Rotten fruit from a pretty tree.

After Henry and Scott leave for Henry’s school (Henry deigning to leave me with a distracted “I, uh, love you too” and a limp wave as he is wheeled down the stairs) I head out with Charlie. It’s overcast and damp from last night’s rain. The wind is thrashing the trees around, the leaves are swirling all over the sidewalk, and Charlie is leaping and snapping at them. It’s perfect.

We go for a longer walk than we usually do, and at each block Charlie looks up at me as if to say, “We…we’re not heading back? We’re still going? Are you shitting me?” and then he resumes his cavorting and peeing.

The ginkgo trees have begun dropping their uniquely nasty fruits all over the sidewalks. I don’t know if these trees are everywhere, but if you’re not familiar with them—take it from me. The fruit smells like puke. Charlie won’t even pee on it, that’s how bad it is.

Across the street, there’s a man in a business suit wearing latex gloves and holding a large bag. He’s carefully picking the fruits off of a car and dropping them into a bag. This strikes me as reasonable—would you want your car smelling like vomit?—but then I see him continuing his work on another car. As we walk, I can’t help but look back, and he’s moved onto a third.

Either he’s the most thoughtful neighbor ever, or that is going to be one indescribably foul pie.

UPDATE!: Apparently the ginkgo fruit is used in various Asian delicacies. Carry on, sir!

Unlocking the hidden code of the crossing lights.

Scott K.: We can’t go yet—we have to wait for the white man.

Sarah: Walking guy, Scott. We wait for the walking guy.

Scott K.: What’s wrong with white man?

Sarah: You don’t want to tell your daughter “Wait for the white man!”

Alice: Always wait for the white man!

Scott K.: The white man will show you the way.

Sarah: Don’t move until the white man tells you!

Sarah: Yeah, so, it’s the walking guy and the red hand.

Alice: Although come to think of it, “red hand” is also pretty racist.

Scott K.: The red hand will stop you.

Alice: My mother calls the walking guy the white lady.

Sarah: It could be a lady. We’re so sexist.

Alice: It should be “the non-gender-specific walking figure” and “the upturned palm.”

Henry: GO.

Today, so far.

4:30 a.m. – 6:30 a.m.: Lying awake, trying to make sense of vestibule incident. How did he get right up behind me like that? I thought I was always on guard; where did my guard go? Ponder Freudian significance of man entering my vestibule without permission. Both of my former therapists would have had a field day with this.

9:00 a.m.: Wake up. Husband has let me sleep in! Good, good husband! Remember to keep husband around. Sondre Lerche would probably demand that I get up early to prepare his kippers. As I stumble to the bathroom, I step on something that reacts with a frantic whirring. I look down and GOOD GOD NOT AGAIN. I run to bathroom, hide behind door, and yelp. Husband quickly interpets yelp and runs to my aid, killing the waterbug dead with a manly stomp. Sondre Lerche would probably write a ballad about it as it chased me around the apartment.

11:30 a.m.: Finally drag child out of the house. He doesn’t want to leave. It's 120 degrees outside; I don’t blame him. But across the street is the supermarket, and in the supermarket there is food. In the refrigerator there are only moldering chicken parts and dusty, bluish bread. To the supermarket we go.

12 noon: Outside the supermarket is a woman gesturing angrily at the air. Henry wants me to hold him, and fool that I am, I believe I can reason with him. As I finally give in and attempt to lift him as well as 20 pounds of groceries, the woman is lifting her shirt and skirt and exposing herself to anyone who will look. Henry gazes at her disinterestedly, and she gives a show to the one person on the sidewalk who doesn’t register her actions as shocking.

I'm sure I'll have more later.

Dear city: I chose you over the suburbs, and this is what I get?

Gack.

First of all: I’m all right. I’m all right! No one panic!

That said, here’s what just happened. Oh, my! The adrenaline! The freaking out! But I’m all right. Stop panicking. You must.

I was returning from Manhattan, back from my Day of Freedom—I was having lunch with my friend while my son made Play-Doh pies with my mother-in-law or whatever it is they do when I’m not around. (And she loves it! Everyone wins in this deal.)

Sitting on the stoop of the building next door was a gaunt, toothless man commenting on every woman walking by. I thought, Ah, I’m home, where the crazy people believe in the possibility of love. He muttered at me and sucked at his teeth. Well, his tooth. And I disregarded him, as I do all the crazies, and walked to my door, and opened it.

I turned to close the door. And there he was. He pushed the door in, knocking me back a little. We were about an inch apart in the tiny vestibule between the outside door and the inside door. He was staring at me.

And then, dear readers, I went apeshit.

Well, as much as I am able to, which is in reality not very much. Just as he began to inform me that he “just had a question,” (Oh! A question, dear sir? Well, come right on in!) I shouted “Get out get out get OUT!” and I shoved at his scrawny little chest with all my might and he stumbled out the door. And then took off.

Once my violently trembling hands managed to get my keys to open the door, I called 911, gave them a startlingly vivid description of the guy, and a few minutes later the police came to my door with—the guy! And oh, how we had a reunion. The police said, “Is this the guy?” and I said, “Indeed,” and the guy looked all sullen, like now he was going to get detention on account of me, and then I gave the police all the details of the (brief) event, and then I watched them from inside as they stood on the sidewalk and berated him. The guy was waving his arms all around, and I was trying to figure out how he was defending himself. “I was lonely, see? And I knew she wasn’t going to invite me in. Even after I sucked at my tooth for her! What choice did I have?”

Alarmingly, they then proceeded to let him go. Thanks, NYPD! I called the precinct, and the guy who answered the phone said, “Well, I’m sure they didn’t just let him go.” Who are you going to believe, little lady? Me or your lying eyes?

Meanwhile, I’m okay! I’m fine! Except I will never leave my house again. So I’ll be posting more frequently, albeit with less interesting content.