Jerry Springer Strikes Again

Well, in an effort to improve my blog traffic I arranged for a little event yesterday. My neighbor lost his mind. Now that doesn't happen every day. Oh, come on! Doesn't that make you want to click over here just a little bit?

It was a dark and stormy morning. [Really, I'm not making that up.] As I was lying down with my baby at nap time, a huge crunch disturbed our peace. The unmistakable crumpling crunchy thud of fiberglass and metal hitting something very solid. I bolted out of bed and ran to the window. Not a thing. Moments later J came running in, "Where's the phone? A van just crashed. In front of the neighbor's house, into their tree."

How fast can a woman dial 911? Pretty darn fast. I reported the accident and ran out to see if anyone needed help. The van had hit the tree alright. Hard. But the airbag had not deployed and there was no one to be seen anywhere.

Curious and concerned, I approached the front door. Much screaming and swearing greeted me. A fight was clearly in progress. I tentatively knocked. As fools rush in where angels fear to tread, I knocked harder.

The door opened and Little T and Baby A peeked out. "Hi Jami. Where's V?" L.T. said as if there wasn't a car wrapped around their tree and lunatic raving in the living room.

"Hi dude. Is your mom here?"

M rounded the corner, calm, resolute. "Hi, Jami."

"Um, are you OK?"

"No."

"Um, I called 911. The police are coming. Do you want me to call back?"

"No."

"Would you...uh...do you think maybe the kids would like a play date?"

Long pause. "Yeah. Thanks. That's a good idea."

"Hey guys! Wanna come over and play with N and C?"

"YAY!"

So over they came. N pulled out her babysitting bag. She was totally prepared for just such a moment. Games, coloring, fun galore. As the festivities were getting under way, a different neighbor came to my door and motioned me outside.

"Jami, the police are here."

"Yeah, I know. I've got the kids."

"They have guns."

"What?" I stepped out further. The police were blocking the roads. Easily a dozen of them were setting up behind the shrubbery in the park, behind the bounce house and tree at the church across the street, on the roof of the house behind the screamer. Shields, bullhorns, and sure enough...guns.

"Oh crap. I've got to tell her." [Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.] I began walking to the screaming house. 

"WALK AWAY FROM THE HOUSE. GO BACK INTO YOUR HOUSES," bullhorned the spastic police officer.

I pondered obeying him as I continued toward the door. This was getting out of control. If I could just tell M what was going on, she could come have a chat and diffuse the situation a bit. What are they going to do: shoot me?

"LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS! WALK AWAY FROM THE HOUSE. GET OVER HERE NOW!" Geez, he was irritating. I stopped walking.

"LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS! STOP! GET OVER HERE NOW." Hm. Idiot. He just might shoot me.  I walked over to a calmer more intelligent looking officer. The bullhorn man's head blew off. Something about come here? Jail? Whatever. I was on a mission.

I attempted to gain permission to go over and talk to my friend. How many different ways can an officer say, "HELL NO!"?

"LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS!  GO INSIDE YOUR HOUSE." That blasted man was at it again. "LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS!"

I explained to the officer I was standing next to that I wasn't going to go inside, that they were blowing this event way out of proportion. And someone was going to get hurt. [Fools rush in.] The officer informed me that the man had a bow and arrow. I refrained from laughing at him. He told me to go stand back and spoke to Officer Bullhorn who then quieted down. 

I stood back and went over to the female police officer. She found a new way to say, "HELL NO!"

They put somebody new on the bullhorn. "RESIDENTS OF 555 ALPHABET STREET: PLEASE COME OUTSIDE." I suspected at the time that the residents of 555 ABC St couldn't hear him, didn't even know they were there. [This was later confirmed.] So we all went through an hour of "Please come out. No one has committed a crime. We just want to talk to you."

Eventually M came outside. I'm guessing to come see how the kids were doing.  She looked around calmly, said something quietly to the closest officers and went back inside. She came out again about a half hour later.  Whew. I felt better. 

After she finished talking to the police, I called her over. She confirmed that her husband had lost his mind, that she'd been trying to get him help, and that no one would help.  I spoke to her about her school children. I suggested that I pick them up when I got mine and go directly to McDonalds Playplace. Do not pass home, do not mention the situation. Administer french fries. The plan was approved and I went back home. 

As I was crossing the street, "LADY IN THE PURPLE DRESS! GO INSIDE YOUR HOME." Yeah, yeah. I waved and pointed at my house. I'm a goin'.

I checked in on J and N.  They were doing a great babysitting job. The little monkeys had no idea of the chaos reigning in the street. We can't hear street noises in our house. Thank God! When Little T asked what his mom and dad were doing, I told him they were working on getting the car fixed.

I changed clothes. They seemed to have something against my dress. And headed out again. I stayed in my driveway this time.

Another hour. M's father (the screamer's FIL) came out. Relief and tension warred it out within my psyche. Another half-hour of calm bullhorn coaxing. An occasional riffle twitched in the neighborhood shrubs. I began praying. (Not out loud. Do you think I'm insane?) Suddenly it occured to me that perhaps some of my friends were online and would be willing to pray. I went inside and posted a quick request on this blog and one on facebook. I went back out. Five minutes later the screamer "stood down." He came out, hands up, walking backwards. Hands on head. Hand cuffs on. The SWAT team came out of the bushes and off the roofs, and the dozen police cars began to trickle away. 

All before school got out. I confirmed with M that McDonald's was still a good idea, so she could deal with the car, the commitment papers and all that. At that I packed Little T and Baby A into the car, picked up all four of the school kids and went to the golden arches. Yet another justifiable credit card expense. We fiddled around for two hours while I blythely lied through my teeth. [Was it on purpose? I don't know. I didn't see it. Is your dad in the hospital? No. No one was hurt. Were they fighting? Hm. Where's Baby A?]

And then we went home. M took her monkeys inside and explained the whole thing to them. Poor woman. Later that night, because her day had not been quite crappy enough, Little T broke his finger while bouncing in the bounce house at the church across the street. Good times.

Oh and M's birthday is tomorrow. Right. Happy birthday.

A Daily Dose of Irony

I think you may be beginning to understand why I did not want to talk about this. It's like abortion: once I get in the debate, I cannot stop. Here's the latest installment in the disgusting saga of Prop 8.

My sister (who is a rather outspoken person--you might have noticed) just spent a half an hour chewing me out about my stance on Prop 8. Turns out that on her late night walks she's been putting "H"s on people's Yes on 8 lawn signs. "Yes on 8" is hate. H-8. Get it? Everyone who supports 8 is filled with hate. The five Mormons who go the High School where she teaches are silent about it because they would get their @$$ kicked for being so hateful if they made their views known. All attempts to point out that NONE of the people I know who support Prop 8 are hateful fell on deaf ears. To me, most Pro 8 people mostly just seem worried and fearful, not hateful. Most of the Anti 8 folks I know are pretty mellow. Yet there are a few vocal hate-mongers on both sides. "If you don't think as I do, you are hate-filled." rhetoric is almost as appealing as the "If you don't believe as I do, you are going to burn in hell." rhetoric.

Tuesday cannot come soon enough.

In Which Jami Horrifies Two Lovely Young Teachers

I'm in serious overload mode with Girl Scout stuff right now. So I do not have time to craft a pleasant fiction in which I do not behave like a boor to those poor teachers. Background for those of you who missed the first post on this subject. Here we go! Details. Rough draft style.

I think I've frightened my mother off forever by bringing up the specter of Mr. Marshall which frees me up to discuss my crazy educational protectionism without fear of giving my sweet mother an aneurysm as she suppresses the urge to tell me off in front of the entire world.

ANYWAY...I met with V's two teachers last Monday after school. They had a nice neat rubric, with the smiley face, :), the flat line face :|, and the frownie face :(. They were certain that if they explained that the frownie face meant something other than "I'm mad/I don't like you/You have displeased me" that I'd say "OH! Thanks for explaining that. Whew! Glad we got that cleared up." Um, sorry, I'm crazier than that. A smile is a universal symbol for friendly acceptance while the frownie face is the universal symbol for "unable to complete assignment as given?" I think not.

So they kept saying, "Well, that's what we do."

And I kept saying, "Well, you can do it, but not to my kid. You aren't allowed to make her cry. I don't care if it is wimpy and silly that she cries over a frownie face. She's six, my friends."

Finally, I bent a bit. "OK, you can put a frownie face on her homework, but you can't let her see it. You can mail it home to me or stick it in an envelope and I'll get it," which was an unacceptable solution for them. They want the child to understand that they didn't complete the assignment correctly. Okey-dokey. More negotiations ensued until finally we settled on "1" = :( . Whew, glad we got that cleared up.

[OK Crash Test Dummy this next sentence is for you.] Nevermore shall my darling receive massive sorrowing visages marring her pulchritudinous, puerile endeavors toward scholarship.*

Then I told them I hated their reading program. That went over really well. I asked if there were any alternatives. Nope? OK...moving on then.

V's attention-seeking behavior? Ah yes. We locked her in a closet for six years, never paying any attention to her, and now she's a bit clingy. I sympathized with them. She does really seem to be a black hole for love. I told them that if they pay attention to her when she is making mistakes and acting up that she was likely to continue.

Did they want to keep trying what they have been doing or consider other options? My suggestions? They could have her move to a different classroom when she is seeking attention inappropriately, they could carry her in a baby backpack all day, whispering sweet words of encouragement and affection, or they could try something of their chosing that didn't involve frownie faces.

So then we discussed district standards for first grade which are the state second grade standards moved down a grade. That was fun. We discussed the wisdom of high pressure learning in the lower grades which led directly into the V's only attending their school because I need her out of the house during the day. Poor ladies, trying so hard to be nice to the crazy woman who pops this HORROR on them!

I offered reassurance. We totally follow their little homework routine for the hour and a half it takes to get done, roughly the same amount of time we'd spend on an entire day of homeschool. We parted on reasonable terms, but I would have paid hard, cold cash to be a fly on the wall for the conversation that followed our meeting.

In summary [that's also for CTD] they did not harm me, I didn't really stand on the desk and do a Tarzan yell, and security was not required to drag me off.

The end. For now. Until I get my knickers in a twist again.

*Translation: No more huge frownies on my V's beautiful, immature efforts at worksheets.

2:45 today.

Mrs. P, the reading teacher with the over-enthusiastic grading pen, is meeting with me in an hour. She's bringing reinforcements. V's regular teacher, Mrs. R.

They're both 25 years old. Does it make me a bad person for thinking that as non-parent, youthful, novice teachers, they should really stop behaving like pompous know-it-alls. Um...my job. Old, eleven-year veteran parent teacher here. I get to be the pompous know-it-all!

I'll keep you posted.