So Frenemy Neighbor Up and Moved

Why is this woman smiling?

After various false starts over the years--putting her house on the market, taking it off again when nobody offered her astronomical sums, lots of dubious DIY projects aimed at increasing resale--Frenemy Neighbor sold her house and they are gone.

By the time this was underway, we had not spoken in a long, long time. Maybe like two years had passed since our last meaningful contact, except when I ran into her in the grocery store once or we waved half-heartedly from our minivans. Our girls haven't sought each other out in a long time, so there was no reason for us to do so. And I was long tired of her crap, even for the story-value it might provide. I think she felt that I broke up with her because she is a Republican. But it was because she is a Crazy Person.

The other night I was reading this post about the bar of soap birthday party, and I hadn't thought of it in so long, I was like, "Oh my God, this woman was real! I didn't make her up!" Go read it, refresh your memory.

So since the last time they'd tried to sell, the market has come back a bit around here, and in particular, houses in our neighborhood seem to sell fast, because the new high school over here has become very sought-after. I think Frenemy finally got her price.

Don't look at me like you're not all over Zillow all the time.

Sidebar: One part of the house listing Frenemy wrote said, "Prettiest roof in the neighborhood!" Um what okay.

Several weeks ago it became evident that they were packing up and really leaving this time, and I was very curious. Very very curious. Just not curious enough to contact Frenemy in any way to ask. I mean, the one question on everyone's mind was, are they moving up, down, or sideways? Right? But I did ask K(C)athy, who asked Miss Terry the possum lady, and she reported that they'd sold to a family with four little girls. She said they were moving farther up into the county. They always had a couple of rental properties, and it seemed that they might be going to one of those for a while.

Normal Neighbor goes, "They lived here for years and not one of us even said goodbye." And I was like, yeah. And we shrugged. It's not that we're unfriendly or grudging people; it's a measure of how alienating it could feel to know Frenemy. There were people across the street who lived here for eighteen months, and when they left, we had a farewell party.

On Halloween night, I was sitting with one of the K(C)athies, and she mentioned something FN had put on facebook. And I was seized with regret at having unfriended her years ago, because if I hadn't, I could keep tabs and see what she is up to. So K(C)athy pulled up her facebook and I began eagerly to scroll, then I saw something she said about that lady who fainted at our Kenyan president's press conference the other day and how that was all staged, and I was like, oh yeah, that's why I did that.

And I wanted to unfriend her so hard, just like it was the first time.

God, she used to drive me so crazy. Long time readers, any favorite Frenemy moments you recall?

So I met the new family and they're adorable. The neighborhood just got a little less crazy. Except not because there's all kinds of other crap, but November is a long month. Be faithful, I will attend.

xoxoxo

Let's Make It a Night You Won't Remember

Adult Halloween was last Saturday. We went to the party in our neighborhood that we always go to, the one hosted by my tennis friend where they go bananas starting on Labor Day and move out all their furniture and completely transform the place.

Whereas last year, I thought of our 1980's tennis players get-ups in, like, May, this year I was slow to get inspired. I had seen Silver Linings Playbook last year and for some reason it stuck with me. When nothing else presented itself, I quietly moved forward with that idea. Then at the last minute Matt announced he was borrowing someone's full-on movie-quality Chewbacca costume. That's really one of Matt's true inner selves, and I knew I couldn't stand in his way. But then he decided he didn't want to spend all night inside Chewbacca, so we went with my plan. It was a fun look, and in keeping with my philosophy of Halloween costumes that are kinda feel-good.

One guy guessed that we were salt and pepper shakers. I don't even know?

The day after that party, my friend asked me what kind of bra I was wearing, and then she went and bought one.

So, the party: Over the top and fun as always. Everyone looked great. Also I will never touch another jello shot. I mean, really. What the what. I swear I only had like two and there is this thing with them where you're fine and all the sudden why is this house so crooked?

I was trapped in a Dali painting so I didn't notice but apparently there was some shenanigans with the powder room, and people going into the powder room with people they shouldn't be in there with, i.e., anyone, and the hostess was having to pound on the door to dislodge whomever was in there. Lots of couples were going in there and one time, a chick and two dudes came out.

At a certain point, you kinda hope they're doing drugs. If that had been my house, I would have been like, "Get the eff out, you live AROUND THE CORNER." But I don't know. Probably somebody lost a contact lens and lots of different people were helping look for it.

My friend was Frida Kahlo and I was the only one who knew who she was. Speaking of Surrealismo.

This was at the pre-party when everything still made sense.

At one point, we were supposed to go around and play some form of Bingo based on people at the party, but I forgot the rules of Bingo. Bingo doesn't really even have rules but it was like omg so confusing!

Jello shots are dumb.

Okay so then Matt took me home. It was really a lovely time, honestly.

The next day was the three-set tennis match against the horrible trolls. My entire tennis team was at the party so it's basically a miracle that anyone won a single point. But it turns out that three sets of tennis is a great cure for whatever ails you. Also it was nighttime by then so okay.

Did you guys dress up? Anybody go as the kids from Moonrise Kingdom? Because that would be adorable but I thought of it too late. And my other friend was like, "Yeah my husband thought of that too, you guys are weird."

xoxo

Let's Ring Some Doorbells

Hank has really changed these last months.

Look who is 5'9" tall now.

These twelve year-olds weren't about to not trick-or-treat.

As I've noted before, it's against the law for a momblogger to not post pictures of her kids' Halloween costumes. Barack Obama himself will come and shut your blog down. Just close it right down.

On Halloween night, while the kids were out doing their thing, I sat in the kitchens first of one of the K(C)athies, and then of Normal Neighbor, and I exchanged a wealth of neighborhood info with those excellent ladies. There are so many changes in the 'hood to make you guys aware of. I might take a few posts to work my way around the block, filling you in on the current status of many of the characters you know from this blog.

Conspiracy Guy is well known to long-time readers. Click on his label over there on the left, or just right here, to read his history in posts. In a nutshell, his most notorious actions are being the world's most oblivious stay-at-home dad, who let his children roam the streets from the time they were two and four. I swear before the Lord, my foster children would come to my house at that age and stay for hours, without anyone inquiring after them. (Now that they are seven and nine, it is more normal for them to roam, I suppose.)

Then they got a little bigger and more girls moved into the neighborhood, and Hank is no longer their only playmate, so we see less of them. But still plenty. Conspiracy Guy's other thing, you may recall, is taking his kids out of school to home school them. Now, I think home schooling is great and I know people who are doing a completely awesome job of it. I also knew from day one that CG would muck it up in a terrible way because he is lazy and is himself ignorant.

I'm sorry if this sounds bitchy, but I'm not doing anyone a favor by shielding you from this.

So, we all continued in this way for the last few years. His little girls were doing some form of workbook home school with him in the morning hours, then walking around in the street from late morning until the elementary school bus came, when they would pounce on all the potential playmates as they got off the bus.

But this August, change was in the air. The littler one, who is the spokesperson for the two of them, told me that they had started going to home-school school. It's one of these flex-time academies that I guess is designed to supplement your at-home curriculum. There are a couple around here and they have a religious bent. Hank has another buddy who goes three days a week and is home schooled the rest of the time. Anyway. I said, to the little one, "Well, that's neat! How did you decide to do that?" She said, "My dad needs a break." Okay. But then, THEN, a couple more weeks went by and I realized that the girls seemed to be gone all the time in the mornings. The report then made its way to my ears that the school had assessed them and said that they needed to be there five days a week for extra help.

The older one, who is nine, was very candid, in a charming and guileless way. She said the school had given her the test for third grade, and she didn't know any of it, and so they said she needed to come extra days and do second grade along with her little sister. Those were her words, "I didn't know any of it." Bless her. But she seemed happy with this school arrangement, and I said that she would probably meet a lot of new friends that way, etc.

I told Matt about this whole situation, and he was like, "That guy had one job." I mean, he is just sorry. Is that harsh? He is. That nine year-old is not dumb. She is inquisitive and probably has some learning issue that someone competent could have intervened with a long, long while ago.

So last week my pediatrician buddy and I walked up to meet the afternoon bus, and the foster children were there. Hmm. I said, "Hey, no school today?" And the little one said they weren't going anymore. At all.

Back to being home all day, every day, with Jean Piaget over there.

The little one sounded like she was quoting one of her parents. She said something like, "They wanted us to go every day, and we didn't want to do that, because we want to home school." So they quit.

So maybe Conspiracy Guy has some plan for meeting the apparently urgent educational needs of these little girls. But I doubt it.

It's sad.

Sorry to be such a downer. And sorry this post is so long! I forgot how to blog and all.

Oh, OH! And speaking of Halloween, for years that we lived here, the foster children never trick-or-treated because of something to do with Seventh-Day Adventism, but this year they did. But Conspiracy Guy didn't hand out candy and kept his porch light off. Which offended my sense of Halloween reciprocity. To my kids, I was all, "That's just taking! You have to give!" To which Hank said, very serious, "Mom, it's really okay."

Okay. That's what I have for you today.
xoxoxo

That Egg Hunt Was Totally My Neighborhood

The egg hunt at the clubhouse almost got scrapped due to rainy and generally disappointing weather, but in the end it just got delayed an hour. I took Hank up there to check out the scene. There were pastel balloons on the porch and everything looked springy. When we entered, I saw right away that the lady I blogged about just the other day was standing not two feet inside the door. I began shaping my face into a greeting, but with her usual social smoothness, she glanced away before I could speak, so I just bustled right past her.

The next thing I noticed was that the new neighborhood social director, the one in charge of organizing this event, had made her ten year-old daughter the Easter Bunny. Now, this child, bless her, has some complex of issues that are unknown to me and are not obvious, but one of the ways it all manifests is that she has no sense of personal boundaries and will come tackle-hug you out of the blue. Which is fine, but startling when you don't know the kid and she locks her arms around your waist. She's a big girl too. So the odd result of this choice of Bunny was that, though several little kids were unnerved by the EB and wanted nothing to do with her, this EB didn't wait to be approached, she was coming after you. When we first walked in and Hank clapped eyes on the Bunny, he said to me, very audibly, "I don't like clowns and that thing is just like a clown." So we steered clear and went to the snack table.

I had a very nice chat with a book club friend (post forthcoming), and then with a guy tennis friend, who dangled intensifying divorce rumors about this one couple on our mixed team. It seemed the wife in the on-the-rocks couple had asked my friend to be her partner in a flex league, rather than sign up with her husband, but my friend's wife-to-be had put the kibosh on this plan, supposedly because their wedding planning was going to keep him too busy. We agreed that the wife's not wanting to register to play with her own husband was a sign. Of something. Or not.

Then the egg hunting began and I had an interesting talk with Gift of Gab's husband--I think of him as Mr. Quiet Desperation--about hiking the Appalachian Trail. His lady love sidled over, now ready to acknowledge my presence, and we had a normal social interaction. Then all the eggs had been picked up and Hank and I made good our escape.

Then, tonight, Gift of Gab sent me a linkedin invitation. Idk wtf.

That's all I have but I swear it's the same as if you'd been there. xoxo

This Lady, I Swear

If my blog were a book--I mean, if it were a novel composed by me, not if I turned my blog into a nonfiction book--there would be people I just couldn't put into the story, because the sketch of them would be too broad, not subtle enough; they wouldn't make good fictional characters because some of their character traits are too obviously ridiculous. Like, you wouldn't write a novel in which an evil villain twirled his mustache.

Take my neighbor (please)! I've mentioned her before? I think? I don't have a blog epithet for her, yet. She's one who wouldn't speak to me at the pool the whole summer I was bald from chemo, even if she'd been standing three feet away from me, but then would say to Pretty Neighbor, "I saw Becky the other day but didn't get to say hi."

But whatever, people deal with illness in different ways, and sometimes not well. My leading with that tidbit makes it sound like I harbor some bitterness towards her, but I truly don't. I never cared for her. She will talk the legs right off a donkey, but it's all about her and her things and her kids, she really doesn't want to hear about anything else. She's oblivious to social cues. She's loud. And calling her boring is a disservice to things that are just honestly boring. No shame in being boring.

Once she had Pretty Neighbor hostage, talking to her in the driveway, and PN slowly worked her way into her car to leave, murmuring her goodbyes all the while, but Gift of Gab wasn't finished with her and put her hand on the hood of PN's car to keep her in place so she could finish sucking what was left of her soul away.

It goes without saying that whatever your kids are doing, her kids are doing it just a little bit better? And ahead of developmental schedule? Or just a hair more wonderfully than your kids. You've just got to hear how baby Fletcher did at swim lessons, the teacher said she'd never seen a baby put its face in the water so quickly and willingly!

Naturally social media makes all this into an absolute nonstop farce. My own social media history with her is that I friended her, reluctantly, at her request, only to unfriend her when she posted some thing about how Obama had a bunch of relatives in this country illegally, whatever, and then she sent me another friend request, who does that? I accepted and put her on some status like, "Only show me this person's updates never," or something, but still they come through. And part of me would miss the entertainment.

She's very active on a facebook page for fanciers of tiny, ornamental dogs.

You see? You would never make this person up.

She is fond of using facebook to "check in" everywhere. Like, I kid you not, her couch or her bed. Because that's clever, huh huh huh ha ha....I'm dead.

But her favorite places to check in are 1) Church, every Sunday that she attends, so she'll receive full credit; and 2) Restaurants, where she eats every meal. One day recently, she ate four meals out. Her friends comment on her status, "Do you ever cook?" It's a culinary Grand Tour of Taco Mac, Dunkin Donuts, and frozen yogurt places.

And the irony is that she is a sales rep for one of those cookware/bakeware companies where the stuff is sold at parties.

Anyway, I can't even remember all the things that have made me go, "Oh my GOOD GOD," and roll my eyes back into my head while simultaneously texting Pretty Neighbor at the speed of light, but tonight the thing that set me off was her announcement that her middle schooler brought home her report card, having received straight 'A's for the third quarter in a row.

We were at that moment marveling at how Hank, on his report card today, earned a 2 out of a possible 4 in "Conventions of Standard English." Proud!

I was venting to Matt about the insufferable and gassy puffery of this person and how one time she said something like, "So glad my family is up early serving the Lord" or some such. I mean honestly.

Matt goes, "Well honey, you are blessed with the talent of being able to toot that horn more subtly."

Hmmmph! I say again, hmmmph!

Lady Time

Today was a whole, whole lot of lady socializing and a complete disaster eating-wise but at least I managed to not volunteer for anything. As I will explain.

This morning my tennis team had a match at our home court (I brought a mixed baby greens salad with mandarin oranges, goat cheese, and walnuts, which is not exactly cutting edge but it completely disappeared). I was planning on going and having lunch with Matt after, but my partner T and I didn't get to start playing until 11, and then it took us three hours and three sets to finally lose to these tall, friendly women who made very few mistakes. It's kind of surprising that we took one set, actually.

Anyway, so I didn't get to go eat with Matt, and instead spent nearly all darn day with my morning tennis team. Everybody on my team lost their matches. Those girls were just really good. And as we were leaving, their captain said, "Well you guys definitely get the award for the nicest team in the league." I said, "Well, thank you, that might be some consolation." They also praised our hostessing. Sometimes I think we should disband as a tennis team and start a catering business, because our bench is really deep in that area.

Then Hank had his lesson up there after school and so it was lather, rinse, repeat with some of the same characters. By this point we had all half-changed our clothes.

Then, a mere two hours later, I went to a get-together and bunco night for my Sunday tennis team, to celebrate our semi-successful fall season. I took cut up apples and chocolate dip, because I was tired. This was at our captain's house. I like her house, because while her taste is not really the same as mine, she doesn't have a lot of stuff in there. There are empty spaces, and it feels very clean and spacious that way. I could swap out some of her things in a jiff and be happy with 90% of her stuff. (What a nice compliment that would be to give her! "I would be happy with 90% of your stuff!" I can be an ass sometimes, on the inside.)

This, again, was much of the same cast of characters as the morning, with some new additions. By now, everyone was fully showered, blown out, and wearing their boots. There was sangria.

Pretty Neighbor and I recalled that, at our last tennis bunco night, which was in June and therefore fell into the blogging lacuna, I had volunteered the two of us to decorate the club house for the 4th of July and oversee the 4th of July bike parade. Our tennis friend, and the neighborhood social director, was complaining about how her kids aren't even little anymore and she needs someone to take on more of the kid activities in the neighborhood, and somehow it possessed me to gesture toward PN and say, "This seems like something you would be really good at." I know! And then, perhaps because the sangria and my tight jeans were making me dizzy, I didn't see the death glare Pretty Neighbor was giving me and wound up basically committing the two of us.

And THEN, though she did not bring this up tonight because she is too good a friend, I planned an impromptu trip to D.C. for the 4th, leaving Pretty Neighbor to be the master of ceremonies all by herself.

BEST FRIEND EVAR. I apologized profusely when I realized what I was about to do. Or as much as I could apologize through my hysterical laughter of shame. But we did the flags and everything before I left and then PN oversaw the bike parade and all was well. Okay, why am I telling you about something that happened in June? Because tonight, back at the scene of the crime, Pretty Neighbor said, "Just keep your mouth shut." And I did!

So then there was lots of lady hollering and chatting, and Normal Neighbor unveiled this cheese dip she had baked in the middle of a loaf of bread, and I only had eyes for that thing, and then I had a conversation about the fifty shades books, and then I didn't win any prizes, and we were home by 9:30.

Now it is 11:30 and I am IN BED, which, 11:30 in my house is like still the shank of the evening, but I need to sing with the larks. I hope you have enjoyed this impressionistic journey through my lady socializing. You basically now know what it was like to be there. xoxo

Adult Halloween: This Year Was My Choice

Tennis, anyone?

I first had the idea of our Halloween costumes months ago. I pondered them in my heart. As time drew near, it took some freight train-style enthusiasm on my part to get Matt on board. When he first put on the little white shorts, he said, "No." And I said, "YES!" And he was all, really? And I was like YEEEEESSSS! I think it didn't gel for him until he put the wig on. It gelled for me as soon as I saw him in those socks. Gelled big time.

This is an easy costume to do and I highly recommend it for comfort, couple-friendliness, light-hearted sunshineyness, and budget accessibility. The only real expenditure was two pairs of Adidas Sambas. But I thought they were utterly integral to my vision, and you know, I figured they are also functioning shoes, like, after Halloween. I had the old Lacoste polo, I got the wooden racquets from Pretty Neighbor (and there are a ton floating around out there), and I found the little shorts at, where else, American Apparel. We're just wearing two different sizes of the exact same shorts.

We went around the corner to a party in our neighborhood Saturday night. This is the party I told a bit about last year, where the people move out all their furniture starting Labor Day and completely transform their house. This year the theme was sort of medieval disco dungeon. Last year it was more like Zombie Ethan Frome. I think that's a thing.

Last year. Pretty sure Matt was more comfy this year.

This party is the occasion for my annual consumption of jello shots. Which were brought around by uniformed waiters this year, which I found hilarious. But also very convenient! It was all lots of fun, and the costumes were great. Yes, a lot of the ladies were nearly naked in that way of current Halloween fashions, but there were some clever things too. This lesbian couple dressed up as Wayne and Garth from Wayne's World. It was uncanny. There was also a couple doing Grant Wood's American Gothic, and it was one of those things where it's like not even a costume, it's just part of their souls. Anyway, a good time was had by all and we were home by 12:30, little the worse for the jello shots.

Nobody did anything scandalous or embarassing, that I remember, though this one lady's girl scout costume was both.

I am already thinking of next year, but to get Matt excited, I think I need an idea that engages his fantasy life. So, basically that gets us to Vikings, barbarians, other tall hirsute characters? I'm reminded of that John Cheever story where the directive for a costume party was, "Come as your heart's desire," or something to that effect, and all the men came in their old school football outfits and all the women came as brides.

Did you guys dress up? Deets plz!

Rich in Daughters

Laura (left end) was barely five here. Don't know what made me think of this pic.

How are my neighbors? They're doing good!

And here Matt would want to emend, "Superman does good. The neighbors are doing well."

Tonight we walked up the street to a graduation party for a K(C)athy's oldest daughter. Actually, the other K(C)athy moved out a few weeks ago, after a long, long divorce-and-house-selling process. She's gone to a better place. (Not heaven, but a nice townhouse in the one neighborhood that has indoor tennis courts. We're glad for her and we still see her.)

So one K(C)athy remains, and she has six children. Four of them are beautiful girls. I mean, yes all children are beautiful in their own way, of course, but her girls are really beautiful, and nice people too. They range from 18 to 5. And she has two bonus boys. When I first moved here, her youngest was a baby, and I thought, "Six kids!?! Does she know what is causing that to happen?" But now that her youngest is in school, her family plan is starting to look kind of smart. They are your basic big happy family. There is always something going on and somebody to help with it. Especially smart to have all those girls. So many girls! Looking at her tonight, the words came to my mind, "That woman is rich in daughters."

Normal Neighbor was there, and we were remarking that in no time, our girls would be finishing high school. Then she cried and cried through the slide show of the graduate, while I started planning what song I want to use in ours. Not like PLANNING planning, just idly musing, you know.

So, the neighbors:

K(C)athy is sending her grown daughter to college.

Normal Neighbor is cancer free and just got a new chocolate lab puppy.

Frenemy Neighbor has dropped off my radar completely. We never see each other except to wave from our cars, and our girls no longer seek each other out. And I unfriended her on fb after she posted a Glenn Beck screed about how the Great Depression really wasn't that bad.

The older couple on the corner opposite us who didn't believe in global warming, they moved this weekend. To Arizona. Their replacements are already installed in the house but I haven't met them yet.

Conspiracy Guy remains as ever. His daughters still while away a lot of time at my house. The other day, I took Hank to the neighborhood pool party, and they begged begged begged him to take them as well. So he did, then sat in a corner with earbuds in his ears, not in good sight of the pool, while they swam and played. I guess he figured the lifeguard and I were on top of the situation.

My Gravelly-Voiced Tennis Friend broke two ribs this weekend when she got run over by a jet ski. I think those things are dangerous. She could have been killed. And I'm thinking that she won't be playing Summer Mixed Doubles. She told me that it hurts like a mother.

Pretty Neighbor is doing fine and has been navigating the same end-of-school craziness that I have. We are both a little forlorn at the lull in tennis right now, but there is a new rec center near us and we're thinking of trying a pilates class there tomorrow.

Oh, OH, remember when I introduced you to my neighbor who keeps an opossum as her beloved pet? Miss Terry, BLESS HER HEART. Anyway, she was at K(C)athy's party and at one point she suggested to our hostess that she go home and fetch the possum, Louise, and bring Louise to the party. That suggestion made K(C)athy awesomely uncomfortable, as her revulsion at the very thought of it warred with her Southern upbringing, and her inclination to try to please her guests, all her guests, howe'er crazy they may be. She said, weakly, "Um, maybe if you hold her and don't put her down anywhere?"

(Here let me note that this party was BYOB, as the graduate's grandparents were providing all the refreshments and they are strict teetotaler Baptists. And in the middle of this scene of Potential Possum Visitation Discussion, I felt that maybe the one bottle of pinot noir I'd brought wouldn't see me through an Actual Possum Appearance.)

And Miss Terry then said she needed someone to drive her up the block, wait while she fetched Louise, and then drive her back. And K(C)athy was like, "Well, I don't know if that will happen..." Then she slowly walked away, looking transfixed as though something very important elsewhere required her attention. So Miss Terry went home and there was no Louise.

So that happened, and we had some cake and little chocolate eclairs, and then we walked over to see Normal Neighbor's puppy, with his baggy puppy skin and huge paws, and then we came home. Thought you might want to know what the nabes are up to. Where did I start this post? Something about daughters.

'Night!
xo

A Searching and Fearless Moral Inventory

Tennis practice this morning was kind of weird. Yeah, this has become one of the those blogs where I talk to you not about the sport of tennis, like, in itself, but about my local culture of tennis and how it makes me feel. You know, one of those blogs.

So why was it weird? First off, we were all pretty rusty after having had a week or ten days off. Only my friend T had played over break, but that girl watches tennis on youtube (vids of the Bryan brothers) and takes notes. Girl is dedicated. Anyway, we were all rusty but I in particular played like ass. Such that, at one point, the coach called out, "Becky, WHAT? You're just not swinging at all!" And I tried to yell, "Yes Coach!" but while I'm talking I'm comically clumsy. It's like I was all, "Okay, I got this!" then slipped on a banana peel. Or stepped into a mop bucket. The tennis equivalent of that.

Also, I didn't get to hang with my cadre of buddies, but was paired with a perfectly nice woman I'll be partners with on Thursday. We won a match together a couple of weeks ago, for our other team (a lot of these girls are on the same two teams, confusing). She's fine, we just don't know each other that well.

Meanwhile, Debbie Downer, from last week's post, is paired with Pretty Neighbor again this week. And not to beat a dead horse, or dogpile on someone who, as I have already stated, is a bit crazy, while we were on vacation she sent a whackadoo email to the whole team, apologizing for having played badly and enumerating specific areas of her game she was going to work on. I was going to tell you immediately but really, too cringe-inducing. And today she did her best to horn into a conversation I was having with the coach about my string tension. MY string tension, mine! But enough! Let us just wish her well and return to ladylike placidity on the subject.

I don't know, Reader, but it gave me something to think on as I drove home from dropping Laura at swimming. And then the Chick fil A employee in the drive-thru line told me they were out of vanilla wafers for the new banana pudding milkshake and I was like, "Dammit! Why is everything such CRAP?"

But I rallied somewhat afterwards.

And that was a lot of what happened today.

Worst blog post EVAR.

But you have my love!

Ladies, Seriously (A Tennis Post)

I hope you guys won't think I'm mean spirited when I tell you that there is a girl on my tennis team who is a crazy ding dong. Bless her heart. She started out as merely annoying, but she has become so much more.

I mean, I'm going to spare you the details of the low-grade drama that is constitutive of ladies' doubles tennis, drama that's pervasive and constant, like microwave radiation in deep space. So, for example, when my bud T calls me after practice one day to tell me that Gravelly-Voiced pal asked her if she likes to play as my partner, because she heard maybe she didn't, and T was upset, nay, outraged, by this implication and wanted to air it all out and tell me all about it and how she loves to play with me and how Gravelly-Voiced girl is mistaken, I don't really give a crap. I mean, it didn't cause me a moment of, "Well, what if T doesn't want to play with me?" or "Where is this malicious chatter coming from?" Because while I am not laboring under the delusion that everyone thinks I am a great tennis player, I do assume that everyone likes me and wants to be my friend. This could also be a grand illusion, but it's how I move along in this world.

So there is some nitter-nattering of this kind all the time. But everyone is having a good time and improving her game, so it's a good team.

But this woman! You would recognize her as a basic Debbie Downer. Or that's how she struck me when I first met her: nothing is ever right and we're probably all walking straight into some hidden peril. She doesn't live in our neighborhood, and nobody really knows her very well. So okay, she's annoying, but this season, her behaviors and negative talk have gotten worse, and more to the point, they now take up more and more bandwidth in practice.

The way this plays out is that she is so down on herself and her playing, so loudly and constantly down on herself, that it is ABSOLUTELY CRAZY-MAKING. Reader, I don't even know how to tell you. Every shot she misses, she either wants to explain why, or she wants to berate herself, not with a quick, "Um, whoops?" but with an entire monologue that starts with how terrible she is and ends nowhere. It's like playing tennis with Eeyore.

At the beginning of this season, I thought her endless bellyaching was strategic: This is a group practice that we pay a coach to run, and the etiquette of the situation dictates that everyone is entitled to the same smallish amount of the coach's individual attention. But if you moan and bitch like you're actually dying instead of not swinging through on your backhand, the coach will pull you aside for a little private session at the end of practice. The squeaky wheel and all.

But as we've spent more time practicing together, I've come to think that, yes, in some ways she receives positive reinforcement for her behavior, but that there is something clinically wrong with her. A whole big bundle of things. I would say she has anxiety issues? But I know plenty of people dealing with anxiety and they do not bother the shit out of everyone around them.

Okay, so if we fast-forward through my venting, we get to how I was paired with her as partners for our match the week before last. When I saw the line-up, I was fine with it. The hilarious part is that the girl can actually play pretty good tennis. So I thought, okay, this isn't a cross-country road trip together, it's a morning tennis match. Let's play.

Then our team captain sidles up to me in practice and says, "I'm sorry that you're playing with Eeyore. Somebody has to play with her and this week it's you." And I was embarrassed that she even said that, I was embarrassed that she drew me into a situation where I was expected to speak ill of someone, which I would rather not do. (That's what blogging is for.) I don't know, it was awkward. So I just said, brightly, "It's fine! It's great!"

Then, THEN, the next day I was up at the courts before Laura's lesson, and our coach came over to me. She began, "Now Becky, when you play your match this week, you're gonna have to be sort of a psychologist."

Okay, you know you're crazy when the coach is trying to help other people deal with how crazy you are.

She went on to advise me to stay positive and not indulge the girl's constant self-downing, to remind her to focus on the point at hand, etc. The best part was when she said, "I'm sorry, because I know this puts more pressure on you," and Pretty Neighbor, who was standing nearby and who was glued to this exchange, piped up and said, "Oh, Becky doesn't care about that." I laughed because it was true! Honey Badger don't care!

Long story short, Eeyore and I went out to play our match and won the first set, 6-4. Then we lost the next set 4-6. Okay, it was close. We were in good shape and we should have won in the third. One of the girls we were playing against was somebody I beat last year. But my partner was just in a tailspin over the errors she had made. It was crazy. Like, if she were an actress, I would have been like, "Okay, you're hamming it up here. Not believable." At one point, during a changeover, she goes, "I feel like they've gotten in our heads!" And I said, "They're not in my head! Come on!"

I'm not good enough at tennis to overcome that kind of inertial typhoon of pain, and we lost the third set worse than the second.

Then, then, THEN, just last week, she was paired with Pretty Neighbor. Their match did not go well, and PN told me she knew they were doomed even before play started. Standing chatting before warm up, Downer Girl said, "I just hope I have a good match." And then she turned to PN and said, fearfully, "But what if I don't?" PN told me, "I knew right then we were screwed." I mean, "What if I don't?"

So y'all, I feel bad for this person! I also want to stay away from her. I am sorry this post is so long. I just need to process? Just hug me, we don't have to talk.

The other night, on a whim, I thought, "I wonder if there are any books about tennis psychology?" So I googled "tennis psychology." Um, yes, there are books about that. (I'm new to sport, I didn't know sports psychology was a thing, like, at all.) So I ordered a couple of them, not to help Eeyore, because I think her issues are deeper, but to work on my own focus and discipline in match situations.

On the bright side, I have been playing a lot of tennis. I'm kind of on two teams now, did I tell you that? Hilarious. Two practices and two matches a week, plus pick up games, shirts-and-skins style, with the girls in the 'hood. Some of it is sinking in, as I have been winning more. Tiger blood.

xoxo

I Am Like A Golden Buddha

So, when we left off with our party report, I had consumed two point five glasses of red wine and been introduced to a world of New Sensations. I had also had my ears assaulted by unbelievable amounts of lady-hollering. It was like a nine year-old girl's slumber party. And, yes, just like a slumber party, many people were in their PJ's and there was gossip.

Oh! And I forgot to tell you! Remember the post about the email from the crazy book club lady whose son-in-law was terrorizing the neighborhood? Well, her daughter was at this party. I had finally met the crazy-ish mother at book club and was most interested to see her daughter. Now I just need the son-in-law to complete the set. Anyway, Pretty Neighbor knows her, and I was like, "Get her over here and let's ask her what the heck went on that time." But there was not enough wine to make that happen.

Anyhoo, the Passion Hostess finished her presentation and PN and I decided to take our afterglow upstairs and get in line for the tanning. This was one of those houses where the layout is really nice, but in the interest of creating a roomy feeling, the builder just has these weird spaces here and there that you don't know exactly what to do with. You know what I mean? Like, their second floor landing had swollen into a sitting area with a huge couch, coffee table and chairs, and a secretary. I don't know if anyone in the family ever uses this area. Its best use might be for waiting one's turn to be spray tanned in the master bedroom.

So some shiny giggling women leave the bedroom and PN and I get to go in. We had grabbed the sweats we brought out of our huge purses. The tanning lady was a petite blonde with a very friendly vibe and rubber gloves. We introduced ourselves and discussed how she lives in a subdivision up the road, the one that famously has indoor tennis courts. Truly the woman who has everything.

I said, "So should we just strip?" She was like, "basically, yeah." She said we could take off as much or as little as we wanted, she had those paper thongs for us to wear if we wanted.

But I had been prepared and had worn my own thong. Sidebar: as I was getting ready, Matt was like, "You own thong underwear?" Like, why wasn't I informed of this? I said, "Yes, sure, I just never wear them because it's like having something in your hiney crack." He said, "And not in a good way?" Correct. So, the skimpiest thong I have, and the one I thought the best for spray tanning, is the actual pair of thong underwear I wore to my senior year of college Homecoming Dance. I am not kidding, I still have them. There is so much...I just can't even talk about it. I will say that the dance was held at the National Building Museum, which is pretty! End of sidebar!

So I said I'd tan first and carefully separated myself from my new fancy jeans. Then I took off my shirt and said to the girl, "Now, warning, I had a mastectomy and I have a scar. Don't be startled." She didn't actually yawn, but she was like, "Yep, I've seen all the kinds of naked there are." So, okay. I just felt that wearing a bra to be spray tanned was too fussy.

Then she put this barrier cream all over my palms so the tanning solution wouldn't adhere to them. (The side of my thumbs still wound up a rich mahogany.) Then she directed me into this little teepee looking thing that she had brought and had set up in the bedroom so the tan stuff wouldn't go everywhere. It was open at the top and on one side. She told me how to stand and then started spraying. It was like standing in a cold pineapple-scented mist. Not unpleasant. It took a few minutes, I guess, and then I went and stood in front of a big fan to dry off.

PN entered the tanning zone and here things slowed waaay down. I don't know if it was the wine or the nakedness or what but we all got very chatty. No one more chatty than the tanning lady. She had a lot to say about her search for a church home and all manner of other subjects. Which meant, for PN, that the girl would turn off the tanning solution and just be spraying her with cold air while she talked. It was hilarious! Hilarious to me, anyway, because by then I was leaning against a doorway and eventually I was dressed. I mean, I don't know, I think her tan took five times as long as mine? Chatty chat CHAT chat!

I ventured deeper into the bathroom complex to find the toilet. Here again, just massive amounts of space everywhere. It made my own bathroom, which we call the Golden Palace, look like the in-room lavatory at a Super 8. First I had to journey through a closet, fully expecting Narnia to be on the other end, and then a vanity area with mirrors on either side for a nice mise-en-abyme effect, and then finally to the pee pee pagoda. And there was music booming out everywhere from speakers in the walls and exciting lighting. I barely found my way out.

Then PN and I each gave the tanning girl $20 and we parted fast friends. When we stumbled back downstairs, dewy and fruit-smelling, the place had basically cleared out. We had been gone almost an hour, maybe we really were in Narnia. We ate some cheese dip and planned out how to pry T away from some drunk, intent girl who was explaining to her how the 1% need to be taxed at a lower rate because they are job creators. I decided that shrill, out of control laughter that would split the very ceiling was not the best tactic for pulling her away. Finally I just put my hand on her shoulder and said, "I'm sorry. Let's go." And later T was like, "OMG I kept glancing at you to get you to save me!" And I was like, "Not even."

So omg I have had so much fun typing this! Obviously. Then we all went home and when I walked into my house, still in the middle of our child-free weekend, Matt was all like, "Weeelllll, how was it?" And I said, "Sorry fella, stay over there, I'm tanning!" Also I smelled like pineapple-y dog pee.

The girl had told us that the tan would activate over the next twelve hours. And lo, it did. When I got up in the morning (after sleeping on a dark sheet that wouldn't show stains), I looked at myself in the mirror and went AAAAHHHH! I had last night's mascara on AND was seriously tan. I looked like a raccoon on vacation in Aruba. After I got the makeup off, it was a little less alarming.

So given that I didn't have any special plans and had just tanned for the hell of it, I rocked that savage tan to the preschool Storybook Stroll, several swim practices, karate classes, and a casual evening with friends and takeout food. Yesterday, at the playground, I saw the mom of a buddy of Hank's. She goes, "Wait, are you tan?" Like, what in the world?

But it looks good! I tried half heartedly to photograph it and you just can't tell. Picture me as I am, only a few shades darker. I would totally do it again, though I might have her do my face more lightly. She said that if you can get six girls together, she'll come do a house party, so I might do one closer to summer.

Oh, the big tanning revelation is the buns! Tanned buns! I have never seen my buns so tan and it really works. I see now why body builders/pageant queens do it. That area is a nice toasty brown and the thong lines are cute.

Now you really do know everything about me.

Thank you for letting me overshare. I hope that you have found some enjoyment from this relation. Wishing you toasty buns.

Shee-nanigans: That Party Report

I don't know what was weirder: how vanilla this "passion party" was; or how weird the world would be had it NOT been so vanilla. If you follow.

Exhibit A: The thing I'm holding in this picture. It's a feather tickler on one end and the world's tiniest, most adorable riding crop on the other. It's like a sex toy for an American Girl doll. (Probably that new Marie-Grace, amiright?) I smacked my tennis friend over and over again as hard as I could--you know, like you do--and I don't think she even felt it.

(Exhibit B, an unrelated exhibit: Those are my new fancy jeans. Matt took me out on Saturday afternoon and I tried on a zillion pairs of incredibly tight jeans for my now-skinnier bohiney. It was the world's most awesome date, y'all. My kind of romance. The bad phone picture makes the color/fade on them look really extreme, but it's not. Where was I? This might be another post. Definitely.)

I'm getting ahead of my story. Pretty Neighbor and her hubs played a quick set of tennis with Matt and me Saturday night before the party. She and I were into going to meet and greet--it was just around the corner--but we weren't sure we were up for the spray tan. Logistically, getting a full-body spray tan in the middle of this event was seeming like a hassle to me. The invitation suggested wearing dark, loose clothing so the tan solution wouldn't stain them, and even said, "Just come in your bathrobe!" Both PN and I were like, ah, no thanks. I was all, "I don't want to go to a party in my pajamas, I want to go in these new jeans I just got that I can only stand up in!" So we decided we might bring sweats to change into post-tan, because I was curious about the tanning, having never had one.

Honestly, Reader, it was knowing that I needed to get the full experience to report to you that spurred me on. You make me want to be a better (wo)man.

So PN and I calculated that the proper arrival time was 30 minutes after the start time given on the invite, and we sidled over and picked up our tennis friend T. Now, T had told me that she wouldn't be tanning because she wasn't into the nakedness required, but then she comes out of her house in actual jammies and slippers, saying "I hope I'm not the only one in pajamas!"

Well, T needn't have worried. We were greeted at the door of a beautiful house by our hostess, who was clad in--and I would never kid you about this--fleece, leopard-print footie pajamas that zipped from her crotch to her neck. As she welcomed us inside, we said, "Have you already tanned?" and she pulled us under a brighter light and then unzipped her jammies. Unzipped them rather a lot. We admired her golden-brown boob, and then I was like, "Oh goodness, shall I just leave my purse right here?" and "I'll just find a place to put this wine."

It was a very Just Us Gals moment and it set the tone perfectly for what was to come.

Then we joined the party and PN caught a glimpse of the sex toy presenter lady, who had a little table and a giant pink suitcase full of her wares, and was like, "Oh, I know her." She was super nice, Columbian, outgoing, and plays A2 level tennis. So we chatted with her and took in the scene. Lots of nice food and probably forty girls there, many of them in their pajamas.

Pretty Neighbor and a Giant Bundt Candle

It was certainly raucous. At one point, prompted by what I don't know, our leopard-footied hostess raised her voice and proclaimed, a little heatedly, to everyone, "I don't have a dildo, I don't need a dildo, I don't want a dildo, I am a GOOD CATHOLIC GIRL." PN and I risked neck injury by whipping around to look at each other. It was a rich instant of human life. If I didn't have a blog, one would have sprung fully-formed into existence right then, willed by the exigencies of the moment. I'll just note that it seemed rather like protesting too much.

Eventually we all perched on the furniture in the living room for the "passion party" portion. This was where, EVEN HERE, my congenital need to be the good student surfaced. The presenter lady was having a hard time being heard over the outbreaks of laughter and general rowdiness. As you might imagine. So I wanted to show my best respectful listening, and I even had the Hermione Granger impulse to be like, "SHHHH! You guys! She's talking about PHEREMONES! This is IMPORTANT!" I didn't though.

But it led to the presenter having to raise her voice and basically scream, "LADIES, GOD HAS BLESSED US WITH A CLITORIS!" Those were her exact words. And all the people said amen. She said it several times for different products.

From the catalog

So, the products. This was really interesting to me, to see how this was all presented. The catalog starts (and her spiel started) firmly in the familiar discursive space of self-pampering. Ladies, ya gotta take care of yourselves and find pleasure in everyday activities like bathing, grooming, etc. Body lotions, oils, and sprays with names like Entice and Glow can ease the drudgery of living. Everything is an "experience" or a "transformative escape" that will make you feel "deliciously irresistible." This should tell you what it was like, this first part: there was a pack of 100 silk rose petals for you to strew on your sheets (and clean up after, I suppose). They came with four tealight candles and "an invitation for your lover." T bought them.

Every product was lickable or edible. She went around and squirted some kind of goo on everyone's fingers and was like, "Try it!" I was like, "Uh no way am I EATING that stuff that just came out of that tube." I mean, I am game for just about whatever, but please.

It all smelled pretty good. Mangosteen is an important fragrance in this world.

Okay, so there were these various unguents, then some lube, which seemed pretty good, then more products that make your skin tingle in various ways and locations. One of them is called Nympho Niagra. Believe.

Then we broke for more wine before she brought out the big guns.

First we looked at these little chapbooks. Tickle His Pickle and Tickle Your Fancy. The pickle one promised, improbably, 50 ways to tickle that pickle. (Cue Paul Simon? "Ya just blow some air, Claire.")

I apologize. For this whole post. If you have better gags please share. I am truly over my head here.

The Tickle Your Fancy book was For Us, and contained hints for "self-pleasure and "awareness." LADIES, GOD HAS BLESSED US...

So Pretty Neighbor had the most concise critique of the night, I thought, when she observed, "Hey, in the pickle book it's all pictures of the woman pleasing the man, and in the girl's book it's all pictures of her by herself. Doesn't anyone wanna help her tickle her fancy?" Yes, truly. That was the overall tone of much of what was presented: spicing up your sex life is a DIY project, ladies.

Okay, I got to hand it to the copywriters of this catalog, and to whomever trains the sales presenters, they get through the whole shebang and never, never say any ugly words. They are at particular pains to avoid "blowjob." The preferred term is "oral favor." Which I actually found kind of sweet. I don't know. I was into my third glass of wine by that point.

One of the little vibrators plugs into a USB. And one looked like a lipstick. Everything comes with cute drawstring sacks so the cleaning lady doesn't have to see it. One had a suction cup base, and she stuck it to the mantle. I took a picture but I don't want that picture looking at me on the front page of my blog for days and days.

I also took a picture of Pretty Neighbor holding a really complicated dildo in each hand, but she hissed, "Don't you dare put that on your blog!"

Presented without comment and I will not answer questions, Mom.

So I said this whole thing was vanilla, but you know, by the end, if you flip to the back pages of the catalog, the train takes you straight to Funkytown. The product range passes through every kind of dildo--all the Sex and the City girls ones--and gets right into what most people would think of as kinky.

Before it gets there, though, it passes through silly. When I was telling Matt about the whole night, I got as far as, "There's a c**k ring that looks like a Goodyear tire," and he burst into a giggle of pure joy. Like a child on Christmas morning.

And as unlikely as it seems, that product is reversible? There is also pink duct tape.

Then, at length, properly prepared and educated in the worlds of exploration and escape, we arrive at the section entitled, "A New Sensation!" You get me. (I don't want those searchable terms on my blog forever and ever.) And here I must say, Mom and Dad, that I had no idea what it was talking about and I flipped through a copy of Readers Digest Condensed Books instead. I mean, I knew what all the words meant but not when put together in that way!

Okay, I'm lying on the fainting couch now.

Now I'm back.

And Lord, the hooting and hollering at every moment of this.

This post is already way, way WAY too long and I haven't even gotten to the tanning! Which was seriously a whole separate experience. Tomorrow! There is no way you have read this far!

Wishing you pleasure and awareness.
xo

I Say Yes To A Bunch of That!

I spend a fair amount of time fending off invitations to things in my neighborhood that are called parties but don't really sound like parties to me. You know, like buy-this-fancy-ice-cream-scooper-that-you-can't-put-in-the-dishwasher parties, pay-money-to-try-this-bad-make-up parties, and then there's bunco. Lordy, the bunco.

This morning, though, I got an email from my gravelly-voiced tennis friend inviting me to a dildo party. It is not strictly called a dildo party, it has some name like Celestial Throbbings or similar. I'm being for serious, the name is something like that. This is a first for this neighborhood, as far as I know. Most (okay all) of my friends, whatever their private proclivities, are too genteel or reticent to host such a thing. But this is the bunco crowd and they are a little harder-partying. Like, some of them smoke cigarettes. Which is basically not done in this sphere anymore, ever.  

So I was all, "Dildo party, that's funny," and then I got to the best part. It's not only a dildo party, it's a spray tan party! The invite promises:

I have a woman coming to the house and she will set up in my master bedroom and one by one we will go upstairs and get gorgeous spray tans. It's only twenty dollars and trust me she won't miss a spot. 

I don't want to quote the invitation at greater length, but I do want to convey to you that the whole communication, everything about it--diction, font choice and size, grammar and punctuation, everything--just exudes a past-its-prime good timey-ness that is a real breath of beery air. The hostess closes the invitation by saying, "The men would kill to be a fly on the wall at this party--LMFAO!" Then there really needed to be a belch emoticon, if one existed.

When I read this, I hollered "YEEEEEESSSSS!" My neighbors perusing sex toys and going upstairs "one by one" to be thoroughly spray tanned? No way will I miss the chance to go to this event so I can describe the scene for you. No way. I take my commitment to you guys too seriously for that, you can be sure, so relax. I'm on it. 

So that's happening. And Matt and I have mixed doubles match tomorrow if it doesn't rain. Here it is after nine and my kids are still running free through the house. I'm going to go S that D. xoxo-B

Good and Bad Behavior on The Tennis Team

A fan letter Laura wrote. Roger always behaves beautifully.

So Matt and I have joined a mixed doubles team in our neighborhood. It just started up this fall, and it's made up of several of my buddies from the ladies' team and their husbands. First match is Sunday. The captain is my gravelly-voiced, rough around the edges, bunco-playing, into everything acquaintance. Friend? For me, familiarity always breeds fondness, so I would say we are friends by now. I've gotten used to her basically abrasive approach to the world.

Most of my girl pals joined the team in hopes of actually being partnered with their husbands. I thought that was the normal way to do things in mixed doubles, especially a C-level team, but apparently it's not, and it's up to the captain to pair men and women based on ability, not on who goes home together. Okay, I had an inkling of that, but I figured Matt and I would get to play together in a match sometimes. But my good buddy T--the one who uses the face cream made of foreskins--has chafed against this protocol, and when the line-up for Sunday was released, which had her and her husband playing in different lines with other people, she was upset.

She texted me that night after practice:

I hate the line-up.  I wanted to play with my husband so we could do something together. This freakin' swingers' tennis sux.

I laughed at "swingers' tennis" (coming to a suburb near you!) but I figured she just needed to vent. Well.

Then yesterday morning, she copied me on this email that she sent to the captain:

[Hubs] and I wanted to play mixed double in order to do something together and this is not headed in that direction. The first few practices were great - rotating around- but as of the last couple of practices, we don't get to play together at all; I could understand you breaking us up if we didn't play well together, but we do; therefore the line-up doesn't make sense to us either. But I guess it doesn't have to because you are the captain, which was apparent in your attitude last night.  If we were regular members of the team, we would suck it up and finish the season, but we are only alternates so we will play this Sunday and then we are done. If you decide you don't want us this weekend (which is probably now the case), just let me know.

Well, when I read that, I said, "Whoa." I don't think I'm overreacting in saying that, down here, in our cultural register, this is a relationship-severing email, especially for people who are just casual friends. T is a sweet girl, and I sympathized with her position and the impulse that led her to write that, but I would not have written that, and would have tried some honey instead.

All I said in response was, "Well, you definitely got your point across! Let me know what she says." Then Pretty Neighbor and I were all, "OMG, the captain is going to spray weed killer on her lawn." We anticipated lots of huffiness and hurt feelings all around. I was especially thinking that this would lead to an awkward Spring ladies season, as neither of those two are about to quit that team.

But gravelly-voiced friend surprised me. T forwarded her reply and it was:

Sorry for the misunderstanding about being able to play together all the time in the ALTA team. You and he will be able to play together some of the time. This week we need him to play line two and he could have been line one this week based on everyone’s availability. 

When [husband] and I want to play together we play either T2 or Ultimate. (We get too much time together sometimes ;-) 

We want you to play. You come to the practices all the time and that’s why you are in the line-up. We understand if you don’t want to continue playing, though. ;-( Let me know.

Tennis Captain has obviously imbibed the lesson that A Soft Answer Turneth Away Wrath. I have not been giving her enough credit. I was impressed that she didn't rise to the bitchy bait. And T forwarded me her reply and said something like, "Well! Okay then!"

And for me this is just a continuing exploration of how, as I get older, if I basically like a person and think she's decent, I'm willing to put up with some of her shit and it's no big deal. Especially a casual friend who doesn't live under my roof. Both these girls have had instances of Imperfect Conduct, and so have I. Yet I still enjoy moving in their circles. So whatever, here's to bitching out sometimes.

The email I sent to Pretty Neighbor about this was titled OMG TENNIS DRAMAZ!!!!1

We are enjoying ourselves here in the burbs.
xo
b

PS: Book club is next week. Yes!

That Is Not Festive

Is your community plagued by the scourge of the inflatable Christmas yard decoration? This is my neighbor's house. I drive by several times a day, and Frosty, Santa, and Rudolph are ALWAYS lying down on the job. Rudolph looks like he just slipped in a puddle of his own Christmas cheer.

At least at night they're inflated. During the daytime, they lie there as wrinkled shells of themselves, looking for all the world like giant, discarded Christmas condoms. I kind of wish our HOA would institute a brutal crackdown. Eyesore! Litter!

Yes, I need to sip some wassail and chill.

I do think those inflatable things can be cute, maybe, if they're inflated. Eh, you know what, I was going to try to say something conciliatory so as not to alienate anyone, but we can just leave it with, inflatables are not to my taste.

Now, do we possess an adorable light-up tinsel Rudolph and tinsel penguin that we will be placing on our front porch tonight? Affirmative. So it's not all small white lights and fresh garlands from the Maine woods up in here. Heh.

We're going to get our Christmas tree today. Yay! I just like having a huge tree in the house. If it could stay there all year, that would be great. As it is, I tend to leave it up long enough to honor Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. My mother-in-law once redecorated hers with red bows and hearts for Valentines Day.

I also love all of your comments on my previous post. Matt and I have been reading them and exclaiming over them. Just, wow. Here's to some peace of mind and better days for those who need some.

Oh, hey, I have a nice Christmas playlist that I made, over on Spotify. If you have Spotify, you can click here I think to listen? I spent a ridiculous amount of time putting this together. Back in September. I'm all about readiness.

Smacks,
B

This Book Club Might Be A Tiny Bit Weird

There was no wine there, and it could have used some.

Earlier today I got an email addressed to the whole book club distribution list, about twenty people. It was from this lady whom I've never met or heard of, and it started out as just a note to let everyone know she wouldn't be at the meeting tonight. Even early in the message, though, I thought we might be riding a Crazy Train, because her explanation for missing the meeting was way too detailed. It's what we call a soft sign.

The hard sign came in the next paragraph, which read:

On a side note:  I'm sure everyone is wondering what happened at my daughter and son in law's home [in our neighborhood] last Monday and I'm aware that someone on [street] is causing alot of issues trying to find out. Please know that none of the neighbors nor their children were in any danger, we were very concerned for my son in law and fortunately everything has turned out well.  All I ask is that if you know someone is asking please ask them to respect my family's privacy as I know you all will. 

Um...do what now?

Hi Neighbor! Of what are you talking? I HAVE NOT THE PLEASURE OF UNDERSTANDING YOU.

The next message in my inbox was from Pretty Neighbor, forwarding me the above message with just a single comment: Why the face? I was all, it's like they WANT me to blog about them.

I'll just say that if her goal was for everyone to respect her family's privacy, this was an odd move, as it immediately caused a dozen people to leap onto the phone trying to scare up some information. I texted my tennis friend T, because she usually knows everything, and all she had was that there were five or six police cars outside this family's house on the day in question, and the wife of the house sitting cross-legged in the street. Pretty Neighbor's theory was Suburban Meth Lab, my theory tends toward Son-in-Law having a psychotic episode. Her saying that the neighbors weren't in any danger makes me think there was a gun involved. It seems clear that there is some episode of human pain and bad stuff behind this, but the way she aired it in this email is ridiculous.

When we got to book club, T opened with, "So what's up with that email?" Nobody had any hard intel, but EVERYONE said, "Why did she send that? None of us knew anything had happened OR were prying into it." Buzz buzz! But I bet they will do some prying now. If I were that woman's daughter (or son-in-law), I would be mortified.

Then there was, like, a book that we discussed, kind of. One of the organizers read aloud some of the questions in the "Readers' Guide" at the end of the paperback edition and people responded to them. I came clean right up front that I'd only read 106 pages of the book and I just couldn't get into it. This didn't seem to be a criterion for exclusion from the meeting. One girl said, "I know we've had meetings where nobody had finished the book." LOL. It sounded like the last half of Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet might have been better, though. Sometimes in the discussion there were odd detours into unrelated subjects, but I think this is par for the book club course? It was fine.

I was glad Pretty Neighbor had finished the book, or we would have looked like assholes.

They were all nice ladies, even and especially the two older ladies who could not return my or Pretty Neighbor's calls for months. I enjoyed meeting them, and I enjoyed eating the snacks. Next month is The Red Queen, by that lady who has written a separate novel about every single Tudor, Lancaster, and York, or that's how it seems. Then, for January, I got them to agree to Serena, by Ron Rash. Yay!

Yes y'all, at my first book club meeting, I got a book on the schedule. Thug life.

xoxo
Me

Well Then Come Right In

This evening at 5:55, Laura was at her friend's for a sleepover (she has the whole week off from school), Matt was in the basement working, Hank was finishing his first supper in the dining room, and I was walking in that mom circuit from the kitchen to the laundry room to the living room to the dining room. Do you have that circle in your house? I've worn a groove.

The doorbell rang. I opened it to see my two little foster children from two houses over, Conspiracy Guy's daughters. I greeted them. They never say anything at the door, like "Hello," until they're prompted. They just stand there with faces of mute expectation. After a moment they let it be understood that they wanted to come in and play with Hank.

Now, at 5:55 at my latitude today, it was dark. So I said, "Girls, do your mom and dad know you're here? It's dark, don't they want you at home now?" The little one shook her head. "They said we can stay until 7."

Oh, well that's all right then. Super, if your dad says that you can show up here at dark and stay for an hour, then what concern could I possibly raise?

Hank scrambled down from the bench and led them to the trampoline. After they'd jumped for about ten minutes, they all three filed through the back door, ready to begin the indoor play portion of the visit. I said, "Okay girls, it's nighttime. Time to go home!" And so they did.

(I probably would have let them stay out on the trampoline longer, but lately I have developed an intolerance for seeing able-bodied children sitting around on my furniture.)

Reader, if you had told your child that she could set out at dark to a neighbor's house and stay until 7pm, and then your child was sent home again in ten minutes, would you take any sort of lesson or mental note from that experience? 'Cause these people won't.

An Update On Some Lovable Characters

This was baby Hank in his first Halloween costume, a ferocious bear.

Rawrr.

And here is my nephew Gabriel making that costume his own.

Urge to squeeze him...overwhelming! Seeing him in that bear suit, I know that my heart will go on. I love seeing the kids' hand-me-downs on other kids in the family. He and Hank do look remarkably alike to me. Anyway, Baby G continues to grow in stature and wisdom. I have a couple of little video clips from our time together in the mountains last month. If you like things that are adorable, you might want to watch.



Genius baby. Watch in high def for maximum cute.

And here is my sister absentmindedly holding him while I film her. This was pretty much the scene. One of us holding him and somebody else capturing the moment.

G checks out Matt.

Hmm now. My post title promised you "characters" plural and I have only given you one baby character. Let's see. I've also been meaning to tell you how Normal Neighbor is doing with her cancer treatment. When I last mentioned her, she was in consultation about whether to have this somewhat investigative procedure. She and the surgeon decided not to do that (whew) and instead to do radiation therapy targeted at this one remaining lymph node. So she is about halfway through her 30 treatments right now.

When she was telling me the treatment plan, she was dreading the daily driving down into the city, and I agreed that it was an awful grind. But get this: some folks from her husband's club (he's a golf pro) have given her a car service. A large black man in a large black cadillac picks her up every morning and drives her to Emory, over an hour away. That has got to be the greatest gift you can give someone in that situation. Just awesome. These same friends have also got someone cleaning her house. Those friends are good friends to have.

So I think she is going to be okay, and that this will be the last thing. I hope it is. Her treatment has dragged on longer than mine did. It has been this entire year. At this point, my cancer treatment seems kind of like a bad weekend I had once.

Another lovable character: Frenemy Neighbor. One weekend night lately, Matt and the kids and I were up at the tennis courts. Matt and I were playing in earnest and the kids were whacking balls around. FN texted and asked if Laura could play, so I told her to just bring P up to the courts and the girls could hit. FN gets there, and instead of making the drop-off, saying hi, and leaving, she hangs on the fence and wants to talk to Matt and me. Now, we had not left our court positions and showed no inclination to chat. We were engaged in the playing of tennis. The fact that we kept calling out the score and playing points could have been a clue. But she was all talky talk talk with the talking. And then, THEN, a new and unsuspecting neighbor wandered up, and she turned her attention away from us and proceeded to suck the very life out of him. I enjoyed watching it, because what he was going through was what I must have looked like six years ago when we moved here. She gave him the full interrogation, whipping out her phone to enter his and his wife's contact info and quizzing him on their occupations and livelihood. She left him a desiccated husk. I say that in a loving way. She lovingly sucked the life out of him and I'm lovingly reporting it to you. I am all about the love.

So now you are up to date on some of the haps.
xo
b

But When You Rub It, It Turns Into a Suitcase

Today the captain of our ladies' tennis team had a lunch at her house for us to celebrate the end of our season. Not that we had a particularly triumphant season, but that we got through it and nobody cried. This girl is wrapped a little tight--she's an anxious perfectionist about her house--but is a genius cook. These are good traits in a luncheon hostess. She made all the food herself: butternut squash soup, two different kinds of small quiches, asparagus wrapped in prosciutto, grape salad, champagne. Simple, but good and lunchy. That's not what I came in to tell you though.

While we were eating--we were just eight at the table--my partner T told us that she uses a face cream made with cells from human foreskins. She was all, "I use a face cream made of foreskins. Yes, you know, foreskins. More prosciutto anyone?"

I enjoyed hearing this fact. So this is a thing? I thought it was only an episode of Nip/Tuck. We all complimented her on her skin at that point, and it is very lovely. The funny thing is that she is not the character you would expect to bust out with that personal grooming tidbit. I figured her for a Noxema girl, straight up.

Then talk turned to our tennis coach. She is what any non-stone blind observer would recognize as a butch lesbian. But she is long married to a man and is the mother of three children with him. She has home schooled them all and coached them to be excellent tennis players. This situation needed discussing, since we don't usually get together when we are not in her presence. I confessed that I found her kind of attractive, or that I responded to her masculine aspects. Several heads around the table were nodding. Then that situation needed discussing.

Then I got the name and price of the foreskin serum from T and then that was lunch.

Any interesting chat in your day?

I've Infiltrated The Book Club

Have I told you this? A couple of years ago, Pretty Neighbor and I got the idea that we would join our neighborhood book club. Every monthly newsletter contained an announcement of that month's book and the date of the meeting. It didn't say the time or the place, just gave a couple of phone numbers to call. So I called. And Pretty Neighbor called. We left messages. One of the phone numbers had been disconnected. During this time, we were busy reading The Poisonwood Bible to get ready for book club night, at which we would shine with our book-discussion skills and make lots of new bookish friends. But nobody got back to us, so we didn't go.

Then the next month we did it all again. The calling, the messaging. I don't remember what the book was that month. Finally, we were like, "Those bitches are not very neighborly!" Then we laughed and forgot about it. I figured that it was actually a closed group that for some reason, kept announcing itself in the newsletter. Whatevs. It's not like I need another intellectual outlet anyway, I just heard they had snacks.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago, when I was sitting in a tennis tournament committee meeting. My neighbor and tennis buddy, T, mentioned that she had to get ready for book club that night. We were all about to begin our committee business, but I was like, "Hold up. You're in our neighborhood book club? By what magical means did you gain entry into that enchanted salon? Because PN and I couldn't guess the secret word. Is it because I only have one PhD?" Halfway through my outburst, T was nodding her head and rolling her eyes. She said, "I'll tell you about it later." And I was like, "Oh so this committee meeting is not the proper place for me to air my private, unrelated grievances? And I'm saying this out loud right now? OKAY."

Later T told me that the book club is presided over by two Methuselan souls who, as she put it, are "not tech-savvy," and who have been cutting and pasting the same announcement into the newsletter for years, never noticing that the blurb doesn't contain all the vital information about the meeting. They also "don't like change,"  but are sweet as pie, she swore. These dear old girls are not phone savvy enough to return calls, as well, I suppose. But T begged me to give it another try, because she's trying to bring the average age of the participants down somewhere into the double-digits. A couple of days later, Pretty Neighbor and I were copied on an email introducing us to the book club distribution list. I wrote back enthusiastically that I was glad to meet them and that I was ready to discuss the ever lovin' shit out of some books.

I did not say it that way.

But I am ready to discuss the shit out of some books. Except that I just started the November book, Hotel on  The Corner of Bitter And Sweet. And it is going to be an uphill climb. Has anyone read this? I've read the first fifty pages. I sigh. It is one of those books that thinks the reader needs to be told directly how the characters are feeling at all times. For example, our main character Henry has just found out that a boarded-up hotel in Seattle contains the belongings of dozens of Japanese families who were sent to internment camps. Now these long-hidden things are being brought to light. Henry is also sad because his wife died some months before, so it is a rough time. The narrator says:

The more Henry thought about the shabby old knickknacks, the forgotten treasures, the more he wondered if his own broken heart might be found in there, hidden among the unclaimed possessions of another time. Boarded up in the basement of a condemned hotel. Lost, but never forgotten.

AARGH. His heart is broken, see? And it's not like a thing like a knickknack but he's wondering in metaphor, see? AAAAAAAHHHHH.

(I die.)

This kind of book, I find, does not trust its reader to be left alone for one minute, and is forever getting up in our grill to make sure we're on the right track. This is known, in literary criticism, as "writing the shit into it."

I should simmer down and give this book the benefit of the doubt. And I will finish it so that I get an A+ in book club. But I wonder if I could suggest we all reread Snow Falling on Cedars instead for a better treatment of this material?

Either way, I will come back and tell you all about our first gathering. You see, I have never been in a book club. I have a sense that it is different from a grad seminar, so this will be fun.

I'm also about to start reading the new Jeffrey Eugenides book with my friend David, and Elle and I have both read the Pioneer Woman book (yes) and we need to discuss the shit out of that.

Are y'all in book clubs? My mother-in-law is in three! I think Jenni is in one but they mostly drink. Or maybe that was just an actual wine club. Gimme the scoops on what y'all are reading.

All my love,
B