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| pursuit of the painfully obvious |
| 09.01.06 (10:47 pm) [edit] |
I haven't the foggiest idea what that means. It popped into my head this morning and I had to write it down -- on the inside flap of an envelope, on which I've been writing manual blog entries for a few days. I think it's time to start carrying a notebook, before I begin jotting snarky comments on my kids' foreheads.thursday, august 31st written while at the elementary school picnic Welcome to my nightmare. I'm at the school playground, on the one bench that provides the ability to watch almost all activity while not being blinded by the setting sun. I'm surrounded by utter chaos. Two hundred kids under age 10 are running around, shriekling at the tops of their lungs. Kids greet each other like long-lost relatives, though dead; lost at sea. A few hundred parents mill about, chatting animatedly and generally being thinner, better-dressed, and more popular than I. These parents will take their kids home to grand Victorian homes lovingly restored and filled with gleaming hardwood floors, flowers, and the scent of clean linen. I nuzzle the baby and let him yank on my hair, secure that there is at least one being on the planet who remains unprivy to any of my faults or sad truths. He has no idea yet how incredibly uncool I am. There are bright spots. Seeing Jacob fold into his posse of boys and remembering last year's picnic, when a few mean (typical) fifth-graders made him cry. This year, Jacob is any othe rkid, playing tag and seeming unbothered by his too-short sleeves and jeans. Danny disappears into the clusters of kids, charming older boys into including him as they devise ever-goofier and more dangerous ways to go down the slides. friday, september 1st riding the intercampus shuttle between evanston and chicago There's something very sad about a middle-aged man wearing a cardigan. This man gets on the shuttle each morning just south of Loyola. His hair is just a little too long and a little too greasy, like Michael Palin playing smarmy in 1967. He's one of those men who looks dripping wet even when it's sunny out. He keeps a box of obscure cigarillos in the pocket of his thin, short-sleeved shirt, and his beltless waist looks unfinished. Stubble dots his chin, below a greasy mustache. He speaks to no one, reads nothing. |
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