ever-fixed mark

Husband took the boys on a whale watch this weekend, so I planned a solo lunch and kayak trip for myself. I have many friends who would do anything to avoid eating alone in public, but it’s one of my favorite things to do, as long as I have something to read. So I gathered up the Sunday paper and went down to the diner. It was crowded, so I sat at the counter, at the end. I gave my order and settled down with the paper.

The cashier approached me and handed me a business card. “This isn’t mine,” I said.

“The gentleman up by the register told me to give it to you.”

The card had a man’s name and the profession “antiques dealer” in Boston and southern Maine. I didn’t recognize the name. “I think you’ve got the wrong person,” I said. She looked irritated and tossed the card on the counter. I figured it was a lame marketing ploy. I ate my lunch and left, leaving the card on the table.

As I was waiting for the kayak tour to start, my curiosity got the better of me, and I Googled the name to see just what he was peddling. The first hit that came up was on a site called dontdatehimgirl.com. It’s a site where women can go to complain about their ex-boyfriends, ostensibly for the benefit of other women. The post said that “John Doe” had been verbally abusive and had conned the complainant out of cash, and that she didn’t know he was married until he appeared at the hearing where she obtained a restraining order against him. “Ladies of Massachusetts and Maine, beware!”

I would normally not give credence to an anonymous tale like this. Still, the man had sent the waitress over to me with his card, like some randy conventioneer at a Marriott bar. Was it an indication that he was looking for his next meal ticket? And that he thought I, une femme pushing un certain age, looked lonely, desperate, and solvent enough to be a likely candidate? YUCK.

I’m not sure I approve of dontdatehimgirl.com. The whole concept of ratting out your ex seems rife for abuse. And even if the information is accurate, don’t you already have friends who can tell you whether or not your new boyfriend is a jerk?

A lovely little coda to this experience occurred just as I was telling Husband the story over dinner that evening. We were dining at yet another Port City bistro. A young woman was sitting across the room from us, dining solo. I noticed her because, as I said above, I know that many women don’t like to eat out alone, and it’s fairly rare to see someone eating alone at 9:30 at night at what passes for an upscale restaurant in Port City. We passed her on the way out; she looked up from the paper she was writing on and made some remark about being the last to leave.

“What are you writing?” Husband asked. “A letter?”

“To my boyfriend,” she said.

“Is he in the military?” I asked, thinking that was one of the few situations that would require a hand-written letter.

“No, he’s incarcerated,” she said.

“What’s he in for?” burst out Husband. I imagine Emily Post would consider that a rude question but, hey, I say she opened the door to that line of inquiry.

“Assault and battery,” she said.

Here is a woman whose friends were not doing their job. Let me try:

Oh, honey. Unless he is a prisoner of conscience, and Amnesty International is launching a letter-writing campaign on his behalf, an incarcerated beau is probably a really bad bet. There are so many fish in the sea; why tie yourself down to one in an aquarium?

I took Minor to the children’s museum in Dover this weekend, and at lunch I amused myself with this copy of the Rochester, NH Times:

Happy Ramadhan, Seacoast Muslims! Have some bacon.

The editor’s ham-fistedness (get it?) was more than offset, though, by the flair evidenced elsewhere in the paper. Prepare to admire the narrative stylings of the Police Blotter:

Monday, Aug. 10

11:02 a.m. Rite Aid on Wakefield Street reports getting a false Oxycodone presciption.

7:38 p.m. On Chamberlain Street, one neighbor is in another neighbor’s face. A cat is thrown from a second-floor window, and obscenities are also in the air.

7:49 p.m. At Rite Aid, a man tries to pick up his forged prescription. No cruisers are available.

8:25 p.m. On Chestnut, a boy would like to show his mother a cat in the road, but is slapped by a woman. This is followed by half a dozen calls describing people yelling and flipping.

8:36 p.m. Music blasts on Chestnut Street, possibly to drown out the yelling and flipping.

10:12 p.m. Choice words are used after a quartet of drinkers is nudged off Congress Street steps.

Tuesday, Aug. 11

3:56 On Crown Point Road a “rooster problem” is reported.

6:11 p.m. A Copper Lane citizen has had his e-mail account hacked. E-mails have been sent out asking everyone on his address book to send money to England.

7:22 p.m. A dirt biker, “whipping along Autumn Street” is counseled.

10:04 p.m. A Moores Court door is egged and the “N” word is also hurled around.

Wednesday, Dec. [sic] 12

3:54 p.m. Near the Salvation Army, a lady is on the ground appealing for help, while a gentleman punches her in the face.

8:05 p.m. A Washington Street woman has found a very pornographic photo of a juvenile on her lawn.

Thursday, Dec. [sic] 13

3:27 p.m. At the station, a man reports the theft of a jewelry box “within the last year” and knows who did it.

7:22 p.m. With the prospect of a yelling match, a large crowd gathers on Congress Street.

Friday, Dec. [sic] 14

11:50 a.m. The District Court bathroom has been toilet-papered, but officials are flushed with success — they have a handle on the culprits.

7:48 p.m. At McDuffee Brook Place six people are reportedly arguing, including a gentleman with his new girlfriend and an annoyed old girlfriend.

10:00 p.m. Several people are battling at the end of Congress. Police have to guess which end.

Aitch is very impressed with the fact that he is now Six, and he expects you to be impressed, too. He is continually buttonholing (took me a few minutes to light on that, after rejecting pigeon-holing? Punch-holing?Corn-holing?) people with the information: “Did you know, I’m Six now?” Happily for him, they tend to respond with the required shock and awe: “What? No way! You’re Six? That’s wonderful!” etc.

Sometimes, though, there is no one of Aitch’s acquaintance in the vicinity, and he resorts to impressing strangers. His modus operandi is to sidle up to a random person on the street; turn to me, all faux-casual, remarking loudly, “You know, now that I’m SIX…”; and then look for the stranger’s gobsmacked reaction, as if he had said, “My Super Bowl ring is pinching me today,” or “This is the exact shade of blue my helicopter is painted.”

This has only worked once, on a teenage girl who was disposed to look kindly on small children. The rest of the time, sadly, he has been ignored. They say that intermittent reinforcement is the most powerful, though. I expect he’ll continue to try until he’s Seven.

My office was relocated to a different building even closer to the Moroccan cafe where I was getting my morning and afternoon coffee, so now I’m visiting up to three times a day. Ramadhan started recently, and I feel terrible coming in and ordering food and drink when all the staff are starving. Yesterday afternoon when I got my coffee I struck up a conversation with two of the workers, asking if they were fasting. I mentioned that when I lived in Tunisia, restaurant workers weren’t put in the position of serving non-fasting patrons, because most of the cafes were closd during the day.

One of the guys asked how long I had lived in Tunisia, and I told him. The other guy said, “I’m from the country right next door to Tunisia.”

“Are you Algerian or Libyan?” I asked.

“Moroccan,” he answered.

“I don’t think Morocco and Tunisia share a border,” I said.

He insisted, and even drew me a map. I contradicted him, but then one of the other patrons (not a North African) said to me, “You know, he’s right. Morocco is next to Tunisia.”

“I don’t THINK so,” I said, but I was starting to doubt myself. On one hand, I was sure that Morocco wasn’t next to Tunisia, because if it had been, I would have gone there. It was the fact that Tunisia was landlocked between of war-torn Algeria on one side and death-to-America Libya on the other that prevented me from taking any train journeys out of the country for three years. On the other hand, I’d persisted in idées fixes in the past only to have my worldview crumble when proven wrong. There was the time my mother-in-law told me that the word “restaurateur” was properly spelled without an N, and the time that my friend P. proved that Neil Young had never been in the group America. Could I have been laboring under a geographical delusion all these years?

No.

I can’t believe I backed down.

Aitch has always been wary of the kayak, but since we got back from vacation at the Tyler Place (gah! we left the day that Julie and Julia arrived! Am still imagining the Vermont Mommy Blogging summit that might have been) he has been talking about trying to paddle the kayak on his own. His counselors took his group kayaking one day and let some of the kids paddle their own boats. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to do the same with six-year-olds, but I saw this as a great opportunity to get Aitch more interested in kayaking.

So last weekend, I loaded up two kayaks on the car, but I determined I would leave one on top of the car until I was certain Aitch was enjoying himself. I put one boat in the water, put Aitch in his PFD, and handled him the paddle. I had envisioned myself wading alongside him whilst coaching him on the finer points of paddle management. I certainly did not envision him striking out confidently for the middle of the pond, leaving me open-jawed on the shore.

He was in a big, wide kayak, using a big, heavy paddle, and he quickly got tired and sloppy. I held my breath as I wondered if he’d be able to turn the boat around and come back. The other boat, you’ll remember (foreshadowing!) was still on top of the car, and the only way to rescue him would be to swim for it.

Now, before you go calling DSS, I need to make this clear: Aitch was in a perfectly stable boat, he was wearing his life jacket, and he is very confident in the water. At no time was he more than a fifteen-second swim away from me, and I was perfectly capable of swimming out and towing him back. I wasn’t afraid for his safety; I was afraid that he would end up with a tantrum and I would end up with leeches. It was not the cleanest pond.

Meanwhile, he wasn’t panicking, so I told him how to paddle on one side to turn the boat around. Amazingly, he did, and he made it back to shore. Then he went out and back again, out and back again, at which time I decided not to push my luck any further, and I beached him while I put the second boat in the water.

Then I had a brainwave, also stimulated by something I saw at the Tyler Place. I got one of the tie-down straps from the car and hooked the stern of my boat to the bow of Aitch’s. Then I towed him through the water. He practiced paddling when he felt like it, occasionally bumping my boat, and cruised the rest of the time. We followed Dog around the pond, looking for frogs and spying on a big blue heron. It was really fun and surprisingly easy to tow another boat. Aitch got to have his own space, and I didn’t have to worry about him getting too tired. As a bonus, I remained leech-free.

Me (reading e-mail): Hey, it’s Occupation Week at Minor’s pre-school this week.

Husband: Darn, I forgot to pack his little Nazi uniform.

Me: Funny, that’s exactly what I was picturing.

This summer, we’ve benefited from some non-toxic pest control methods taught to us by others. (What can I say? Minor loves fruit, and the universe is his trash receptacle.) Forthwith, the only Hints from Heloise you’re ever likely to get from me:

Ants: My housekeeper kills ants with kosher salt. Works like a charm and seems to deter further infestations.

Fruit flies: My friend K, who has a winery and three children who also love fruit but shun trash cans, showed me this. Put some apple cider vinegar, dish soap, and hot water in a cup, filling it to the brim. The little devils are attracted by the vinegar, but the soap bubbles trap their little feet. Bwah-ha-ha-ha-ha!

If you use this in your wine tasting room, though, warn the patrons so they don’t dip their bread into it, thinking it’s olive oil.

Aitch’s school is required to calculate each child’s body mass index (BMI) and then notify parents of the result, presumably to help parents of children at risk for obesity to take action early. We got a letter today saying that Aitch’s BMI was in the “86 - 90th percentile” for kids his age, and thus he is at risk for being overweight.

I had to laugh, because this is what Aitch looks like these days:

His BMI is high because the kid is ripped. His upper body is a slab of muscle. He tries to scale every vertical surface he encounters, and I’m constantly telling him to stop climbing on the cabinets, the fences, the fountains, DUDE, do you think you’re Spiderman? He has this trick of dangling from the monkey bars with one hand while he susses out his next move. He has a fierce set of calluses to go with his triceps, but the nurse didn’t even notice those.

The first thing I noticed about my high school boyfriend was the tortured posture he adopted while writing. I sat next to him in Latin class, and when he took notes, he hunched over in his seat, right arm curled over the top of his paper, approaching the left side of the page almost upside-down. Later when I got to know him I asked him why he sat like that, and he told me that he had been a natural lefty, but his parents forced him to switch to dextro from sinistro, because, you know. The left hand is the devil’s hand.

Unfortunately, this coercion was not uncommon practice in the rural parts of that Pennsylvania county, fifty miles northeast of Philadelphia, just down the road from Medieval Times (the period, not the theme restaurant). Since my boyfriend’s parents were already correcting his toddler self for the grave fault of being differently-handed, you can imagine how they reacted later on to his atheism and recreational drug use. Good times!

I think of that sometimes when I see Aitch writing his letters. He’s been left-handed ever since he learned to hold a spoon. The doctor told us that children often switch hands, but his left-preference has never wavered. That didn’t surprise me, though, because somehow he just feels like a lefty. He’s never been a traditional learner. He’s never hit a cognitive milestone on time: he didn’t wave bye-bye, play “so-big,” use signs, put two words together, use pronouns, etc. at the designated timepoints. He’s not a typical visual learner, and he isn’t necessarily auditory either; his style is more social/experiential. He dislikes being taught and really has to arrive at a solution in his own way. His approach has always been oblique, but it gets him there. What other five-year-old is so accomplished at complimenting women on their pedicures?

Minor, on the other hand, was completely neurotypical. It wasn’t until we had him that I realized how oddl Aitch had been. Minor learns by observing and imitating, like most kids. He doesn’t plug up his ears if he suspects you’re trying to teach him something; he loves to try new things. So I was surprised when he, too, turned out to be a lefty. His preference never seemed to be as marked as his brother’s. Minor would, for example, hold his fork with his left hand, but pick up odd bits of food with his right. We called him “Ambrosedextrous,” but whether it was that or pure slovenliness, I can’t say. For awhile I was convinced that he was just using his left hand in imitation of Aitch. But now he seems to be favoring his left the majority of the time, and when he plays soccer he naturally kicks left.

Husband and I are tickled at the thought of having two lefties. I’m not sure why. I suppose we’ve bought into the notion that lefties are more intellectual and artistic. Maybe we just appreciate the slim odds of two southpaws, especially since they aren’t even genetically related. I mean, how lucky are we? Two kids with the devil in ‘em!

BTW, if the post title reminds you of a certain television story arc circa 1980, I offer my kudos on your misspent youth.

At 4:00 a.m. on Saturday morning, I was jolted from sleep by a smoke detector. We had already been through one round of Musical Beds; thus I was confused both by the sound and by finding myself in our guest room. Husband and I met in the hall, and he took a quick tour to sniff for smoke while I stayed with the kids. We couldn’t smell anything, but I called the fire department anyway, knowing I wouldn’t be able to go happily back to sleep while suspecting that a fire was smoldering in the basement or behind the walls.

The dispatcher told me to get everyone out of the house and wait for the fire truck. We grabbed blankets for the kids and took them outside on the porch.

That’s when they woke up.

See, we usually cook dinner for ourselves after the boys go to bed at night. About once every two weeks, this activity sets off the fire alarm. The boys have become so habituated to the sound that they now sleep right through it.

I always thought this was a good thing, but now I realize that when they move out and live on their own, they’ll have to install the kind of smoke detectors that flash lights and shake the bed.