightmares at bay. Now, turn off the lights and hold a flashlight up to your face as you read on.

It was a Halloween night years ago- a young couple go out into the dark to attend a Halloween party in their neighborhood. They walk through the dark fog and come upon the decorated party. When they entered, everything seemed fine- other than seeing their neighbors dressed in such things as a gynecologist, a gay pirate and for some reason, an octopus. Music played and drinks were poured. Then, when they least expected it, they looked up and saw her. A woman was dressed as a sex expert!!! Not just any woman- a woman small in height, but wide in build and around her neck hung….several metallic sex toys. EEEEEEK!

Next to her stood her grinning, bearded and mulletted husband. An occasional chuckle was let out. There was no escape. The couple backed up but she moved in. “It’s fun to experiment” she whispered.  She twirled the devices and attested to their power. AAAARGGGGGG!

As the couple ran home, they could not escape the mental image of those toys, their purpose and the people extolling their qualities. Never, never would they ever be able to get that image out of their heads. For years, and at least that night and several after, the very thought of sexual activity was tainted by the picture of the frightening people. It was worse, much worse for the others who had remained. Lulled by drink, the enchantress told them how the toys were used and the many more she had home. It was never said how those poor souls fared in the future.

So, like drinking after watching Leaving Las Vegas, sex after watching the fat sex toy lady was never quite the same.

Now, try to get some rest.

It is November and I am still going to soccer games. How is it possible that 8 year olds are still playing this sport out in 40 degree weather? How is it that no one says, look, let’s just call the season- no make-ups. Let’s get the kids together and they can play pick-up in my basement? That would never happen. But I am not a soccer mom. I don’t think like they do. Not only am not a soccer mom, I hate everything about that moniker and I hate the idea of being so invested in my child’s sport that it is my identity. In this era where every mother seems to be brandishing her sport mom status I think it’s just humiliating. The worst part of it is having to carry those folding chairs across the field-and all the while, you’re lugging along drinks and sometimes a big bag of snacks for the team. It is very hard to look dignified dragging a bag of juice boxes and a folding chair. And- you can’t even dress above the occasion. If you wear heels, you sink into the ground and look ridiculous- I know because I’ve tried. I always feel that if you’re wearing high heel sandals, you can handle anything. That was before I was assigned to Field 8.

But, the absolute very worst- it’s when the parents line up after the game and form a bridge similar to the sword salute the marines do at weddings and the kids run through. Now, I am a very indulgent mother to do fun things for my kids. I pulled over the other day to take a picture of a badger or beaver or something on the side of the road. But, the bridge- it’s ridiculous. It’s something that children should do, but the adults in the group have decided to co-opt. So, I don’t participate- I refuse on principle.

Hopefully, with the end of the election, if not the soccer season this year, we can put to rest the idea of “Soccer Moms”  and “hockey moms” and all the other sports. While that’s not very likely, not while there are bumper stickers and t-shirts attesting to the popularity of it all- but maybe we can start with the bridge.