Another in a long string of conversations I never thought I'd have.

"I can't stop pulling weeds."

"I think you should. It's late. You look…you know, tired. And dirty."

"I'm actually disappointed that I can't find any more weeds. I might have a problem."

"Wow. I've never seen anyone so--um, what are you doing?"

"What? I was , you know, picking up some stuff."

"You were pulling a weed, weren't you."

"I… I know. (Sneeze.) I'll stop now. (Sneeze.) "Wait. Okay, now. (Sneeze.)"

"Wow, allergies?"

"I'm pretty sure I'm allergic to whatever it is I'm pulling." (Sneeze.)

"You do have a problem."

"It's just—the weeds! They grow so fast!"

"I don't know, if it's green, I just figure it looks like grass, so—"

(uncomfortable silence)

"That was one I noticed before. I had to pull it."

"Alice. I think it's time to go inside."

---

P.S.: New Wonderland up today, about religion. Because I like to tackle the big topics.

Botanical mysteries! For your enjoyment!

Friends, it is exactly one year since our move to this NEW JERSEY PLACE, and it's official: I have lost my mind. There's no other possible explanation for why I spent five hours yesterday pouring mulch all over the mulch-able portions of our front- and backyard. And why I hauled my aching body back outside today to gouge out weeds. For another five hours.

And after contemplating my almost destroyed sneakers, I considered buying THESE.

I don't... I don't know. I have nothing to say for myself. Except...I'm sorry.

I never wanted to garden, never ever, but now that I've started, I can't stop. I want to win at gardening. Or at least not turn to cinders all that I touch. Will I keep anything alive? Only time will tell.

There are many items in our yard that completely baffle me. Thus, I ask you, my beloved readers: What The Hell Is This? Visit, you, and answer. There are no prizes if you're right--only my love. And we all know how much better Love is than a pony, or bundles of cash.

Adjusting to the suburbs, slowly but surely.

I was walking Charlie the other day when I heard a knocking—a tapping, as if someone gently rapping. Across the street I saw a large man knocking, knocking at me through his storm door. I kept looking, and noticed that he was the same color… all over. A large beige naked man was tapping a hearty hello at me through his door. Oh, excellent, I thought, I've found the neighborhood pervert.

The next week it happened again. I crossed the street so I wouldn't get an eyeful of strange genitalia, and as I walked I heard the rap-rap-a-rip-rap, but I kept my eyes straight ahead, my stride purposeful. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him practically leaping into the door. Probably he was a deranged man-child harnessed to the radiator. I felt a little sorry for him, but I wasn't going to give him the thrill of my gaze, no way.

Today, again, walking Charlie: I forgot about Crazy Naked Person and was walking on the same side of the street as his house. Just as I approached it and heard the familiar bang-bang-come-see-my-scrotum-bang, a car pulled up to the house and a man leapt out. I expected him to say, "Sorry for my third cousin Newt! He has this clothing allergy and he really just means to make friends!"

Instead, though, he smiled at me and said, "My dog really wants to say hello!"

His dog.

I looked more closely, and there was an enormous, yellowish, shorthaired, meaty dog throwing itself against the door. I noticed the slobber all over the door. The giant pink tongue. Huh. Heh. Hrm.

I predict that in ten years, I'll see a man with his pants down in the subway and I'll say, "That chihuahua on your lap sure looks feisty!"

P.S.: there's new stuff today over at AlphaMom.

The answers! My god, the answers!

Never let it be said that you people don’t have opinions. And my word, how much you’ve all moved. I must be unusual in my fondness for remaining in one place. If I moved to a new apartment in Brooklyn, I had to break out the smelling salts and spread myself across my fainting couch for at least the first month. But you, you adventurous types! You’re all when I lived in Tanzania I also felt some ennui and the first few months in Bangladesh were fairly tough. And here I am, living FORTY MINUTES (gasp!) from my old hometown, and weeping into my neckerchief over it.

First of all, I apologize for writing a post like that, which captured my feelings at that exact moment, feelings which changed fifteen minutes later and why don’t I wait an hour or so before posting something? It’s lovely, the way I puke all over the Internet, and all you nice people come rushing to clean me up. (Not that fifteen minutes later I decided I loved it here and we would never move—but as the day wore on, the need to GET OUT certainly felt far less desperate.)

That said, your insight was quite valuable, and you are all fine citizens of the Internet. The comments fell squarely into two camps: 1) We should give this place a year, and then reassess, and 2) We should move right now because life is too short to be miserable. Then there was the occasional “get over yourself” comment, which okay no one actually SAID, but I know some of you were thinking it. I know this because I can read your thoughts. Right now you’re thinking about dinner. You’re going to have chicken.

At first the comments that shrieked GET OUT! filled me with delight. Yes! We’re city folk! Back to the city we go! I still have my library card! And the comments that urged us to wait and weigh the pros and cons and give it time --oh, how they chafed. How tiresome, I thought. You sensible people are a total bummer.

But then this morning I re-read the comments, and the “wait it out” party all of a sudden sounded far more appealing. Because honestly? We’re not utterly miserable. We’re not surrounded by rednecks, as some of you seem to be. (And for this I am sorry.) We have nice neighbors. There’s, like, culture, and stuff. I suspect we can find ways of making ourselves feel better, here and now. (Not spending a sunny Saturday arguing in Home Depot, for instance.)

Then, of course, there’s Henry, and his school is all set for next year. Pulling him out of school a month early this spring near to killed me, and he loves his camp (which will hopefully become his school in the fall if someone pulls out and we get off the waitlist, oh please oh please), and I’m not taking that away from him.

So: we’re going to continue on this rollercoaster ride of adjustment. It’s a decidedly undramatic decision, but on the other hand it doesn’t entail buying multiple rolls of bubble wrap. Meanwhile, we’ll act as if we’re moving back, we’ll get prices on rentals, maybe we’ll even look at a few. And come spring, if we’re still feeling like Brooklyn is home, then we know what to do.

Or we’ll be just as clueless as we are now, and I’ll be back here, begging you for more advice.