Skip to main content

My New Neighbor

 My new neighbor came from Chicago, and she regrets the move. I know--because she overshares the information (almost immediately). She gave up a career in pharmaceuticals to raise three children, and she seems bewildered by the change. "I consider returning to work," she says, "but what would that look like? What happens on a half-day? Every other school day is abbreviated, in this town."


I don't need to do much of the talking.

"I'll tell you a story about lice," says my neighbor, darkly. "My daughter had one nit. Literally, one nit. I followed all the steps. I used the right shampoo. I observed a period of semi-isolation. I watched, with vigilance. A number of weeks go by, and my spouse and I are headed to a concert. And we're halfway through, and the sitter calls and demands info about the louse shampoo. And she doesn't believe me, and demands that I drive home, because she isn't comfortable. A week later, it turns out she has contacted all of her sitter friends, and told a false story about the lice, and now no one in our network will accept a gig from us."

I wonder what is missing from this story. There's a saying: "If something goes wrong in your life, you have to consider that perhaps there is a contribution you yourself have made to the situation." Maybe, maybe not.

My new neighbor has a warning for me. "It's the first time you have both your kids in school. Just so you know, they will be hell on wheels, from 3pm to 5pm. They will come home, and they will be disconsolate, furious. For two hours, day after day. Then--at 5pm--they'll become human again."

I really like my new neighbor. 

She strides back toward her house, shouting into her phone. She waves one quick hand over her shoulder. "Till next time!"
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more