The Dirt Field

My mother picked me up from work last Friday and drove with me to Philadelphia for the weekend. While we did plan to spend time shopping, bonding, and wandering around the city, my foremost reason for this trip was that silly little trespassing charge I’d mentioned back in October. (Oops.) In order to have that charge dismissed and expunged entirely, I had to attend a three hour behavior class on Saturday morning.

The class was more fun than I could ever have imagined. There were probably about two hundred other scholars in attendance, and I believe that at least 80% of them were probably Harvard graduates or at least Yale alums. Most of my classmates seemed to have a minimal understanding of hygiene, as evidenced by the odor in the room that left me wondering if I was at risk for some rare form of lung cancer, but they were probably just too busy worrying about astrophysics or organic chemistry to remember to wash regularly. My favorite comrade was the gentleman seated behind me who bounced his leg up and down for almost an hour, causing his synthetic leather sneakers to squeak squeak squeak until I nearly lost my mind. You like making that fun sound? That’s great; I like burning your leg off with a blow torch.

The class was led by a woman who was definitely a dictator in a previous life, and who began the lecture by screaming, “Okay, stop talking now, take your hats off, and sit up shtraight. Sit up shtraight! THAT MEANS YOU, YES, YOU! SIT UP SHTRAIGHT!” Funny, I’d never noticed the “h” at the beginning of straight, but thank goodness she set me shtraight.

The entirety of the class was spent listening to her ramble about crimes, behavior, drugs, and punishments. Some of what she said was actually interesting and compelling, but she repeated every major point at least fifteen times, leaving me to start imagining ways I could die of disinterest right in my chair without her noticing and ejecting me without a refund. My favorite line of the class was when she showed us horrifically unattractive mug shots of a woman and said, “When this woman was little, I’ll bet she never said that she wanted to grow up to be a crack ho.” Don’t speak so soon, lady, some of us like to dream big.

Fortunately the class ended early, although not before concluding with a speech about the importance of getting one’s GED. The lesson I took from the whole experience is that if I’m going to trespass defiantly, I should probably do so in an area where the average criminal bathes more frequently. I’d just like to end with a little note to the officers at the jail who mocked me ceaselessly for being concerned about the sanitary status of the squad car and my cell. For your information, the teacher of my class said the reason she wouldn’t want to go to jail is because it is filthy and they never clean the payphones there. See? I was right to be concerned. And here you thought I should have been more concerned about being a criminal.

The class, however, was only one small part of an otherwise excellent weekend. My mother and I tried two delicious restaurants, hiked around the city despite the constant drizzle, and shopped in a variety of eclectic stores. We also saw “Hurricane On The Bayou” at the IMAX theater, an absolutely phenomenal show with breathtaking effects. It was quite possibly the most amazing IMAX I’ve ever seen, and was only improved by the fact that during the dramatic scenes featuring footage of raging Hurricane Katrina, my mother let out a vociferous snore and notified everyone nearby that she was sound asleep.

We also did a bit of sightseeing. My mother is the type who likes to experience the culture of a city by visiting museums and shows, so I suggested a visit to the famous Mutter Museum of medical oddities. Who needs stuffy art galleries when you can see distended colons, wax models of syphilis chancres, and conjoined twin fetuses floating in preserving fluids? I highly suggest you plan a visit if given the opportunity, although perhaps not right before dinner.

We skipped the Liberty Bell (Mom’s assessment: “I’ve seen it before, and it was rather disappointing. I mean, it’s a bell. With a crack in it.”), introduced my mother to the wonder that is Wa Wa, and got honked at by no less than ten other city drivers (people in Philly apparently do not appreciate hesitation). We also had a lot of mother-daughter bonding time; she learned that I eat constantly and scratch my dry skin incessantly, and I learned that she hates the purse I got her for Christmas four years ago (rightfully so) and that she certainly knows how to enjoy a city properly. With drinks in our hands.

Thanks for a wonderful time, Mom. Just for you, I will try to avoid getting arrested again. I don’t make guarantees like that for just anyone.