Queen Of The Cul De Sac

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.

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.”