Fish dreams

My kids, to this day, don’t really get my meaning when I nix an attempt to acquire another pet. I say I just can’t handle any more animals. Psychologically. The kid (usually Gabe nowadays,) swears up and down that that’s not a problem because he’d take care of it. For now, he’s taking care of a betta fish (discounting the 4 cats and 1 dog which are givens for the moment.) That will have to do. Here’s what I mean by psychologically.

Last night’s dream involved fish. I’m sure that’s because we do have the one full time resident--the betta of undetermined gender, and the vague name “Fishy.” Also there are Barbie and Ken, the goldfish, who often accompany Rachel home on breaks. I think this dream was more goldfish-centric.

There were five fish in the tank. Goldfish, but shaped more like nerf footballs, and several colors. Two of them were, in fact, the size of nerf footballs. Clearly they had outgrown their tank, in a serious way. What to transfer them to? I found a blue plastic wading pool. You know, the kind that crackles and buckles when it’s full of water and you try to move it. Still, we filled it with water and moved the fish in. Problem #1. It had no top. Which one or both of the big fish immediately took advantage of by leaping over the side. I caught one in the act, and one on the carpet, and put them back in. Then I attempted to shore up the sides of the pool somehow, to make leaping harder, but every attempt to handle the pool resulted in a collapse of that edge, and several fish sloshing or leaping over the edge with the current. The dream ended with me at the pet shop, wondering if the 50 gallon tank would be big enough.

I had dreams of the same theme when we had gerbils. In those dreams the top of the cage had been left ajar, or they’d gnawed through the galvanized steel base of their habitat. Whatever, there were always endangered (and apparently suicidal) little animals in these dreams, and I didn’t need the extra anxiety.

Gabe wants a snake. No, I say. And I mean it. I’m sure, in my dream, that snake would be under my pillow. I do not fear non-venomous snakes. But I’d be waking up in the middle of the night and looking under my pillow in a disoriented haze to make sure I wasn’t squishing the little thing.

I don't care for Wonder bread.

We were chatting with a neighbor today. He needed some info on a roofer we’d used. Can’t remember the sequence of discussion, but some people just like to ramble and from amongst his ramblings I gleaned the following:

He’s originally from Ohio and likes the homogeneity of that part of the country. He prefers to live among people who look the same. He does not relish the multi-linguisticity, multi-ethnicity, and frequent appearance of turbans that occurs in many parts of Maryland such as near D.C. and Columbia. When he eats out, he prefers to patronize the same place repeatedly, provided they do not use any seasonings he would consider exotic. When a friend bragged to him about being on a safari in Kenya he did not understand what there was to brag about or why anyone would want to be there. He can’t see the point of a 50 foot long living room furnished with 4 wide-screen LCD tvs.

We agree on one of those points--and I’ll give you a hint--it comes near the end of the paragraph.

This was an interesting juxtaposition to the other notable personality which impacted my day. It was the first day of third-semester Spanish at the Community College. When my new prof, Thomas (Tomás) Edison entered the classroom, I smiled almost from the get-go. He was funny. He was smart. He was enthusiastic. And when he described (en Español) how much fun it was to leave the homogeneity of Southern Indiana (where most of his education happened) to immerse himself in the relative diversity of the Mid-Atlantic, he won me over as a teacher.

I mean absolutely no disrespect to the first individual mentioned in this entry. He implied, and I inferred, no animosity toward people of varying ethnicities, it was just that his personal comfort zone was sameness. But how much more delighted I was by the African-american teacher, encouraging us to seek pov-expanding experiences, and look for opportunities to employ new languages.

making a hat.

I’ve given up on the sweater I started a couple years ago. Too big, too complicated, and I don’t like the pattern that much anyway. But the urge to knit still kicks in occasionally. So I’m taking the same yarn, and making a hat. I’m on row 8, counting...knit...purl...knit...purl, 2, 3, 4...knit...

Jeff: Where’s the normal remote?

Me:...purl...knit...I don’t know. Under furniture.

Olivia: Use the silver one! Should I take keyboarding or marine biology?

Me: ...knit, 2, 3, 4...It doesn’t matter. Whichever you want.

Gabe: Look at all the salsa recipes I downloaded!

Me: ...purl...

Olivia: Gabe! you can’t waste all that paper!

Jeff: I don’t know where the buttons are on this remote.

Becca: Mom, want to buy me this stuff from Athleta?

Me: ...purl...knit...why do you need 15 salsa recipes?

Jeff: Does anyone know where the normal remote is?

Olivia: What do you think I should take?

Me: ...knit, 2, 3, 4...it doesn’t matter, you’ve covered all your academic requirements, right?

Gabe:...peach salsa, mango salsa, tropical salsa, apple salsa...

Olivia: You hate me?

Me: ...knit...purl...not that I know of...

Jeff: This remote doesn’t work.

Dog: ARF!

Me: ...purl...knit...somebody wanna let the dog in?

Becca: Mom! Gabe has me in a headlock!

Jeff: What happens to the normal remotes anyway?

Olivia: Gabe! Pick up your papers!

Dog: WOOF!

Me: ...knit...come in, hurry up...purl..

Door: SLAM

Gabe: How do I make the printer stop printing copies of mango salsa?

Jeff: How does anybody use the tv without the remote?

Olivia: Fine! I’ll just take stupid keyboarding since you hate me!

This pattern on this hat could be weird.

I can do without Walt.

For several years Jeff went to exercise class, M, W, and F, 7a.m., at SportFit. That it was held at SportFit was really incidental, since the real glue that held the little group together was sweat, camaraderie, and an ex-Seal instructor.

A few months or so ago, the SportFit powers that be concluded that the tenacity demonstrated by this doggedly faithful little group of 4 to 8 wasn’t enough for them to keep such a sparsely attended class on their schedule. It took Jeff a while to notice that he really needed to cancel his SportFit membership so they would stop debiting his card monthly, since he didn’t use their facilities for anything else, and since he’d just signed up for a substitute exercise class at the Community College.

Lately I’ve been kind of control-freaking my way into managing some business that I use to leave to him (and blissfully never thought about,) and I can no longer ignore little things that pop up on his credit card bill--like a monthly SportFit debit. Yesterday he dropped in at the front desk to cancel his membership. “Oh, said the girl. “Walt’s not here right now. Walt has to be here when you do that.”

Today, I called SportFit. “He can come any day between 10 and 3 to fill out the cancellation form,” said the dude, “but since it’s already after the 10th of the month the cancellation won’t take effect until the next billing cycle.” IOW, there’s going to be a debit for SportFit at the beginning of February whether I like it or not, but I’d be danged if there would be one for March.

So, before lunch, I went to the SportFit counter with Jeff. I hung back a bit, feeling like I ought to be rhythmically smacking a billy-club with a chain against my palm. Jeff says he wants to cancel his membership. The girl says “Walt’s not here right now.” I say “Walt wasn’t here yesterday either. But you can still get us the form we need to fill out.” The girl looks a bit miffed, but picks up the phone and says “Chris, there’re two cancellations out here.” Oh, so that’s why the lady with a baby is standing to our right. We’re not the only one’s who refuse to accept “Walt isn’t here right now,” as a valid reason for getting stuck with a March debit.

Then, amazing enough, Walt waltzes in. Walt signs the form. Jeff signs the form. I stick the form in my purse, because there are two things I know better now than I did a couple years ago. One: Don’t sign up for automatic credit card debiting unless you really really need to, and two: Keep papers.

A beau bow.

No-one would accuse Rhode Island Avenue in College Park of resembling Diagon Alley. It has that typical bleak, inner D.C. Beltway, post apocalyptic, 60’s style panache, and is the site of Gailes’ Violin Shop, where the inside is better than the outside.

This time I went for a bow. And I wanted it to be a good bow, which put me at a slight disadvantage since I wouldn’t know one if I saw one.

So, I figured what I would do is walk up to the counter, trying to ignore all the music books whispering ”You need the Celtic fiddler’s book o’tricks...you know you do,” and ask the scary counter lady, who unquestionably would scoff if she knew what a pretender I was, if I could see some nice bows please. Then she would duck back a room, where Mr. Gailes’ and the grey-bearded, other smart-looking man were tweaking violins and grab a fistfull, and I would embarrassingly scratch out a few notes on my fiddle, hoping for invisible help from the invisible bow muse.

But, actually, she disappeared a bit deeper into the back than that, reappeared with nothing, and said she had a room ready for me.

And a nice room at that, with a special fold-down table on the wall--really rather like those diaper changing stations, but instead of Little Tikes plastic it was wooden, with a velvet-lined surface. And there, on the fancy fold-down table, was a special velvet-lined, slotted box holding an array of 15 or so assorted violin bows.

I smiled and thanked her, trying to look either smart or talented since I doubted I could look both, as she left and closed the door.

Here’s what I was hoping would happen as I looked at those 15 bows (which were probably snickering at each other like 7th graders waiting to see whether their substitute teacher can summon an ounce of authority.) I was hoping that when I picked up the right one, blue sparks would shoot cunningly from its tip, as if to say you have chosen well grasshopper, and when I placed it daintily against my fiddle strings I would realize that I was Bonnie Ridout afterall, or at least Charlie Daniels.

Not surprisingly, there were no sparks. But I was hopeful that that room was at least a little soundproof as I put each bow through a bit of Sheebeg Sheemore or Gilderoy. Ultimately, I chose one on the basis of feel and dumb instinct. The weight, the balance, and other senses which I have no particular reason to trust, but I chose one.

The two smart-looking men in the back oohed and ahhed a bit that I had chosen such a fetching and clever bow which turned out to have been made in France or thereabouts, 100 years ago or thereabouts. But then, it would have shown poor business skills on their part so say “you picked that? Hah! What the hell, ring’er up.”

I told the scary counter lady that I hoped the room had been soundproof, and if not, my apologies, and she quite charmingly confessed to having recognized many of my tunes and “enjoyed my selection.” No-one ever referred to my selection before, so again, I note that the people at Gailes’ violin shop at least know what to say.

So. I have a lovely old bow. And a lovely old fiddle. And lovely old fingers. The latter have some work to do.

teacher!

I've been on the lookout for a fiddle tutor, and after a bit of scouting, I've landed a spot on the roster of a young lady who teaches right at the Severna Park Music & Arts where Gabe takes drumming. That she looks half my age is probably nothing I should mind. There's no denying I squandered my best neuronal development years where music and language are concerned, but I will go with these words from RENT. There's only us, there's only this...forget regret, or life is yours to miss...no other road, no other way...no day but today...

truth.

For the rare person and several wafting dust motes who noticed that I went on a bit last week about a book called Expecting Adam by Martha Beck, you may be wondering why I’ve removed all references. I loved that book while I was reading it. It made me laugh and cry at the same time, and for several days after I finished I would have told you that it was one of the best books I’d ever read.

In fact, I loved it so much that I wanted to see if other people loved it as much as I did. So I started reading Amazon.com reviews. And most loved it, even if with slightly less fervor than I. But some didn’t. Some knew more about the author’s life and subsequent work than I did, and some included information that I tracked down to verify.

And now I’m left with what I’d call a trust issue. I loved the book partly because I believed, and the author insisted, that the events she was recounting were true as depicted. Now I have reason to wonder if she embellished flagrantly, completely fictionalized for the purpose of book sales, or is possibly just not stable.

One could argue that it doesn’t matter. Did I love the story? Is that not enough? For example, another book of which I’m very fond--Life of Pi tackles the very issue of whether the literal truth of a story even matters. But Life of Pi did not purport to be the author’s memoir.

I’m left with a sense of responsibility toward my readership. There's no question that I like to spoof, embellish, and bullsquat. But even dust motes deserve the truth if you say it’s the truth.

seasoned, with that trendy distressed patina

This weekend’s Parade newspaper-insert ragazine largely features Gail Sheehy’s ode to Baby Boom womens' new way of inhabiting the ages from 40 on. She calls us “Seasoned Women” and tells us in anecdotal vignettes and quick-read boxes what we offer to the world and what we want in return.

I hope I don’t sound like my usual cynical self, because I don’t mean to. I do want the stuff she’s telling me I want, and I agree wholeheartedly that “finding a new dream in midlife is about finding a new concept of oneself in the world.” It’s just kind of freaking me out a little that my personal new concept is a darn good hider. Oh, we will coax it out sooner or later, me and my friend Anxiety-monster. And then we will live in a harmonious trio which has room for purpose, wisdom, and the steady, calming practices of twitching in bed, and zoning out on crossword puzzles.

Did I miss a new rule?

It is not surprising that, in my important role as bipedal ATM, I would sometimes run out of cash. Often, therefore, I have nothing but 3 nickels and a penny in my wallet when it comes time to pay for the carry-out pizza, or the caramel latte and the vanilla steamer. At times like this, I am grateful that almost anywhere takes credit cards nowadays. But here’s the weird thing, and maybe it’s just my imagination. You hand over the card. The counter person hands you a credit slip to sign which--because you are at a food establishment--is identical to the sort you’d get at a full-service restaurant. In other words, it prints your cost with two blank lines underneath--one for “tip” and the other for “total.”

I don’t think the pizza guy expects me to tip him when he hands me my food and I hand him cash. There’s not even one of those little tip cups on the counter which have become so ubiquitous at everywhere from the snowball stand to the coffee shop.

But there’s something about being handed that credit card slip to sign, with the tip and total lines sitting there looking suggestively blank, that makes me imagine a scowl flitting briefly over the counter person’s face when I hand it back, signed, totalled, and tipless.

hi ho hi ho

I’ll be needing a job soon. Not so much for money, though pocket change is nothing to sneeze at. I cannot assume I’ll ever make money writing, though write I must, and it’s quite certain that no-one will pay me for playing fiddle or whistle. As far as I know, there is no money to be had in being a student of languages, or a crossword puzzler, so fortunately, no, it is not so much about the money.

It’s about being in the world. I’m noticing that my kids are getting pretty grown up pretty fast. As their explorations become outwardly focused I’m standing here thinking you can’t leave me here in this stinking house! Houses are boring!

I’m not sure where I will go for a job. Maybe a music shop. I’ve thought about even fixing lattes. I just need to see and interact with real live people on a regular basis, and with some continuity.

It kind of stinks that there’s no branch of Lark in the Morning in Annapolis, or on the East Coast for that matter. And I’m still kind of hoping that the cosmos will drop a “help wanted” clipping on my head so the direction to go will be obvious. But I’m afraid that, as usual, I’ll have to suck it up and figure this one out on my own.

not for really religious people

Narnia did make me think. It was, all in all, a pretty good flick. As one who has read much by and about C.S. Lewis, I could not separate my awareness of the story’s Christian underpinnings from my viewing experience, so I was forced, as always, to confront my discomfort with what many consider fundamentals of Christian ideology.

In particular, the notion, beloved by many Bible thumpers, that that which we call God requires a blood sacrifice as due payment for human foibles. (Hence, of course, if you follow this line of thinking, Jesus stepping in as the killee.)

I’ve had some pretty good talks with that which I think of as god in my lifetime, and have never gotten a sense of its being that sort of blood-demanding tribal chief. But the language of the film’s analogy got me to thinking. (I’ll note that I was a great fan of the books as a young adolescent and read them all, despite my mild annoyance at the way Lewis glibly and callously wrote Susan out of the story toward the end.)

When young Edmund, one of the four principle Narnia kids, screws up big time, the bad witch points out to Aslan the lion (the Jesus counterpart) that there is “deep magic” in the land which dictates that Edmund’s life/blood/what-have-you now belongs to her, and it is for this reason that Aslan arranges to sub for Ed on the chopping block.

This is why allegorical stories can be a fine thing. They give you another vista on an archetypical theme. So in Narnia, the thing that’s going to get you is deep magic. What might that translate into in the universe as we know it? I honestly cannot envision a deity standing there, foaming at the mouth, as it demands blood be spilled because you stuck those lifesavers in your pocket (without paying) when you were seven. If the archetype of sacrifice works for so many people of religion there has to be a less primitive explanation.

I would suggest this: The human is a rare beast in its existential self-awareness. I have walked through (for example) the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem and felt the weight of human guilt on my shoulders, and I’ve no doubt that many of my species have also experienced similar guilty pain at their awareness of the depths of atrocity to which people can sink. If the sacrifice archetype works for you maybe it’s because you yourself need someone to say “It’s ok, you can let go of the guilt,” and maybe, if you’re of the Christian persuasion, the person of Jesus fills the bill. I think we sear the red A for Accountable into our own forearms with a hot iron. Nobody named God condemned you to death.

Personally, I have no particular conviction that Jesus was actually thinking of this stuff when he was executed for what looked pretty much like political reasons. But I have a sort of sense that like the ten avatars of Vishnu, god can fill a great variety of needs, and for someone in need of salvation theology, god can be that shape.

bleeping beep

It is one of the inexplicable but inarguable givens of living in this house that things won’t work right. For the last few months it has been (among other things) the refrigerator. This is a big hulking hulk of a fridge. You could not go to Sears and find a reasonably priced model to fill the gap it will leave if I give the executive order for its condemnation. I do not like it beeping at me. There are enough things that beep at me. The oven beeps when you set the timer. It beeps when it finishes preheating. The dishwasher more than beeps. It sings--in beeps--when you open it. It sings--in beeps--when you change its settings. It beeps when you start it. So I really don’t need to be beeped at by the fridge. Because there are, as I’ve stated, enough beeps, and because it’s trying to alert me to the fact that it doesn’t work. Shut up I tell it. I don’t want to know that the fridge is running at 43 F and the freezer at 16. I push buttons (which beep) and insist that it go back to 37 and 0. It doesn’t believe me and beeps back. I turn it off, hoping that a brief respite from electricity may make it forget that it was acting up, and it will return to normal fridge behavior when I push the on button (to much beeping) again. That actually worked for a couple months. Today it just beeps. Three beeps actually. beebeebeep. A third repair company is coming Thursday. The first two didn’t fix it right even though they thought they did. I doubt if a more clever muse of circuitry will follow repairman #3 in the door. I do not want to buy something that would fill the gaping hole that fridge would leave. But I might have to.

Looking

I really did it for myself anyway. Pulling pics out of photo albums that date back to 1984--ones that he was in. Pics which I could see him in and remember what 100% looked like and felt like. I squished into the chair beside him, and showed them to him. I had the stupid magic idea that he’d see himself and things would clear up like the fog of amnesia lifting. He said, “That’s your brother.” I said, “No, that’s you.” He said, “Who’s that? Becca?” “No, it’s Olivia.” He remembered lots of things, but not, I guess, what it was like to see through those eyes in the pictures. “Thanks for showing me those,” he said.

Great house--free to good home

In my dream I suddenly found myself to be the free and clear owner of a lovely, clean, light-filled house (for the purposes of the dream, my sister had given it to me--but I don’t think that was relevent in the interpretive sense,) and the thing is, I didn’t want it.

Why am I supposed to want this house,I thought to myself, and what am I supposed to do with it? I was quite certain that my real life was somewhere out there--as in not in that house--and staying there, keeping it, would be an impediment. But not to worry--it was just a weird dream.

games and monsters

Of course I want to run away from the beast. It’s not a pretty animal. And it’s certainly not a member of a species I ever had thoughts of engaging, or would have wanted to engage had I known about its existence. But, the bummer--if it is a bummer, because bummer may just be the word I’m applying...one girl’s bummer may be another girl’s dream come true--the bummer is that it’s mine, and I’ve got to figure out how to wrestle it.
Or, to completely change metaphors midstream--What if you spent 20 years playing a really cool game of Parcheesi, and they suddenly yank the gameboard out from under the pieces, slip in a Monopoly board instead, and insist you go on playing as if nothing weird had happened? (So far my best guess is you learn to play Monopoly, even if you never really liked it.)

good stuff to drink

Here’s an ailment that doesn’t play fair: Parkinson’s disease. So now they’re telling me that fewer years of education and a smoking habit lower your risk? I don’t think the news will induce me to stop studying Spanish, but perhaps I’ll jog the stairs with greater diligence, and...

...keep up the coffee habit. It’s encouraging that something so decadently addictive has Parkinson’s inhibiting properties in addition to its growing reputation for being chock full of antioxidants. Yum to coffee. And cheers to the nightly glass of vino.

back to fiddling.

The pursuit of a working fiddle has taken me to some interesting places. This summer it was the third floor of Lexington and Calvert, downtown Baltimore, to the Perrins’ violin shop--a bank headquarters in its former life, where now the walk-in safes in every room house spare pegs and bows. The Perrins guys gave me a nice fiddle set-up, for which I paid nice fiddle set-up rates--but still I had problems.

When, after a couple months of cranking out the five tunes I’ve learned well enough to not break your ears, my E and A pegs reverted to shameless and relentless slipping, I decided to try something else. I called Thomas Melton, whom I’d gotten wind of via the Acousticopia music shop in Annapolis.

It was a forty-five minute drive south, to a cul-de-sac at the tip of Churchton, Maryland, where the Chesapeake Bay took off in every direction but west. My sad fiddle and I walked into a cluster of houses and outbuildings where a back stair led to Melton’s second-floor shop.

Retired in name only, Thomas Melton has done well enough in construction to feed his hobby/business/obsession with violins. He also makes hand-turned wooden bowls, waterfowl decoys, and goes rockfish fishing in the Bay--interests which were all reflected in the tools and artifacts covering every spare inch of his shop.

It seemed that the Perrins guys hadn’t thought to clean out the 150+ years of rosin, oil, and peg dope which were gunking the insides of my peg holes. Melton did it, then rummaged through a drawer which must have represented a 200 year history of fiddle pegs, before finding me an E peg fat enough for my fiddle’s old holes. He noted that my chin rest was not only higher than average, but seemed to do me no good at all based on my hold, and traded me for something more suitable. I bought a shoulder rest that he had on hand, having never much liked my old standard-issue music student model, and he got me put back together and, at least for the moment, in tune.

He does it for fun, not money, which was evidenced by his charging me 25 bucks for some careful, meticulous work, and even then instructing that I should tell him if that was too much. It wasn’t. He has numerous music teachers who are both friends and customers to whom he’ll donate half and three-quarter-sized violins he’s acquired and patched up, when they have eager but needy pupils. I’m glad I met him.

The earth is not always firm

When life takes off in a direction that runs contrary to assumptions you’ve held for years, it can take a really long time to adjust. Especially if you’ve had a shaky sense of self-definition all along.

Oh, and here's a problem with shaky senses of self-definition: I just picked up a Title Nine catalog. I basically like Title Nine stuff even though I don't need rock-climbing clothes. The catalog is sprinkled with vignettes featuring real-people models engaged in active pursuits while spiffily clad in Title Nine items.

This is typical of the profiles they print under the pics: "Juliska weaves prairie grasses into her own line of sleepwear while teaching Mandarin Chinese to her two toddlers. She enjoys striving for her personal best in 20K marathons, and leads yoga classes for the NYPD in her spare time." Sometimes I want to look at the clothes, and sometimes I want to take a bottle-opener to Juliska's stylin' spandex britches.

I guess I could be a Title Nine model. I would wear whatever they told me to, and the caption would read thusly: "Emily sucks dog fur out of corners while trying to convince her kids that she really didn't fix anything for dinner. She can dodge a teenage verbal zinger clocked at 60mph while hurdling a chopsaw. Her personal motto is 'get your own spoon.'"

Clements' EZ Park

There’s a small sedan blocking our front walkway and paperbox today. While I appreciate that the guests at the neighbor kid’s beer blast didn’t encroach on our yard, being three feet into the road makes the car an easy target for sideswipes. And as our entire front footage was parked in last night, I’ve been mighty tempted to re-institute our “Welcome to EZ Park--25cents/hour for pretty cars, 75cents/hour for ugly cars” tickets. (Plus, these guys should be charged extra for Jeff picking up their empty Bud Light cans.) I think it’s that we’re the people on the block least likely to get petty about sacrificing our border to other people’s parties. And I don’t want to be petty, but I’ve been trying to think of a humorous way to suggest that they might not want to leave the car there all weekend.

a dog walk

In the true spirit of a blog, here are a few themeless rambles.

Fred-fred and I took a very nice walk today. Odd, that since I live two blocks from Severn School, I’ve never seen the new academic buildings from closer than across the football field. Now, the fact that I don’t send my kids to the local private prep school is a matter of philosophy, economics, and handy public schools which are, all in all, not bad.

Still, I’ve continued to think about it as if it were the same venerable institution with creaky, ivy covered buildings. It’s not. Wow. Someone’s Harvard endowment contribution must’ve taken a wrong turn in New Jersey and ended up funding a couple academic buildings worthy of Bill Gates. The buildings are huge, the lounges are college caliber, the lunch room is enormous. And get this--there’s a pendulum in the entry way. That’s right. A big one too. Swinging from a ceiling 3 stories up. Severn School thinks its the Smithsonian now.

And then I noticed this plaque on one of the brick columned colonnades connecting an old building to the mega-new one. A plaque stating that the colonnade was a gift of--people I know. People whose kid Gabe used to go to school with at Summit. A kid whom he still considers a friend despite the fact that his attempts to interest this kid in a get-together over the past couple years have not panned out. Which I’m ok with since every time I used to have to wait at the electronic community gate to transport him to their chateau I was gripped by an unattractive surge of counter-snobbery and wanted to say to the speaker-box “No thank you--I’d best send Gabe up to entertain your child while I wait here so as not to bring cooties into the neighborhood.”

The truth is, they’ve never behaved snobbily toward me, nor has anyone else who sends kids to prep school--I must just get some kind of weird kick from playing inadequacy mind games.