quick story

Ivy League

I did it. I withdrew all 3 kids from that Catholic Institution that wanted to hoover up all my money and bend the malleable minds of my children to its strange ways. But mostly it wanted all my money. Three children, one school, and no financial aid? B'bye.

Kate and Joe will attend school in the suburb just north of Trenton. I finally was able to get a live human being on the phone there and determined in 2 minutes flat that my kids are eligible to attend school in the district because they spend half the school week there at their father's apartment. The grammar and middle schools are ok, no more. But I think Kate and Joe will do fine. Kate will insinuate herself into the cool-chick clique and join clubs and extracurricular activities and get good grades, and Joe will rumble through his world, oblivious to everything that isn't animated.

The high school, the other hand, is on par with the zoo that is Trenton Central High, ie, sex and drugs and rock n roll, and overt academic apathy, teasing, bullying, shunning, and gang violence. Sam will not attend this school. She is smart, smart, and creative. She's unusual in ways that don't add up to that Hollywood high school "outsider hence cool kid" package. My Sam is unique. She has her own style of dress and sense of humor, and it is not mainstream American teen culture. She has numerous friends and they gab all day and late into the night, but they're far-flung across cyberspace. Other than this sort of socializing, she hasn't actually lived much life. She's not used to the hectic, heated, hustling, harsh ways of the world. They would eat her alive at Suburban NJ High School and spit her out, a husk of her sweet funny exuberant charming unique creative self. 

What to do then? You might find my solution to be counter-intuitive. I have enrolled her in Trenton's Daylight Twilight Program. Believed by many Trenton residents to be the dumping ground for the little girls with babies at home, drug dealers, drop-outs, and miscellaneous disciplinary nightmares, the program is indeed "alternative." But it is buttoned down. The school year might begin with classrooms full of little girls with babies at home, drug dealers, drop-outs, and miscellaneous disciplinary nightmares, but by Sept 15, only the girls with babies at home and soem other kids who want to learn remain. This group of kids are subject to varied educational opportunities, including classes at the highly esteemed Princeton University. And better still, Princeton University will award college scholarships to a few able kids every year. How fucking cool would that be?

Lame-o em

I'm gonna be that cranky old grouch who yells at you "Don't you walk on my grass! Get offa my property!!" I'll be permanently stationed at a window, and I'll peer at you from behind the curtains and yank them back in place when you look over.

I will never leave the house--a few brave delivery men will pile household necessities on my steps. I will wear the same sweat-suit every day, except when I'm "cleaning" it. Laundering it consists of step-step-steping on it, like I'm squishing grapes, in a few inches of grey bath water that I keep. I keep forgetting that I don't like the taste of that water. I will accumulate too many pets and name them all "You!" The wild cats out back will be named "You Get!" and they will pick at the garbage that I leave outside the back door. It will smell in the general vicinity of my house.   

I will watch TV at top volume. In the blue glow of the TV I will wander from room to room, looking out each window, vigilant. You don't want to come ring my bell. You will give my place a wide berth.

And then, maybe Neighbor 1 won't sit on my porch on a hot and humid Saturday morning for an hour and a half and talk at me while I hold my unread newspaper in my lap. Talk at me until he and the heat and humidity have sucked what remains of the oxygen from the air and running becomes dangerous. And maybe Neighbor 2 will stop walking right into my house without ringing the bell and wandering around until she finds me in some remote room. And maybe I won't have to hide for 30 minutes in the kitchen because Neighbor 3 thinks I must be in there somewhere and rings, and rings, and rings the doorbell. And calls, and calls, and calls me on my phone. And yells, and yells, and yells for me through the open living room window. 

I love my neighborhood. It's a friendly neighborhood--there's almost always someone sitting on a porch somewhere to stop and say hello to. I'm a sociable neighbor, but I usually don't stay to chat long--I operate according to a simple rule of thumb--it's time to push on when I've finished the coffee/water/beer in my hand. Over-staying is more than just impolite, it's cruel. Especially to those of us who for some unknown reason are incapable of making any lame excuse in the book to extricate. 

Strictly look but don't touch

I bought a bike on Friday--

Pertty cool, eh? I love bikes, but I haven’t ridden much lately because I can’t tolerate leaning down with all my weight on my wrists, as you do with most bikes. But with this bike, the saddle is low slung and the pedals are shifted forward, so you’re almost in a reclining position when you ride--very comfortable.

As .rz and I rolled along the canal path on Saturday afternoon near Trenton Psychiatric Hospital, a swirling in the water caught our attention--a big sea otter was lollygagging around in the Delaware and Raritan Canal square in the center of Trenton, NJ! It twirled gracefully just below the surface of the water, and every once in a while a great big paddle of a clawed hand would emerge and then submerge as it twirled some more. But then we noticed long jagged ridges along its back—no, definitely not a sea otter. Its gigantic triangle-shaped head broke the surface and was about the size of a Rotweiller’s head. Then in slow succession: head, hand, tail, long jagged back ridges, head, hand, tail, long jagged back ridges. Two big, bad Jurassic Park-looking love-struck snapping turtles were making the beast with two backs. We watched for quite some time while they performed their incredible dance together in the murky water of the DnR canal. Very cool.

em the athlete

I was merciless.

I was the pitcher, and I threw windmill style. Like a whirling dervish, but keenly focused, I mowed 'em down with hard strikes on the corners. One of the opposing team's players had the impertinence to smack a line drive up the center, but the finely-tuned em reflexes snagged the ball before it got past the mound. On my at-bat, I blasted a long ball to center field—a standing triple. We won't mention that I booted an easy grounder at third base with the bases loaded. Nevertheless, file Monday night's mother-daughter softball game in the Ws column.

Tuesday morning, my right arm fell off at the shoulder. This would not normally be a problem, but I'm also dragging my left leg behind me because a previously undiscovered leg muscle tore free of its mooring and rolled high up into the left em buttock, like a cheap window shade.

Did I say we won?

Happy Graduation Batboy

Kindergarten graduation was last week, so he's a full-fledged crime-fighter now. We went straight from graduation to the toy store for the obligatory graduation present. It’s easy to make this boy happy, although it can be a challenge to find a Halloween costume in June.

Ick girl

It's a stark parenting moment when you realize that the compassionate, nurturing words of advice to a sick child were wrong. Dead wrong. (Oh calm down, I didn't kill her.)   

It started as a headache--*dramatic sickly voice* "Mom, I think I've got a migraine."
Mom: "Did you take some aspirin?"
Katie: "Noo-o."
Mom: "Well do it."

A couple of days went by and she still complained of the headache, and I still prescribed aspirin. On day 4, with the headache now entrenched and encompassing her eyes, jaw, and ears, I determined that she was suffering from a sinus headache. Prescription: sinus headache tablets.

Day 5 brought skin lesions. Spotty, red and raised, they showed up on her forehead. Well that's no sinus headache, so off to the doctor's we went. Diagnosis: shingles. Therapy: an antiviral and a pain killer.

It continued to progress with increasingly painful headaches and eye and jaw pain. And the lesions grew to monstrous proportions. Covering the whole right side of her head, her face became inflamed and blistered. The lesions around the eye and the angry red of the eyeball freaked out our general practitioner, so off to an ophthalmologist we went. The ophthalmologist peered into her eyeball with a very bright beam of light. Diagnosis: shingles inside the eyeball. Therapy: 2 types of eye drops 3 times a day each. 

She awoke 5 days later, with greasy hair and an enlarged egg-shaped iris. Trying to seem casual after peering into that weird, bottomless eyeball, I popped into the kitchen to call the ophthalmologist again. "Oh that's ok, her iris will dilate and become misshapen." Oh. "I also told her that she won't be contagious once the lesions crust over, and once the scabs fall off wah wah wah wah." I didn't hear a word he said after that, and apparently concluded the phone call.

Immediately, "Katie, what'd you doctor tell you about once the scabs fall off?"
Katie: "I have NO idea. As soon as he said the scabs will fall off all I could think was they were gonna fall off into my mashed potatoes at dinner, or pop off when I was talking to someone, or fall down my shirt or something."

"Ick, gross. Don't get any on me." 

I am a fearless blogger

Check out the Chinese Dogwood that’s in full bloom in my yard. To get the shots, I went up to the 3rd floor of the house, where the kids’ rooms are, and climbed out a window and onto the roof for a better angle. Not the perfect angle, but you can see it’s a lovely, lovely tree. I did not steal this tree from Barbara’s yard. She scares me.  

But what scares me even more is the mess up there in kidville. I know I’ll get nightmares about mountainous dirty-laundry monsters that loom behind doors. 

Who you calling...

I've been accused of 3 things in my life that I didn't like too much. As it turns out, at least 2 of them are not true.

1. "You turned left in front of me and made me hit you!!"
2. "You're damaged goods."
3. "You stole plants from my garden and put them in your garden."

Number 1 was yelled at me by an elderly driver and his 2 elderly passengers. When they reported this to the traffic officer, the cop asked, "but then how did you end up across her lane with a dent on your passenger side door?" Exactly.

Number 2 was some crap yelled at me by my ex-husband in a moment of extraordinary malignancy. He wanted to reconcile, but then stood me up on our "date." I cried, mad as hell that I let him hurt me yet again. His explanation--"you're damaged goods em."

And 3. A recent accusation made by my neighbor. "I see those poppies and other plants and rocks from my garden in your garden."
me: "What? Why would I take your stuff?"
her: "I've been asking myself the same thing."

This could not stand. I didn't steal anything from her garden, and I had to make her understand that. So I returned in a couple of days to discuss it with her.
me: "Barbara, what in the world makes you think I would steal things from you? I bought all my plants at the store in Pennington--"
her: "You and I both know you can't buy poppies in a store!"
me: "--What the...? OK, whatever. I bought my plants at the store in Pennington. I was with my mother at the time. Would you like to speak with her?"
her: "No, that won't be necessary."
me: "And anyway, here are your poppies right here, in this overgrown section."
her:  "You and I both know that I had lots more poppies than that. I also had garden lamps--where are they then?"
me: "Are you crazy?!

Yes, I still needed to convincer her that I didn't take anything from her garden. So I sent my mother over on Saturday while Barbara sat on her porch to explain that we shopped together recently for a variety of plants, including poppies.
Mom: "Hello Barbara! How are you? Now what's this misunderstanding about poppies all about?"
her: *dramatically ignores my mother*
Mom: *uses her measured mother-voice* "Barbara, em and I bought her poppies and some other things recently at Stony Brook..." 
her: *whistles in her over-cooked depiction of one person ignoring another*

That does it. You've been disrespectful to my ever-polite and friendly mother. The gloves are off and Plan: Make Barbara Feel Foolish is in full swing. When I drove by yesterday evening and she was outside I slowed down and told her that I’ve got a new Astilbe plant still in its container in my garden...
her: “A wha?”
me: "An ah-still-bee, Barbara. It's a perennial. A friend gave it to me the other day; please don’t decide it’s yours.” Then I pulled away while she crabbed nonsense at the back of my car.  I might just stop by every time I get something new and show her the receipts.

Why she would ever jump to such conclusions, and then hold tight to them despite all the reasonable arguments to the contrary is just beyond me. Newsflash! There’s a thief in Trenton! Must be em!

Running in New Orleans

I say we all sell our houses and chip in on one of those awesome wrought-iron-balconied, 10-foot-high-windows-with-wooden-shutters, paint-chipping-off-like-great-big-scabs, gothic-fortress homes in the French Quarter in New Orleans. So beautiful, in a down on your luck yet charming kind of way.

I took advantage of a civilized morning report time of 10:00 a.m. by running through the quieted city in the early morning hours. It was 8:00 a.m. and already pushing 90 degrees with 95% humidity, the kind of humidity that instantly fogs up your glasses when you exit the comfort of your air-conditioned hotel, a level of humidity that makes it feel like there's an extra 200 pounds of gravity to contend with. That's alright, I like it hot. Jogging through the French Quarter on a Sunday morning wasn't the best idea, however. Revelers from all over the US and abroad had left their marks in the nooks and crannies of these narrow streets. Slippery chunky splats still remained to be hosed off the sidewalks and streets, and the cacaphony of fetid smells was almost too much--urine superseded by rank garbage superseded by vomit again superseded by urine. Blech. Nevertheless, New Orleans is fabulous--gorgeous architecture, divine food, friendly locals, zany characters, and talented performers. Beautifully ripe.

Eagle eye em

I had a boon weekend as far as strange and fortuitous sightings. 

1. While gardening Sat evening a storm suddenly blew in, and I was forced to quickly gather up the garden tools. But before I ran inside, my eye was caught by the lone remaining big tree left out on the island in the middle of the river--a rowdy wind cell had caught ahold of it and was bending it this way and that way with great force, and then I heard a CRACK! like a quick thunderclap and it slowly and noisely rumbled its way down to the ground. How often are you looking right at a big tree when it decides to lie down? Hope it's not an omen.

2. While bike-riding on Monday I came upon a Turkey Buzzard while it ate the eyeballs out of the carcass of a mangled deer on the side of the road. Turkey Buzzards have much to do with your basic life-death-decay-life cycle, yet I've never seen one on the ground. I've seen them up in the air--they have the wing span of a Piper Cub. But on the ground, these things are HUGE. And frightening. I came up over a rise and found myself face to face with it--it slowly flapped once with its enormous wings and then glided just above my head and alongside me as I tootled along on my Schwinn. I did not appreciate the escort. Hope it's not an omen.

3. Also while on my Monday bike ride, I found some poor 20-year-old kid's discarded wallet, sans cash along the side of the road. It held the most elderly and decrepit-looking package of rolling papers (E-Z Widers) that I've ever seen. No omens there. 

4. While dining out Tues night with my family I was gazing lovingly into Joey's eyes when suddenly his nose started spurting bright red blood. He bled like a hemophiliac with hypertension, and I think we used an entire roll of the restaurant's paper towels to mop it up. He naturally was quite frightened by it and did do a bit of crying. The waitress earned her tip that night. Can't think what that might be an omen for.