OMG, was that a Pick Up Line?

"How many kids do you have? You don't look like you've had even one, you're so young and slim."

"Thanks, I guess I'm just lucky."

"Well you've got great genes, that’s it, that’s for sure."

Thirteen reasons and/or events that should have warned me that was coming…

1/ I've got a big "L" on my forehead. Seems that for each of the handful of cute guys I managed to go out with in my dating years (including the one I finally snagged), I attracted at least two other strange ones. As in stalker-like weirdos.

2/ I spent a little more time on my makeup before going out the door that morning. Why? Only because my husband noticed when I did on the weekend and asked what was different. Made me realize that I need to take the time to make him notice more often.

3/ Because I was having a very bad hair day, I had put on a cute cap which covered most of my hair and my face. I guess I look better with most of my face hidden.

4/ I was wearing my Vans (which my brother thinks is hilarious) so from AFAR I could have passed for younger.

5/ I was in a good mood while waiting in line (to return a top that G refused to wear) at Winners. A good mood while returning something? Unheard of.

6/ The return counter had five customer service people behind it, dealing with two customers. The wait was inexplicably long. And there were only two people waiting – yeah, me and Mr. Fellow.

7/ I was also in a chatty mood. Was it a solar eclipse or what? I’m never chatty when I’m in the return line. Especially not when the wait is excruciatingly long in an empty store.

8/ I unknowingly took the bait. While Mr. Fellow was joking with me about how long it was taking, he began extolling the merits of the return policy. Seeing as he knew so much about the store, I asked him what he thought of the men’s merchandise because while I’m always shopping for me and my daughter there, I was thinking of shopping for my HUSBAND this time.

9/ After I got my refund, I walked past and said good bye on my way to men’s shirts. Just to be polite.

10/ About two minutes later, Mr. Fellow happened to come by as well and told me there were some good selections in the clearance section. Uh-oh.

11/ I popped over to the boys’ section quickly to check out T’s for the L-boy; then with one in hand headed back over to the men’s clearance area thinking the coast was clear. N-uh-uh. Mr. Fellow showed up again and noticed I had the boy’s shirt with me.

12/ The conversation about my good genes took place. Awkward, how do you respond to something like that to a male stranger? It’s one thing to hear that from another mom, but a strange guy? Radar up.

13/ As I whipped into the girls’ section for a quick look, and hurriedly rushed to the cash (had to pick up girlie) he made another passing comment about my success as a shopper.

Perhaps it was just pleasant conversation. Who knows, as I’m so bad at reading the signs. Or maybe I’m just getting overly suspicious in my old age. And I’m wearing the whole “Desperate Housewife” persona a bit too well these days.

When I told Ian about my day and what had happened, he said, “Well that’s OK.”, in a happy “Neat-o, good for you” tone. Who is he, my cheering section? Probably more likely that he wasn’t listening too carefully to my babbling.

Then he asked me what the guy looked like. And I said he wasn’t ugly or anything, just average, a guy in his 40's. Had all his hair, seemed pleasant enough, just mildly stalker-ish.

Unfortunately he didn't look like this... Or this ...
Or this ...


With my luck, he was probably gay.

{Not that there’s anything wrong with that at all. But if he were, that would mean I really have to take my antennae in to be fine-tuned!!}

[images from people.com]

By Your Side

Sirens wailing, spinning lights scatter through the blinds. What a weird dream. The sound is closer, almost right next to me. Not a dream.

Opening my eyes, I roll out of bed, cross my arms and walk over to the window. Carefully tweaking apart the slats with the tips of my fingers, not knowing what scene awaits, I peer through the glass.

One, two, three, four … police cars. More screaming sirens. Five, six, seven, eight …another four come up just behind. Finally, in total nine squad cars blocking our usually quiet suburban street. It is 2:05 am.

What is going on? It's as if I'm watching an episode of "Cops" at the end of my driveway. Only it's real. I’m nervous. We are safely ensconced in our home but I am nervous. The kids are still asleep … or they were. First the boy, then the girl, make their way into my room.

“Mommy, what’s happening? What are the lights? I see police cars.”

How do you respond when you don’t know the answers? “Just some police checking to make sure everything is OK. No worries guys.”

The sirens finally stop. I see four police officers escorting a young man to a squad car. His arms behind his back. The cops are so much bigger than he is. He gives them major attitude. They shove him onto the side of one car, and then into the backseat.

I get my kids to snuggle into my bed, but they can feel my concern in the air. “Get into the bed Mommy, things will be okay in the morning”. My boy, my protector when Daddy’s away. His sentiments echoed by my little diva.

*****

Did I ever tell you about our neighbour’s son, who blares the really loud, horrible thump and grind, hit-you-in-the-pit-of-the-stomach ”music” out of his souped-up car on their driveway? Usually perfectly timed to come on just after the bedtime books have been read? The beat is relentless into the early morning hours. Ever tell you about the time that I went over during one of these sessions, yelled over the noise (because I couldn’t hear myself think) to his mother who was standing on her driveway chatting with a friend. Shouting in frustration that I had just gotten my infant daughter and my son to sleep for school the next morning -- and did she not realize it was 9:30 on a Sunday night? We’ve thought about calling the police for noise disturbances several times over the last 8 years. But because it's been more sporadic in recent years, we’ve held off.

His parents are nice people. They gave us some BBQ lamb curry when Ian complimented the lovely aromas coming from their backyard the first summer we moved in. We received a holiday gift from them our first Christmas in the house. Granted it was obviously a re-gift (wolf clock … do we seem like wolf clock type people?) … but it’s the thought. We had trees planted in our yard, and the tractor delivering them squashed their underground sprinkler system. We offered to pay for the repairs … they said no worries. (Mind you, they didn’t share in their part of the fence, so I suppose it’s fair enough). They even invited us to the next LOUD party they had after we complained to them the first time. We couldn’t make it, but we would have if we were free. It looked like it was a blast.

This son, who my own son has noticed on the porch or driveway, often curses away on his cell phone. I myself have even heard snippets of snarling: “… the princess, yeah she gets everything she wants… and bro does nothing wrong ….”

*Faux gangsta* is what we’ve called him to ourselves. Because up until now, it’s really been just extremely loud, annoying music at inappropriate times. A man who refuses to grow up, perhaps.

After that night, perhaps not so *faux*.

Don’t even know for sure if that was him or one of his friends. I still don’t know what happened. But the one thought I had just before I finally fell back asleep? He once was a baby boy, a little boy, their little boy. My heart ached for his parents.

*****

The next morning, the birds were chirping, the sun was shining. It was back to the suburban lull. Almost as if nothing had happened.

You never know what the future holds for your children. You hope you instill in them the core values and beliefs that they can uphold themselves. To be the best that they can be.

But it's a big world out there. And try as you might, there's no way to control that world and how it can affect them. You just do your best. That's all you can really do.

Close Encounters of the Suburban Kind

I woke up yesterday morning to the sound of a lone shovel, scraping against the unwieldy blanket of snow that had buried the driveway next door. A mirror image of my very own driveway. Peering through my window, I watched as our neighbour tackled the impossible task, knee deep in snow under the brilliant shining sun. That glorious sunshine almost mocking him with its intensity, as he stopped to take a rest every couple of minutes. He was making very little headway.

But as he stood taking another break, surveying the remaining terrain he had yet to conquer, a group of three men walked toward him, with shovels in hand and a snowblower in tow. They worked together and had the driveway cleared in about 15 minutes.

*******

After our snow service did the basic clearing of our driveway, being the weird oxymoronic Type A/slob that I am (heavy emphasis on the moronic part), I felt the inexplicable need to kick off every single remaining offending snowflake that still resided on the premises. Or maybe I felt guilty that I had been snowed in, and had pigged out on chips and banana bread with my kids for three days rather than go to the gym. Needed to do something part-way physical. That, and the other inexplicable need to impress my husband by clearing the drive before he arrived home from Belgium, prompted me to head out myself later in the afternoon. The children had decided to stay in, despite my earnest pleas for them to come out and enjoy the sunshine with me.

The problem with the glaring sun in not-so-cold temperatures is that it creates packing snow. Perfect for making snowmen. Not so perfect for shovelling.

During one of my many heavingly-coughing-wheezing (I'm a non-smoker, I swear) resting patches, I witnessed an older woman walking along my quiet street, shopping bag in hand. Can I tell you how unusual that is on the best of days, let alone just after a snowlashing of almost record-breaking proportions? The lady, bless her heart, stopped and commented on what a great job I was doing on my driveway. Humble-me fessed up right away and admitted that I was only cleaning up the remnants left by the dratted works department. But she understood and still plauded my efforts. She agreed that it's better if it's all clean, rather than deal with the sheet of ice that will certainly follow the great melt. And then we had a nice conversation about her grandchildren and their visits with her every summer, staying just around the corner from us. I could feel the curious stares of my children through the front windows as I was chatting.

When I went back inside, the kids jumped on me right away. Who was that, Mommy? Do we know her? Where does she live?

I suppose it is natural for them to be curious, a bit apprehensive perhaps. These types of exchanges don't happen very often in these here 'burbs. And certainly not involving their mother. I'm the posterchild for ISTJ; I'm the neighbour who drives her minivan into the garage right away and shuts the door behind; who you only see occasionally popping out in the spring/summer, maybe in the fall with her kids. The Dad is the one out talking with the neighbours, watering the garden, raking the leaves. Because the black-thumbed Mom is in the house blogging.

*****

These incidents remind me a bit of what it was like to live in the city. That neighbourhood feel that has been eluding us for the few years that we have been up here.

I think things may be looking up a bit in suburbia.