Thursday, May 25, 2006

Act 3, Scene 11: “Squish”


TRL and C & E are playing in the front yard.

Guys, don’t play in the dirt, TRL cautions, not wanting to give them a bath later on.

S waves from the front porch where she is sweeping the pollen, leaves and other drippy and dry things which the trees have been exuding constantly all over the lawn.

Guys, look! TRL exclaims, spotting a large toad trying to hop into the crevice of a tree. TRL scoops up the toad, which promptly lets loose a black liquid all over his hands. Ewwwww, screams TRL dropping the toad. It pooed on me.

The boys stare at the toad, which sits in the grass, catching its breath.

Cool, huh guys, says TRL. It’s a toad.

And then C raises his knee and with the bottom of his foot stomps on the animal.

Nooooo, cries TRL, but too late. When C brings his foot up, the toad is mushed. It has deflated and it is still.

S, screams TRL, S! S, take the boys away.

S comes off the porch. What?

Take the boys away, he says. C stepped on the toad. It’s not good.

E wanders up the lawn and S grabs C to take him away. Ewwww, says S, catching a glimpse of the flattened toad.

TRL feels terrible. He pokes the toad with a stick. He should turn it over, and then dispose of it, he thinks. And suddenly it reinflates and starts breathing. And begins hopping away.

It’s OK, it’s OK shouts TRL, immensely relieved. He turns to C. You gave the toad a booboo, he explains. C immediately begins bawling.

It’s OK, says TRL, but we don’t step on toads. Or any other animals.

TRL stands up, the toad goo all over his hands and the residual horror of watching an animal gets mushed and seemingly killed filling his body. C continues to cry.

It’s OK, S soothes. Toad is alright.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

Act 3, Scene 10: “Seemingly Magically Delicious”



Kids are a gateway drug to Cheerios.

C&E leave with S to go to daycare. TRL is left in a quiet kitchen. He pours himself a big bowl of Cheerios, drowns it in milk, and gobbles it down. Delicious! He goes back to the industrial-sized package of the cereal that they keep atop the refrigerator (many more boxes are stored in the basement: running out, with the prospect of fits by C&E, is not an option.). He pours more into his bowl. And he realizes how excited he is. How he is looking forward to eating these Cheerios. How hungry he is for them. How much he loves them. Where had they been all his life? Until C&E began eating them, TRL had never been a cereal eater.

And then he pauses. He takes a step back. He is getting excited about a bowl of circular oats. More than excited, lustful. And then he knew: he was addicted. A Cheerios addict. And he had been turned on by his kids.

What would it take to wean himself from these bobbing-in-milk beauties? What was the methadone equivalent here? Some no-sugar crappy-tasting healthful cereal? Or would TRL go the other way, turning to harder core cereals: Captain Crunch, Lucky Charms, Count Chocula?

TRL realizes he needs help. But first another bowl of Cheerios. You know, just to help him think. One more bowl. Just one more…

Monday, May 08, 2006

Act 3, Scene 9: “Mine’s from Tahiti”


The in-laws get the kids a water table for their birthday. A water table allows them to play God. There is a section of the plastic table which holds, well, water. And there is a system of chutes and channels and boats to bring this water world to rich life. Throw in Kevin Costner and you have some serious fun on your hands.

The other side of the table is partitioned off to hold sand. It’s the beach part of the whole water tableau. Now, this table does not come with sand, so S sends TRL to Lowe’s to get sand. And for efficiencies sake he takes the propane gas barbeque canisters with him for a refill. Well, TRL learns two things on his trip: people get panicky when propane gas canisters are brought inside a store, and the cement bags, in his opinion, should never, ever, be right next to the bags of sand.

When TRL wheels his cart filled with propane canisters to the information desk, the person behind the counter tells him he needs to go to the garden section. Fair enough.

TRL pushes the cart past a long line at the garden section cash register and goes to ask the cashier what to do next.

“Whoa, no, no,” she says, bugged eyed, staring back and forth between TRL and his canisters. “No, no, no. Those can’t be in here. It’s illegal.”

“OK,” responds TRL. “But what should I do with them?”

“Take them outside to the front, and then go inside and ask for an exchange.”

“Right,” TRL mutters, having already come from the front entrance. He wheels his cart around to the front, but after years of living in a city, he just can’t leave his property sitting outside for someone to walk off with. So he wheels it back to the information desk.

“Hi, I need to exchange these gas canisters,” TRL repeats, an edge to his voice.

“Oh, those can’t be in here,” the woman says.

“Well,” begins TRL.

“Those can’t be in here,” the woman repeats, more urgency to her voice.

“OK, what should I do? I need new canisters. I also need sand,” he adds.

The woman rushes from around the desk and points to the end of the warehouse. “Sand is down there. I’ll take these outside. Just tell the cashier you have two canisters to exchange, and you pick them up outside.”

“Check,” replies TRL, happy to be relieved of the canisters.

“Sand, sand, sand,” TRL mutters to himself as he makes his way down a cavernous isle, surveying the hundreds of same-looking bags.

“Grout, grout, grout mixture, filler, gravel, gravel, cement, quick hardening cement, sand,” chimes TRL.

He looks back and forth between the 50 pound bags of sand and the 50 pound bags of quick hardening cement. ‘Just add water, hardens instantly’ it reads.

There was no appreciable difference between the bags except, of course, the small-print written description. TRL imagines getting the wrong bags, solidify C&E’s hands instantly the first time they have a go at their water table. They would have to be brought to the emergency room with the table attached to their little bodies. TRL wonders how they would fit them and the table in the car. S would not be happy.

TRL loads up on three bags, the act of paying for sand somehow sticking in his throat. He had spent summers trying to keep sand from following him off beaches and into shoes, bags, cars and houses. And now he was paying $3.95 a bag for the stuff. And then he wonders where it comes from. Some exotic beach? Deal, NJ? Perhaps the middle of a desert? TRL decides he would pay a premium for premium sand. Some from Tahiti or the French Riviera. Or maybe Santorini. Then, when other parents came over with their kids, he could say “C&E’s sand is imported from Fiji. It’s soft and lovely and the same stuff Gwyneth Paltrow’s little Moses thrusts his hands in at his water table. Costs a little more, sure, but my kids are worth it. What’s in your water table?”

Friday, May 05, 2006

Act 3, Scene 8: “A New Magazine for Suburban Living, continued”


More magazine names, contributed by friends of TRL:
Life in BFE [if you have to ask, you’re not cool enough to read it]
Sidewalk Talk [snappy, if a bit pedestrian]
Da Burbz [white hip-hoppy]
Bennigan’s [copyright issues]
Sprawl [sounds vaguely dirty, in a good way]
Would You Like Fries With That? [too long]
WYLFWT?
Club Suburbia

A Road Runs Through It [too literary]
Mosquitoes, Grass, and Garages
Peyton Place
Cup of Sugar [too sweet?]
Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood [negotiations sought]

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Act 3, Scene 6: “Suburban Surcharge”


In the city, TRL gave to the homeless. Small change every so often. It was hush money for his subconscious guilt. The price of living in a city. A street-dispensed city tax. In SB, TRL gets hit up not by smelly men with a menacing look in their eyes, but by fresh scrubbed youths looking for hand outs. And these end up costing TRL much more than money for the homeless. Yesterday it was Ben the Boy Scout hitting TRL up for $17, the cheapest selection on his sheet of flowers for Mother’s Day.

“Where is the money going?” asks TRL.

“Well, the profit, I mean the donation, is going to the Boy Scouts,” Ben responds, popping a small blue retainer out of his mouth, sniffling in the slight rain, apologizing sweetly for inexplicably popping out the retainer and sticking it back into his mouth. His electric scooter was parked out front, getting wet in the drizzle.

A few weeks before that it was the high school band selling M&Ms and other candy, which come to think of it, TRL realizes has never been delivered. (Is it uncool to rat out the high school band to the Better Business Bureau?) And before that, it was the smiley ten year-old girl with her even younger brother – with mom waiting on the sidewalk – selling more candy for some school group. The thing is, TRL has to buy. First, because these people know where he lives. And because he can see the name of his neighbors clearly on the sign-up sheet: he would look like a real heel to the neighbors should he not act like a good neighbor.

So he shells out for this hidden suburban tax.

But where, wonders TRL, as he pulls out a crumble of dollars, is the high school cheerleading squad’s car wash he has seen so much about in teen fantasy movies? Now that’s a tax he wouldn’t mind paying.