a rugs life

My daughter’s school enforces a strict dress code which bans hats, make-up, and several styles of shoes. In spite of the ‘Soviet Youth’ aspect to it, I like the resultant ease in which my daughter gets dressed in the morning. There are very few questions; nothing to agonize over except whether to wear the khaki-colored skirt, the khaki-colored shorts or the khaki-colored jumper.

However, either in deference to national individualism or perhaps just to give parents a break from repeated launderings, the school allows a non-dress-code day once a month. And to further give the students a reason to break out and cheer, the non-dress-code days usually have a theme such as Whacky Hat Day, Pajama Day, or - as regards to today - Crazy Hair Day.

Planning has been in the works for months for Crazy Hair Day. Our stylish friend Clare (who regularly shows up for work at local venerable institution of higher learning with blue, green and purple splashes in her hair) has an ample selection of coloring materials, and she graciously gave me a sample of colors for my daughter.

Last night my daughter and I tried out the colors, and learned that the coloring is thick and slow to dry, but extremely bright and visible.

So this morning, we got ready to apply the colors all over her hair. However, things did not go as planned. Rada was extremely worried that she just didn’t look crazy enough and - even worse - that people just would not laugh at her.

I assured her that she looked absolutely outrageous and that everything would be fine, but she insisted on making numerous adjustments, adding several extra pony tails, more color on top, and at several point collapsed into sobs, worried that she just didn’t look right and that it just wasn’t CRAZY enough.

But finally we set out to school… she looking worried and tense.

When we got to the school yard, friends and teachers reacted with awe, amazement and glee, and Rada lit up as if she was an actress stepping into the limelight.

All her earlier grief of the morning had been akin to that of the moody star who throws fits and tantrums in her dressing room, only to finally emerge stunning and brilliant to the awe of her public.

And as lowly costume attendant, I was just glad to get her off to school in time.

Earlier this week, we at chez rugslife were eagerly anticipating arrival of a new computer. With superior negotiation skills I had been able to wrangle free overnight delivery from the manufacturer. So Monday afternoon, I came home ready to take possession of my laptop, but received a DHL slip saying that they’d tried to deliver at noon.

I assumed, like the UPS folks (just love those guys and gals in their brown shorts), that DHL would come back later in the afternoon or early evening, but alas there was no sign of them. So I called the DHL number and after battling the menu system, finally talked to a human, and told her I don’t get home from work til 5:30.

“Ok, ” said Virginia, “we’ll have them come after that.”

But Tuesday evening, there was another DHL slip saying they’d again tried to deliver at 12:30.

I called again, and spoke to Samantha. She apologized for the confusion and asked me what was the earliest that I could be home on Wednesday. I said if I rushed, I could get there by 5:15.

So Wednesday afternoon, I ran through yellow lights, rushed to after-school, nudged my daughter into the car, and high-tailed it home only to see another attempted delivery slip on my door.

Now beginning to feel the rise of temperature, and the smoke coming out my ears, I called DHL AGAIN, and asked Brian exactly what WAS the problem, and did he know that I’d called THREE times already about this VERY situation. Brian apologized sincerely for the mishap and assured me that there was a truck in the area that could swing by sometime that evening before 8:45 pm.

8:45 came and went, and as is my wont on Wednesday evenings of a busy week, I collapsed into a dreamless sleep at about 9:15, disappointed, wondering if I’d ever lay eyes on the equipment that I had so dearly payed for, and contemplating what I would have to do or say tomorrow to get them to deliver it to me.

Several hours later I was awoken by a tap tapping noise. I bounded out of bed, ran into my daughter’s room, thinking she was trying to escape out the window. But she was resting peacefully. I looked up at the ceiling thinking perhaps it was starting to fall down, but it was sitting there holding up the kitchen walls very nicely.

I heard the tap tapping again. It was coming from the front door. I crept fearfully to the door and asked “who is it?”, looking at the clock and realizing it was 11 pm at night… thinking it could very well be an axe murder.

“DHL” came the answer on the other side.

DHL??? at 11 pm?

I opened the door fearfully, stuck between fear of being murdered and the hope that this actually might be my new computer. There at the doorstep stood a man with a medium sized box in his hand. I signed on the dotted LED screen, and took the box inside. It had the words Dell on it. Not sure whether to laugh or cry, I went back to bed and tried to go back to sleep.

Earlier this week, Rada came home talking about the Red Socks, err Red Sox.

Apparently it was the main topic of discussion at after-school that day. There was going to be a night game and although the Sox were not playing the Yankees, it was going to be a really good game. Everyone at after-school was going to tune in and and watch it. Rada wanted to watch, too. I looked at her, smiling blandly, feeling a desperate horror. (Does one watch baseball on TV?? Is it network TV or must one subscribe to cable? Isn’t it at ungodly late hour at night? How do I find out about this?)

And of course I suspect watching the game on TV is only the beginning. Images of Fenway Park loom leeringly in my consciousness, with the smell of hot dogs and beer. How did this happen to my daughter? What a surprise!

And how will I cope? Is it possible to learn how to understand baseball scores late in life?