Queen Of The Cul De Sac

I recently spent a weekend in New York City. It was great to catch up with some old friends, see a show, and have some delicious food. But all those feelings of home came rushing back when I heard a torrent of honking when the light turned green. Without even realizing it, I said deliriously “I just love New York.”

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.