Restless in Suburbia

You know how you can hear a tiny bit of a song and you instantly know what song it is? Not only that, but it immediately evokes an emotion or memory?

That's how the ice cream truck song is in my family. Not for me, because I recognize that it's financial insanity to buy an ice cream bar from the truck when you can get a whole box of the crap at the grocery store for the same price. But my kids inherited the "ice cream truck" gene from my husband, who once almost broke a leg running downstairs to get to the ice cream truck when we had the same damn ice cream in the freezer.

So today I heard that faraway little tinkling of bells, and then I heard C's feet clomping out of his room.

"I think I heard the ice cream truck!" he said.

"Do you have any money?"

"I believe so." And he ran back to his room to open his bank safe. Its alarm went off and he ran outside with a $5 bill. Which kills me because when I was as kid you could get 50 ice cream sandwiches for a penny. Or something.

When he got outside (and I followed him, because I believe that all ice cream truck drivers - and clowns - are pedophiles, because otherwise how do you explain the job) the truck was driving away. And that's when I saw the saddest sight ever. My son was running down the street, barefoot, his $5 bill flapping in the wind, after the ice cream truck, which was getting smaller and smaller.

"Come back!" I yelled. "You'll never catch it!"

Finally he stood there and his shoulders drooped down and he started walking back. (Here let me mention that he already HAD ice cream, but it was freezer ice cream, not ice cream truck ice cream.) Then K came out.

"I think I heard the ice cream truck," she said and I told her it was gone.

Then C somehow got the idea to try to find the ice cream truck's schedule on the internet. I discouraged him. "Ice cream trucks don't go on schedules. They are whimsical creatures."

But there was no telling him anything. And soon he announced that he found the ice cream truck's schedule. Only he wasn't sure it was the right ice cream truck, actually.

1. The first watermelon of the summer is almost a religious experience. The anticipation, the plunging knife, the juice seeping out. And that first bite. Is there anything in the world more delicious than a watermelon?

2. The first watermelon of the summer should be eaten on a holiday. Today, Memorial Day, is ideal. If you don't have a watermelon yet, go get one.

3. I'm not a purist. The watermelon is almost the perfect fruit, except for the seeds. It's charming how we've made the most of it, what with the seed spitting contests and all, but I do believe that seedless watermelons are an improvement.

4. I recently read that you shouldn't refigerate a watermelon. I think that's dumb. A watermelon should be eaten cold. Whether that's in a fridge or a cooler, doesn't matter. We've kept watermelons in the fridge for a few days before cutting 'em open and they're just fine.

5. As delicious as watermelon is, things that are "watermelon-flavored" are disgusting.

The dog narrowly escaped a much needed haircut today because I couldn't find his rabies certificate and the one that the groomer had was expired. So instead, my 12 year old daughter and I decided to give him a faux-hawk. He didn't mind the hair gel at all, but he drew the line at the hair dryer. Spoil sport.

Today at the library I catalogued 30 new books, all in the Scooby Doo genre of literature. In most of these books, Scooby and his friends were embroiled in a mystery involving someone wearing a mask trying to scare people away from some place that contained something of great value. At the end they unmask the villain and he says he would have gotten away with it had it not been for them. Then they eat a lot of food and the last line is always Scooby Doo saying "Scooby-Doo!" or "Roory Roo!" depending on which author wrote the book.

And I was thinking, damn, I could write one of those books every day! Why can't I get work like that? I have no pride at all. I'd happily write Scooby Doo books. So if any book publisher is among my 10 loyal readers, please get in touch with me.

Labels: library, Scooby Doo, writing

A 5th grade boy was writing a story in the library. He's an unusual 5th grade boy; as evidence, his story is a romance between a boy and a girl who own horses. It's sort of a double romance: the horses have a flirtation, but the main romance is between the boy and the girl. My favorite line, from the boy: "Oh, why if my horse can get a girlfriend, I can't?"

I told him that I was sure he had a future writing romance novels and he took that to heart, telling everyone what I said.

The disturbing thing about his story wasn't the romance, or the image of the boy and girl, and boy horse and girl horse going on a romantic picnic together. The disturbing part was that it had no paragraphs. This infuriates me. He wanted me to read the story and I refused until he broke it up into paragraphs.

He resisted at first until I told him (and this is where I might have violated the rules - stated or implied - of our school) "I read a study that proves that 10 year olds who don't use paragraphs are 50% more likely to end up in prison as adults."

Luckily for me, he hadn't heard this kind of argument before and so he didn't ask me where I read that, and so I didn't have to mumble, "A scientific journal."

What I should have told him is that even romance novelists use paragraphs.

Labels: library, school

Caller: I'm taking a survey of recent customers of Lowe's. This call will be recorded for...

Me: This is not a good time.

Caller: Why? (seriously! She asked why!)

Me: Because I'm watching American Idol.

Caller: When would be a good time to call back?

Me: When American Idol isn't on.

Caller: When is American Idol on?

Me: Well, normally it's on Tuesdays from 8 to 9, I guess. Then on Wednesdays, I think usually maybe at 9, but tonight it's a 2 hour special. I use DVR so I'm not totally sure.

Caller: I'm not on the west coast.

Me: Yeah, me either.

Caller: I don't know when I should call you back.

Me: Maybe you can look up the TV listings and if American Idol is on then don't call.

Caller: OK. I'll call back much earlier in the evening.

Me: That sounds great! Bye!

I showed up a little early to pick up my son from school and I found his class sitting in a circle around the butterfly garden.

One teacher, Ms. V., said, "Can anybody guess why we're here today?"

Silence.

"Well it's about something we talked about yesterday. A sad thing. Star, the gerbil, died."

As if on cue, the other teacher, Ms. J., walked up holding a small paper bag, the kind you'd put a lunch in, but I had a sinking feeling that she was not bringing lunch.

Ms. V. said, "Remember how we talked about buring people and animals when they die?"

A sob broke out from one girl and my son's lip quivered. One boy, T, jumped up and ran around the outside of the circle. "Bee! Bee!"

Ms. V. said, "T! Don't run from the bee! Sit down!"

I looked at that paper bag and thought, "Please God don't let her take that gerbil out of the bag." Ms. J. snapped on a plastic glove with the grim determination of a CSI investigator. She turned the bag over and out rolled Star. So white and fluffy and dead.

"Does anybody want to say anything about Star before we bury her?"

"Goodbye, Star!" a young boy cried.

Another one said, "Remember all the times Star escaped and ran into the office and the time she chewed up the wires and the fax machine stopped working?"

"No, that was Lucky the Hamster," Ms. J. said.

"Oh."

Another child tried, "Star didn't like to be held. She liked to be left alone. She wasn't exactly lazy."

Well, Star was being held but she would have a long time to be alone. Ms. J. took a spoon out of her pocket and dug a tiny, gerbil-sized hole and put Star into it. Then she spooned some dirt on top of it. Then she plopped down a giant rock on top of the hole.

"So we will always remember where she is," Ms. J. explained.

"To keep dogs from diggering her up," I thought.

Then C, my son, cried and cried.

This was the first time I had ever heard of Star.