Class Warfare (Or: Checking My Privilege At The Door Of My Child's Education?)

Noa begins first grade in a few weeks in Manchester, a city where a much larger proportion of children and families are living in poverty than compared to the rest of the state of New Hampshire.  The difference in numbers is startling; from a study published in 2009 by the Carsey Institute I gleaned some numbers that may be a few years old but have likely not changed much: 

"The percentage of children in poverty in 2007 in new Hampshire (10 percent) was the lowest in the nation. Thus, it is surprising to find extremely high child poverty rates in some parts of the Manchester-Nashua metropolitan area. In the city of Manchester, 25 percent of all children lived below the poverty line in 2007." 

The entirety of reasons for this disparity are likely varied and highly debated, but the Carsey Institute study linked above surmises:

"In suburban Hillsborough County, 81 percent of families with children are married-couple households. In Nashua, 73 percent are. In Manchester, only 58 percent of families with children are married couples. Thus, the higher child poverty rates in Manchester are, in large part, a result of the larger proportion of single-parent families in the city."

I'm in that 42% of single parent families in Manchester, although I'm also straight, white, and cisgendered.  For a long time I was lucky to be in the group that was living fairly well above gross federal poverty level (I'd estimate we were typically living at just under or about 200% of the gross federal poverty line; you can see the breakdown of the poverty levels here). We were making ends meet, and though we weren't flush with disposable income we had (*and still have*) food, housing, clothing, and health insurance (mine through my prior employer, Noa's through New Hampshire Medicaid since the day she was born) as well as internet access, phones, and cable TV.  We had not only the necessities, but plenty of extras.  Shelves of books and multiple pairs of shoes may not be considered a luxury for many, but here's where that sneaky privilege thing comes in, because for MANY MANY families those are absolutely things they don't have the luxury of owning or obtaining.

I began my education in Lawrence, MA at the Weatherbee Elementary school.  People who say things like "I'm not racist but--" often call Manchester the Lawrence of NH; these are typically the same people who complain about the "hispanics migrating north."  It's fairly disgusting, yes.  It's also fairly common, which is depressing.  (NOTE TO SELF:  Stop reading the comments on local news stories! EVERYONE IS A TROLL!)  I did fine at Weatherbee; I was much like Noa as a kid, reading early and well, and psyched to learn about anything and everything.  My family moved to Salem, NH when I was in second grade (the white poor migrating north!  GAH!) and I fully understand how different my experience in Salem schools was than it would have been in Lawrence.  I also fully understand, though, that Salem wasn't a poor city struggling to get it's kids through school.  It's far from the best school district in the state, but it's yards ahead of Lawrence.  Would I have turned out the same if I'd stayed there for my entire education?  As a student of the Salem School District I didn't even end up attending college, although I did graduate high school.  

There are eleven public elementary schools in Manchester and the one Noa will be attending is McDonaugh; it's rated pretty much in the middle.  The problem is that while it's rated in the middle of the group for this city, it's hardly up to par when compared to the rest of the state, and in a city already struggling to provide quality education for it's children the loss of ninety-five teachers last year due to budget cuts was a brutal blow.  A 2012 New York Times article about the battle for solutions to Manchester's education crisis stated 

"With more than 15,000 students, Manchester is the largest school district in the state, serving about 1 in 12 of its public school students, district officials say. Once, the city drew money from the large business tax base of its mill economy, now defunct. Since then, the district’s growth has not kept up with its tax revenues, and Manchester now has some of the state’s lowest per-pupil spending, at $10,283.77 per student (the state average is $13,159.15)."

When she began kindergarten last year I had the option of sending Noa to McDonaugh, or paying through my ass for private school.  There were a few things that tipped the balance for us; one of them was that I was working 9-11 hour workdays and public kindergarten was only 8:45am-2pm.  This meant I'd have had to find a way to get Noa to and from school and to and from either the Y or the Boys And Girl's Club, where I'd end up paying almost as much as the kindergarten programs there cost.  The other thing that helped make the choice for me was when Matt and I visited McDonaugh and took a tour with the vice principal; she was very clear about what the kindergarten population there was like. She bluntly said "She may be in class with kids who have never opened a book.  If you're looking for enrichment this may not be exactly what would best suit you."  

And you know what?  I WAS looking for enrichment.  I DID want her to have the chance to focus on what she's great at.  And as much as it has invoked self-loathing and guilt in me, I didn't want her stuck in a classroom with kids who didn't fully know the alphabet when she was actually able to read.  I didn't want her to be 1 of 100 kindergartners in that huge school.  

So I went to an open house at the downtown YMCA and was really psyched about their kindergarten program;  I liked the small classes, the hands-on teaching approach, their reading and math success rates of kids leaving their kindergarten compared to the public schools.  I know that test scores (especially at that age) aren't hugely reliable and can be easily skewed, but when someone says "More children graduating from our program are reading, and at higher levels" it's tough to shrug and say "Whatever."  The YMCA kindergarten program also worked for our schedule; early mornings and late afternoon/early evenings were basically daycare, but within the groups they were in school with for the day.

So because I COULD, I chose to send Noa to kindergarten there.  I spent about 30% of my monthly income on that choice, and I felt like shit knowing that for many families "touring" the public school and then "deciding" where to send their children isn't an option.  I felt like I was being classist; that by opting to not send her into a classroom with kids who hadn't been given the same chances as her, like private daycares from 10 months old on, chosen specifically because they focused on cultivating learning and not just "playing" all day (which, it should be noted, were often paid for in part by the state) I was denouncing my community, my neighbors.  I started to wonder often if Noa's affinity for letters, words, reading, writing were natural to her or things she was lucky to have had the chance to develop since toddlerhood because we had the gift of books, fantastic private teachers, and time to read and play and explore together.  I wasnt working three jobs to make ends meet, so I had time to spend with her that I know I'm blessed to have had.

So now here we are, and for a multitude of reasons (I'm unemployed, we're still living in the same neighorhood, etc etc) Noa will be starting first grade soon at the school I shunned for her kindergartnerhood. She left the Y not only reading, but reading books that are labelled for ages 8-12.  She's a bright, curious, enchanted child who lives to learn.  About anything.

And part of me worries that she won't have an opportunity to thrive at this new school, that she'll be lost and overlooked, and part of me feels like an asshole for feeling like that.  

I try to keep my privilege in check as much as possible but this is a point that I always feel icky about.

The choices we make for our kids-- when we're lucky enough to have those choices available in the first place-- are of utmost importance, but am I worrying too much about these choices, or not enough?  Now that I'm unemployed Noa is officially among the 1 in 4 Manchester children living far below the poverty line. Do I have any right to act as though the economic status of this city, this neighborhood, this public school where she'll begin her "real" education, aren't good enough for us?  

I do have that right, as anybody does.  But are we all drawing lines in the sand and assuming that the poor communities around us deserve the below-par educations that they typically get?  That if families "want" more they could automatically have more?  That, forgive me, "you get what you deserve," but we're all exempt from that blanket statement because we all deserve more than the poor people next door?

The poor stay poor for a million reasons, and these schools stay sub-par for a zillion more.  I'm lucky that I've had choices in the past to make about Noa's education, and that I likely (hopefully) will in the future, and in the meantime I hope that she's able to grow and thrive within an environment that may be less than ideal for her.  I'll keep my ears and eyes open for opportunities to leave this city that has become stunted in so many ways, and hope for the best.

I'll also, in the meantime, do the best I can to keep my privilege in check, knowing that I'll often fail.  Knowing that I want more for my child--- but that I don't want her to ever think she deserves more than the child next to her because of where we come from, how much money we have, the language we speak, the color of our skin, the number and gender of the parents she has, and a multitude of other variables.  

I'll do the best I can to balance my guilt with common sense, to find the best possible opportunities for this little being I've created to grow and thrive and mature into an adult who can navigate the socio-economic nuances of this crazy world with care and grace.

   

GOOP Edition! (Or: Shit I'm Super Into)

Some of these may fall under the umbrella of "life hacks" but since that expression is bizarre and a little creepy I'll just say these are things I'm super into, and you should be grateful that I'm sharing my secrets.  Say thankyou, ingrates.

1) BEHOLD:  The glass jar speaker enhancement system!  I love my iPhone (fine, I want to french it but it isn't waterproof) but it sounds like shit when I listen to... ANYTHING on it.  Tinny and hissy and just overall crappy.  The louder I turn up the volume the shittier it sounds.  The Glass Jar Speaker Enhancement System magnifies the sound and makes it a little fuller, and as long as you don't turn it up too loud it sounds 100x better than the phone on it's own.   Perfect for listening to your Bryan Adams Pandora station, NPR news stories, or audio you took of your girlfriend talking in her sleep.  You can also use a short drinking glass for the same result.

2)  SUGAR!  It's good for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and it makes a great snack, too.  But beyond it's nutritional benefits it also makes a kickass facial scrub.  Just gritty enough to work well, but not so gritty that it sands off the top layer of your skin.  A fresh complexion = good.  Top layer of facial skin missing = bad.  Don't do this if you have severe acne or facial rashes of any kind because it will just irritate it and possibly leave open sores on your skin.  NO GOOD.

3) "Homemade" foaming hand soap.  It may not really be homemade but it's saved me assloads of money.  Noa was using ridiculous amounts of hand soap and even buying the cheapest stuff they make-- and giant refills-- we were still going through it stupidly fast and then I read somewhere on the interwebs that mixing one part Dr Bronner's castile soap with three parts water in a foaming soap dispenser makes kickass hand soap.  Just buy one bottle of the cheapest foaming soap you can find and when it runs out keep the bottle; feel free to jazz it up with stickers or Swarovski crystals or whatever.  Put the water in first and add the Bronner's AFTER, otherwise it foams up and runs out of the dispenser.  One 32 oz bottle of Dr Bronner's that I got for $14 on Amazon has lasted months.  I expect to not run out until at least 2016, at which point I'll just take my flying car to Target to buy another bottle of the Doc B.  I like the lavender kind the best, because lavender is like the little black dress of scent:  always in style, perfect for any occasion, and verrrry sexy.  

4)  I'm scared of regular deodorant/antiperspirant ever since I learned that aluminum is very likely not good for our bodies.  Plus, our bodies are made specifically TO perspire, so eliminating that process is just strange and also very likely not super good for us.  I tried a few different alternatives to the Suave baby powder scented crap I'd been using since I was about twelve but wasn't too into any of them;  the hops in the Tom's of Maine stuff stained my armpits yellow after a few weeks (oddly, I'm the only person I know of that has had this problem-- and I tried on multiple occasions to use it again after taking breaks, and continued to get Yellow Pit Syndrome), the lemongrass and baking powder "bar" I tried made my armpits sting and the smell was way too strong (and the "bar" crumbled and made a huge mess everywhere), and trying a deodorant powder wasn't strong enough.  I was piss-pants happy when I discovered Lush's Aromaco deodorant bar, because a) IT WORKS!  b) it doesn't leave any creepy residue or stains behind and c) it's cheap and lasts a long time.  It's made with baking soda, witch hazel, chamomile vinegar, and patchouli oil.  If you hate patchouli don't come within a mile of this stuff; I've been using it for months and I'm immune to the smell now but other people comment on it sometimes.  I couldn't care less, but that's just me.  If you've been using antiperspirant for a long time you might not be used to feeling a little damp under the arms, but that's easily remedied with a little powder slapped on that shit.  Just make sure you use something that doesn't have talc in it, because (health alert!) that has also been shown not to be good for us, especially when breathed in.  I might be a Lush fanatic, but I really like their Coconut powder; it smells sooooo good, has no talcum powder in it, and lasts a long time.  Anyway.  Sorry I want to make out with Lush.  

5)  TP facial blotting paper.  Don't be one of those people who buys super expensive little sheets of fancy blotting tissue stuff, because TIP:  toilet paper works just as well.  Humidity at 95%?  Skin squirting grease at a startling rate?  Toilet paper that shit and move on.  

6) OH MY GOD YOU GUYS, SUNBLOCK WIPES!!!!!!!!!   Sorry about the yelling and the exclamation abuse, but I literally peed my pants when I discovered these (and by "literally" I actually mean "figuratively").  Noa was using like 3 cans a week of the spray stuff at camp (counselors aren't allowed to help the kids put it on because NO TOUCHING and I'm fairly certain Noa was just spraying it into the air all day for the hell of it), and she wasnt using the lotion stuff the right way (just kind of half-assedly slapping some onto, like, one arm and half of one leg).  If there's one thing I hate more than how expensive sunblock is it's buying shitloads of it and seeing my kid STILL come home with a burn.  Sunblock wipes are PERFECTION-- she can keep a couple in her pocket, it's super easy to use, and one wipe covers her whole body.  I didn't even know such a miracle existed until a few weeks ago, but it has changed our lives.  Well, it has changed the way we apply sunblock, which has changed .000256% of our lives

7a)  Homemade fabric refresher!  WHOA!  Fuck Febreze; it's spendy and chemical ridden.  Take a spray bottle and mix some water and a little lavender oil and hoooooly shit, spray everything in your home not made of plastic or wood and sit back and enjoy how fucking awesome everything smells.  URGENT NOTE:  there's nothing nice in our apartment and nothing I'm worried about "ruining" (it's all been ruined, there's just no ruining left to be done) but I can give you some warning advice.   a) I wouldn't spray it on your computer.  Sorry.  That has to stay stinky.  b) shake it well before using it.  c) if you have fancy shit made of, like, satin or silk or rhino skin or whatever, I'd make sure the oil won't ruin it.  This warning has been brought to you by Not Being Mad At Me Because You Sprayed Oil All Over Your New Suede Couch And Ruined It.  

7b) Another kind of homemade fabric refresher!  Tea tree oil has natural anti-bacterial properties, and bacteria is usually what made stuff like sports bras and sneakers smell kind of undesirable after a while.  SOLUTION:  Tea tree oil and water in a spray bottle.  Spray that shit down when you take it off, and it won't smell like a camel when you wear it again because the laundromat is too far away to be bothered with.  Please see warnings a, b, and c above.  

              "Mmmmm, your bra smells so good!"  

                                (No, I know!) 

8)  Paper towels.  They clean up messes, but more importantly:  when you run out of coffee filters {for three months} paper towels work just as well!  You can thank my boyfriend for this special tip.  I didn't know Paper Towel Coffee Filters were a thing before I saw him do it a couple months ago.  Maybe this is something everyone already knows; if so, I apologize for wasting your time with the obvious.   ps-  When you run out of paper towels {for three weeks} you can also use cheap shitty napkins as coffee filters!  AMAZEMENT!

I think that's it for Top Secret Amy Mash life tips.  If I think of any more I'll let you know.  Otherwise,  stop buying hand soap, fabric refresher, and coffee filters and send me a thank you card for being a good friend.  

I Did Not Vomit On The Bus! (Or: Another Day Bites The Dust)

I've lived in Manchester without a car for three years now.  You may be surprised to know that it's never occurred to me to utilize the city's buses, or if you know me well you're likely unsurprised by this because if there's one thing I excel at it's overlooking the obvious.  I like to pretend it's because I'm super smart; my brain space is taken up by so many hugely important thoughts that other smaller things just have no space in there.

Pretending is fun, guys!

My boyfriend helps whenever he can but he has a job (bastard) that he has to drive all over the place for, and he's not exactly at my service when I'm like "I need some new lip gloss, y'all."  There's plenty of things within walking distance of where I live-- a laundromat a half mile away, a grocery store a mile and a half away-- but the problem becomes how to transport laundry and groceries home with my two weak girly hands.  I noticed recently that lots of people roaming the streets around here have these nifty basket things on wheels with a handle (NOT a stolen shopping cart.  Quit being an asshole.) and I was like "LIGHTBULB! DING!  I need one of those!"

So today I decided to walk downtown and catch a bus to the mecca of cheap shit: Walmart.  I was going to get myself one of those rolly basket cart things, goddammit!  I looked up the twelve bus routes in Manch Angeles and figured that the Eight was what I wanted.  It left from the Radisson downtown at 1pm today, so at 12:30 I set out to stroll downtown and find my destiny.

Only when I got to the end of my street I realized the sky looked like it was about to rain fire and brimstone upon me, so I hustled back home to grab my adorable clear bubble umbrella.  I'm always dying to use it because seriously, it's adorable, but as a general rule it only rains when I don't have it with me.  SOOO....by going home to get it I ensured that there was a 100% chance there was zero chance I'd end up needing it.

                                                       Ri-Ri:  Always prepared!

Guess who was right about going home for the umbrella precluding the need for an umbrella?  Yeah.  Me.  Always me, guys.  Here's what the sky looked like when I got close to the bus stop:

Hardly the apocalyptic storm I'd sensed on leaving my house TWENTY MINUTES BEFORE.  But it's a good thing I turned around for that umbrella, because it made me juuuust late enough that I saw the Eight pulling out as I approached the stop at 1:02 pm.

But fear not-- ain't nobody gonna break my striiiiide, ain't nobody gonna hold me down, whoa-no, I've got to keep on mooovin'! I sat on a bench and worked on my tan (by "tan" I mean sunburn and freckles) and enjoyed the scenenery:  two super old dudes making each other laugh hysterically, which was adorable although I'm fairly certain they were telling filthy jokes because they kept looking around guiltily.  "Sweet Caroline" blaring from the PA in the park across the street for no reason at all (I had to restrain myself from jumping up and yelling "SO GOOD! SO GOOD!").  Two kids making out.  Like, staring into each others' eyes longingly and murmuring sweet nothings to each other ("Is your mom home? Let's go back there and MAKE LOVE.").

Another bus heading where I wanted to go was coming at 1:30, so I didn't stress about it, and at 1:25 the bus pulled in and a beam of light shone from the heavens and angels sang. I was on my way to GLORY!  I picked the only seat open that faced front, because I was feng shui-ing my bus seating.  I was facing THE FUTURE!

The bus driver was adorable.  When we pulled away he used the PA to say "Next stop: the moon" and then cackled hysterically.  I briefly considered riding the bus all day just to see if he says that every single time the route starts, but I had THINGS TO DO.  My future beckoned me, from a nationwide chain store that abuses and underpays it's employees.  Keep it in perspective, people:  I needed a rolly cart.  I listened in horror and amusement as my fellow passengers passionately discussed "building a giant wall around the border and only letting in the Mexicans who speak English."  GAH!  I'd happened upon the political debate bus!  *I pulled the "let me off" cord but the bus driver pretended to ignore me because he hates me and was punishing me.  (*This didn't happen.)

We got there at 2pm and I strolled into Walmart like I had just been promoted to Lady Resovoir Dog (Resovoir Bitch?), but without a sexy cigarettes because I stopped that crap. 

I was all "Let's DO this shit!" which should have been my first sign of trouble, because every time I think/say "Let's do this shit!" no shit ever gets done.  Ever.

I started scouting for the rolly cart that would change my life.  This was going to be a gamechanger.  Things were going to be different; I was going to roll my laundry down the street to the laundromat in style!  And then the people who work at Walmart and ruin lives were like "That doesn't exist.  I don't know what you're talking about."  I refused to give in to their lies and betrayal, so I searched the store.

Luggage department?  No rolly carts.  Laundry department?  No rolly carts.  Outdoor gear department? No rolly carts.  HOWEVER- a large volume of camo gear which I briefly felt a need for.  Then I opted out because I decided I don't want to get shot the next time I'm in the woods.  Camo = bad.  

Without the rolly cart I couldn't buy cheap bulk snacks for Noa's summer camp.  Without the rolly cart my trip was in vain, because I'd have to walk a mile home from the bus stop once I got back downtown.  Without the rolly cart everything was sad and bleak and empty.  *I kicked over a display case of Gatorade because it would be too heavy to carry home, and I really need it to legally enhance my jogging performance.  (*This didn't happen, but I wish it had.)

I dragged myself sadly around the store and got some toothpaste and new toothbrushes.  At 2:55 I got back on another bus to take me downtown.  There were no forward facing seats this time so I sat in a sideways-facing seat toward the back, hanging my head in shame because all my dreams had been shattered.

                                                WOMP WOMP WOOOOOOMP.

But!  Surprise Twist:  It turns out I get bus sick when I'm not facing forward, guys!  I focused on not barfing.  I took the toothpaste out of the bag so I had something to barf in.  I focused more on not barfing.  The bus stopped at the mall and the mad hydraulics on that thing that lower it to the ground when people are getting on almost pushed me to the egde.  I gagged.  But I did not vomit.

The bus dropped me off where my journey had begun at 3:30 pm.  I slugged along the road, angry about my lack of a rolly cart.  I got home a little before 4 and sadly opened the bag of Cheesy Garlic Bread chips that I'd purchased.  Oh, did I forget to mention those?  Don't worry, they're shitty.  I want my $2.29 back, Lays.

Downside:  I spent 3.5 hours walking and taking busses all over the goddamn place only to fail at my mission.
Upside:  I got toothpaste.
Downside: I almost vomited on the bus.
Upside: I did not vomit on the bus.

So there you have it.  The better part of my day in a (fairly wordy) nutshell.

I am rolly cartless.

Apologies, I have to go now.  There's a shopping cart somewhere with my name allllllll over it!  (I'm going to return it, quit being an asshole.)

                 

Run, Mashbot, Run! (Or: When A Perfectly Good Day Kicks You In The Ladyballs)

Today was a good fucking day.  A GREAT day, even.  I was in a fantastic mood, went to breakfast with my mom, got a lot of shit done, squeezed in some downtime (dancing and using a bunch of jackets on the back of the door as punching bag; no, I'm not kidding), and fixed some crap on my computer that I've been meaning to take a crack at and actually succeeded at accomplishing.  YES!  I WIN AT COMPUTERING!

I've been sick for the last week or so and have done nothing but sleep and watch TV and then sleep more and get up to pee.  I'm finally feeling not only better, but like I said-- fantastic.  Noa's day camp in Goffstown has a bus that takes her back to Manch and stops about a mile and half north of where we live at 5:15 every day and today instead of begging someone to pick her up, or taking a cab, I was all "Dude. I mean BUSINESS right now."  I put on some shorts and a sports bra (I told you I wasn't fucking around! The sports bra is the briefcase of jogging!), made myself an awesome playlist featuring THIS--



-- and THIS--



-- strapped my sporty iphone armbandy thingajanger onto my arm, and was off.  I tucked a $20 behind my phone in the armbandy thingajanger just in case I needed to stop for water (ahahahahahahahaha), and was like "DON'T FUCK WITH ME, WORLD."

At 4:30 I stormed up Bridge Street like I was on my way to bust a meth lab and even turned on one of those phone apps to "map my walk" so I could look back at it later and feel bad about my 16 minute mile.  I made the crosswalks my bitches and stormed across them glaring at oncoming traffic like I was....Boss Of All The Crosswalks, I guess?  I started to feel REALLY good and was all "Fuck walking, I'ma do me some jogging!"

I jogged about two blocks and then started to have a heart attack so I set the next telephone pole as my Don't Die Until Then goal.  And you know what?  Success!  I didn't die!  I slogged along for a couple more blocks and then was all "YEAH, jogging!" again so did a two block jog, two block walk thing until I got close to the church where Noa's bus stops.

 At this point I was barely walking a straight line.  Oops.  Overdid it.  So I stumbled into a gas station, ripped open a cooler door, pulled a Gatorade from the shelf and proceeded to chug like it was being funneled into my mouth from a second story window.  Why Gatorade, you ask?  Well, to enhance my performance, DUH.  I remembered to pay the attendant before I stumbled back out, and dragged my ass the last stretch to the Brookside Congregational Church.  I had assloads of time to spare-- because I don't want to brag or nothin', but I did 1.58 miles in 23 minutes, which is a 14:37 minute mile and I KNOW you must be jealous of my jogging {slogging?} prowess.

Face throbbing and heart beating like a death knell, I threw myself down under a tree...and you know what?  I STILL FELT FUCKING FANTASTIC.  Endorphins: not a myth!  I sat under that tree with a goofy smile and caught my breath and said to myself  "Next time it's going to be a 13 minute mile.  Baby steps."  (Sidequote: "I'm sailing!" -What About Bob)

This--



--came on my phone and I laid back and sang along with my earbuds in while I took shitty lomo photos of the church and waited for the bus.  AHHHHHHH.   I'm just gonna dance all night!  All was well in the world for our fearless hero Mashbot!

                                                     (Plane And Steeple! Lomo GENIUS!)


And then the fucking bus pulled in.  And I looked at my armbandy thingajanger and shit my pants, because I had failed to put the most basic of necessities in the goddamn thing-- MY DRIVER'S LICENSE, the one and only thing required for the bus peeps to release my child to me.  I desperately started looking through my phone for something with my picture and name on it, and yeah-- NOT A FUCKING THING IN MY PHONE IS GOOD FOR ANYTHING EVER.  I tried to casually be like "Here's my Facebook page" and the YMCA counselor looked at me like I had just tried to use a piece of toilet paper with "Noa's Mom" written on it as my ID.

So at this point the MOST INTENSE PANIC EVER set in.  I'm not ashamed to admit that I started crying.  At this point they were going to take her back to Goffstown, and for round trip cab fare that would have cost me $40-$50.  Which I CANNOT AFFORD EVER, because unemployment is an unfriendly bitch.  I asked if I could get on the bus and if we could stop on the way to the next bus stop when it got close to our neighborhood so I could Usain Bolt it to my house, grab my ID, and beam myself to pick up my kid.
They promptly shut me down.  Not because they didn't trust that I'm a fast fucker like Usain Bolt (I was wearing a sports bra, I think they knew I meant Speed Business) but because they can't allow anyone else on the bus but the campers and counselors.

At this point I was so desperate I was babbling incoherently about all the tree-named streets near downtown.  "Chestnut?  Do you go by there?  Walnut? Beech?  Ash Maple Myrtle fucking Orange?"  The bus driver finally took pity on me (*I owe you one in life, bus driver.  When the zombie apocalypse comes I'll find you and take you to my super fast jogging camp*) and offered "You live on Ash?  After we stop on South Maple we come back up Maple Street and head north to the Amoskeag Bridge."  So of couse I continued to babble incoherently: "Okay ahhhhh I'm going to run as fast as I can but it's like a mile and a half and I think I might die trying but goddammit I'm going to Usain it to my house, grab my ID, and I'll be out on the corner of Maple next to the Dominos Pizza waving my ID around like a fucking weirdo when you go by and if I don't make it....well, fuck my life, I'll take a cab to the backwoods of Goffstown."  (Truth: there was really no swearing {unless you count "shit"} because there were children staring awkwardly at me, including me own. But in my head I said the f-word so many times I should get an honorary sailor's medal.)

And in a panic I looked my six year old in the eyes and gritted my teeth and said "Everything's okay, I'll meet you in a little while."  And in the way that a six year old will, she made no bones about it.  She sat next to her friend (Sara? Madison? Arianna? Fuck.  Forgive me, parenting gods) and waved and said "Okay, mommy!"

And then the bus driver pulled that gear thing that makes that hideous squeal that busses make, and off he went.

And I  FREAKED.  I sprinted up Chestnut street carrying my stupid sporty armbandy thingajanger with the headphones dragging behind me and then....I realized that I would probably literally die trying to make it there on foot before them.  So, classy broad that I am, I called Queen City Taxi as I was running in between construction cones and roadblocks with tears streaming down my face and shrieked at them that I needed a cab to find me while I was running south on Chestnut Street.  And the guy was casually like "Yeah, sure, five minutes" because apparently this happens frequently in Manchester (although I'm assuming under different circumstances, possibly involving meth labs).

And five minutes later a cab passed me and I waved my phone in the air while sobbing (because that's the universal sign for "Cab, please!") and then was on the phone shrieking to the people from the Y before I even had the door closed.  They were all "Yeah yeah, we'll let the counselor on the bus know" and without using a single obscenity I said "NO, TRUST ME, SHE KNOWS.  Please give her my phone number and if she passes the spot where I'm supposed to meet her and I'm not there PLEASE HAVE HER CALL ME so I can sob hysterically.  Sounds good!  Thaaaanks!"

And the cab driver caught on to my "issue" and was like "Hey honey, I'm going to get you there as fast I can."  HERO!  He avoided the traffic on Bridge, ran a few people over, knocked down a couple stop signs, brushed off a high speed chase with the police, etc etc, and when we pulled up to my building he cheered "You can do it!  Go, honey!" while I threw money at him.

Up three flights of stairs.  Gave the brushoff to friendly neighbor.  Kicked open the front door without using the key (JK. But no, I seriously did. I WISH.)  Dove onto my bed, grabbed my purse, somehow flew back down the stairs without any serious injuries, gave the brushoff to friendly neighbor AGAIN, and took off down the street and around the corner to the wasteland of the Dominos parking lot.

And I waited.

And I swore.

And I waited.

And I saw that bus pull up, and I put my hand up to the oncoming traffic (*what is the deal with that stretch of Maple Street near Corey Square?  It's a packed neighborhood and people take that stretch at like 50mph.  UNNECESSARY, says Bad Day Lady), and I ran.  I flashed my ID and the counselor nodded like I was trying to get into a 21+ show at frigging House Of Blues (I didn't even get a pink wristband! No fair!) and Noa got off the bus-- and I grabbed her, and I squeezed the shit out of her, and I said "I'm so sorry if that was scary for you!"

And she said....."Nah. I knew you would find me."  And then she nodded toward la conveniencia across the street and said "Hey, can I get an ice cream for after dinner?!"

She got her ice cream.  DUH, you guys.  I'm a sucker for a kid with a good attitude.  And you know what?  She could care less that the entire shitstorm even went down.  Clueless. 

Amen.








IMPORTANT NOTE:  Despite Noa's bus stop being at a church, there were unfortunately no nuns cheering me on as the title pic may suggest.  Major bummer.

FACEOFF! Fleetwood Mac vs Mates Of State: Secondhand News

So in honor of the 35th anniversary of "Rumours" I thought about doing a song challenge where each day I'd pit an original Fleetwood Mac song against one of the zillions of covers out there.

And then I thought about it and realized that would be totally boring.

So instead, I've decided to do a daily song challenge where I'll pit an original song by a random artist against a cover.  I'm starting with Fleetwood Mac though, because this is my blog and I said so.  

I'm not necessarily saying that one version of this song must absolutely be better than the other, I'm just curious about which one makes you want to bop your head side to side and sing "bowm bowm bowm bowm bowm..." more than the other.  I'm not telling you which one I prefer, because that would skew the results and I'm a professional Song Faceoff scientist who knows better than to do that.  

MoS stayed pretty close to the original with their cover, but you tell me....which one has the edge for you?  

The Mac

MoS

GO!

When I Say "BLIZZID" You Say "DANCE!"

Tomorrow (Or: Adventures In Antidepressants)

“The zaps,” they call them.

You’ve learned by now that switching from one medication to another is not nearly as simple as just stopping the old one and starting the new. Not only is there the exhaustion, shakiness, maybe sleeplessness, that comes while you acclimate to a new pill; your body also withdraws from the lower doses of the old pill at the same time, and finds new and more alarming ways each day to tell you that it’s craving what you aren’t giving it enough of.

You’ve had it before, the peculiar sensation of being electrocuted that comes and goes before you can even open your mouth to exclaim “Oh!” A ghost darts up and jabs you with his live wire, stabs it lightning quick into your temple and pulls it back as the sensation of being in an electric chair zips down into your neck and crackles through your shoulder.

There’s almost a sound as it happens—almost. Not quite. The sound of power lines pulsing and then failing, transformers exploding, the world falling into blackness like in the old horror movies you saw as a kid. A spark or two up into the sky as dusk falls. Maybe the sound of a dusty old robot, dead for years and buried in cobwebs, suddenly brought back to life—possessed by a tiny electric impulse that buzzes through some invisible wiring and shoots a tiny orange light into the air. Maybe catches something nearby on fire.

This time it goes much further. It shoots into the backs of your legs, right down into the thickened clay of your Achilles tendon, and you focus—“I’m okay, just turn and smile”—on remaining normal. Nobody can ever know you are being electrocuted by your own brain; nobody can ever know that the reason your eyes fog for a moment and you say “I’m sorry?” when they speak is that you've fallen victim to a drug you’ve been given for months and then suddenly told you must stop taking.

You know it will pass within a few days but in the meantime you try a volume’s worth of tricks to try and ease the horrible awkwardness. Benzodiazepines, drinking extra water, taking the small crums of shunned medication earlier each day, none of it makes a dent in the iron will of your body’s fitful tanrums while it demands what you starve it of. Each day you take the old medication a bit earlier to stave off the electric demon and each day the demon brings his live wire earlier to your bare throat.

They’ve promised you it will pass and experience tells you that they do not lie. Walking home from a friend’s home one night you pass by a houseful of weekend revelers laughing and yelling at each other in Spanish while urgently bleating music explodes from the third floor windows. You forget yourself as you turn to the window with a smile, and in an instant your body freezes while your nervous system seizes in a fit of defiance. You stay paused on the sidewalk after it passes, stretch your tired neck and shoulders, careful to keep your gaze fixed straight ahead. You can’t see into the window, anyway; out of the corner of your eye you realize that the only thing visible from the partiers’ haven is gauze-curtained windows and a drop ceiling.

The whooping and music continue, undisturbed by your momentary paralysis, and then you put one foot in front of the other. You imagine for a moment that you see something moving to your left but you don’t fall for that trick; your gaze is steadied forward at the crooked sidewalk at your feet.

Home is one uneven block away, and if you can manage to keep your head high you’ll make it without having to pause again for the electricity. You’ll climb into bed and take the little white pill you’ve been told you’ll “do better” with, and a small dose of the old pill, the relic that has been deemed A Failure.

Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow you’ll focus more on looking at the world straight ahead of you; tomorrow nothing will grab you from the side hold on to you while it runs past. Tomorrow.