Balthy Does Gotham

When my son Balthazar* was 8 years old I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. Because, you know, nothing like planning ahead. He answered, "A stand-up comedian." Which tickled me pink and sent me to the Interwebs to research opportunities for him. I discovered that NYC's Gotham Comedy Club offered a Kids 'N Comedy Workshop. The workshop culminated in a public performance that was just a few weeks away. On the appointed day, off we went.

The performers (mostly teens) were great and Balthy and I laughed a lot. At the end of the show the MC invited kids in the audience to go to the stage and tell a joke. Balthy and I exchanged looks--he'd recently learned a joke from a family friend and, after a nod from me, bravely made for the stage. Here's the joke he told:

A woman boards the bus with her baby. As she pays the fare the bus driver looks at the infant in her arms and says, "Lady, that is one ugly baby." She walks to the back of the bus, sits, and starts crying. A man a few seats over asks her what's wrong and she says the bus driver insulted her. The man says, "Well, you shouldn't have to take that, no one should! Go back up there and give that bus driver a piece of your mind! And don't worry, I'll hold your monkey for you."

The audience predictably groaned but Balthy told the shit out of that joke and I was hella proud (because "hella" was exactly the kind of proud you had to be in 2003). Afterward I asked if he'd like to enroll in a workshop like that but he declined, surprisingly. Still, I didn't (and don't) agree with forcing kids' interests, so I left the matter there.

Fast forward to fourteen years later and Balthy appeared on the Gotham stage once again, in last week's New Talent Showcase! Performances were recorded so comics would have demos to send out to agents and clubs and whatnot; Balthy's follows below.

*Balthazar is my son's Confirmation name, which I used when I began blogging because he was a minor and I feared online predators. The video reveals his identity and, since he's an adult pursuing a public career, I reckon it's all right to share it here. But he'll always be Balthy to me. Except when he's Seby.

This One Goes Out to All You Mothers...

WARNING: This blog post contains a picture of a real-life, disturbing-looking wound. The squeamish should exercise caution and/or go read another blog, maybe one about unicorns and/or fluffy kittehs and bunnehs, or similar.

Have I mentioned that my Senior-in-college son, Balthazar, plays guitar in a friend's band? He met the fellow up at school, but M (the friend) lives in the tri-state area. Anyway, M's a mover and shaker, and hustles to get them gigs, no matter how humble the venue (think unfinished basement of someone's house). Whatevs, folks gotta start somewhere, and I admire that will-play-for-beer/pot spirit.

They regularly gig during the academic year and on breaks. During the January break, Balthy advised me that the band was heading back up to school on a Thursday afternoon for a show, and then going on to New Haven for another performance that coming Saturday. I noted that a blizzard was expected over the weekend and urged caution, a notion promptly scoffed at by the spawn of my womb.

So I went to work on Wednesday and by the time I got home Balthy was already out with some friends. I knew he'd get back in the wee hours and, as it was a school-night for me, I wouldn't be able to see him till he returned from New Haven the following week. Such is life.

Well, the blizzard did hit, hard, and I nervously checked in with Balthy on Saturday. I was relieved to learn the Connecticut gig had been canceled. The Kid and his friends would be driving back from school on Sunday night. My anxiety level spiked again, as the parkway they'd take is hella curvy, poorly lit, and bound to be a snowy mess.

I spent Sunday in a state of useless hypervigilance, frequently sending up prayers that the kids all made it to their respective homes safely. When Balthazar's key turned in the lock around 7:30pm, I let out a whoosh of relief and thanked God for being so utterly groovy.

Balthazar joined me in my room, plopped on my bed and started chatting. He commented on how good my dinner, which was being kept in the oven so as to stay warm, smelled. In a fit of motherly relief and benevolence, I said he could have it. He thanked me, then gave me his weird, "Boy, are you gonna hate what I'm about to dish up" smile.

Me, on alert: What?

Balthy: I'm gonna show you something that's gonna freak you out. (He stood and his hands went to the waistline of his jeans.)

Me, enthusiastically: Didja get a tattoo?

Balthy, still with the shit-eating grin: Nah... (He pushed down the jeans and showed me the stuff of mothers' nightmares.)

Me, feeling the blood drain from my face: What's that?

Balthy: A dog bite.

Me, through numb lips: From what kind of dog?

Balthy: A big one.

Me: ...when?

Balthy: Wednesday night.

(My eyes shot to his face.) Me: Did you seek medical attention for this?

Balthy, grin widening impossibly: Nah, had to travel with the band the next day, remember? Been puttin' Neosporin on it, covering it with gauze and whatnot. The worst part is that the dog ruined the pair of skinny jeans that I'd just bought that day.

Me, miraculously refraining from throttling him: You're a fucking idiot.

Lest you think I exaggerate the horror that was the semi-healed dog-bite, here's a pic.

Balthy's dog-bite, four days after the event.
Yep, those are puncture wounds. From fangs.
PUNCTURE WOUNDS FROM FANGS.

The ruined skinny-jeans.

I made the little blighter eat (my dinner!) while I got dressed and after he finished we slogged our way through the snow-packed streets to the emergency room of the hospital right around the block (thank God for small mercies).

I have to say, that was our quickest emergency room visit to date, as we were in and out in under an hour and I missed only about the first ten minutes of Downton Abbey (What? It was the final season!). At that point, there wasn't much to be done: the medical staff gave the wound a cursory inspection but, as it showed no sign of infection, asked if he was up to date with his tetanus booster, prescribed a course of antibiotics, and took down the dog-owner's contact info so the state health department could follow up and obtain proof that the dog (either a Rottweiler or a Pit Bull) was up to date on its shots.

(OK, there was one gratifying moment when the triage nurse asked when the bite happened and, upon learning it'd taken place FOUR DAYS PRIOR, looked up from her paperwork to sharply admonish Balthy, "It's Sunday!")

Anyway, Balthy has survived the bite (so far!) and, I hope, has learned NOT to let something like that go untreated for FOUR FUCKING DAYS. Also, I've learned that I need to go for my tetanus booster. Maybe y'all should consider it too, if it's been over ten years since you've had one.

The reason I dedicated this post to mothers is two-fold:

1. You all have been through this kind of terror-striking-incident with your own kids and, I'm sure, can so totally relate, and;

2. In honor of all us mothers, I'm making the e-Book version of my Greek-myth-based romance novel, THAT FATAL KISS, FREE for Mother's Day weekend 2016! Be sure to Facebook, Tweet, and otherwise share the hell out of this post to all and sundry and, if you'd like to pick up your own FREE copy, click here from Saturday, May 7 through Monday, May 9, 2016***!

***I think the times for Amazon's promotional events are Pacific times, so don't take any chances and snatch up your free copy on Mother's Day itself!***

Honesty

My son (aka Balthazar, the Kid) tapped on my bedroom door.

Me, looking up from my sprawled position on my bed: Oh, hey Kid. How long've you been up?

Balthy: An hour.

Me, surprised: Yeah? I haven't heard you. Whatcha been doin'?

B, shrugging: Avoiding responsibility.

Me, having lost an afternoon binge-watching the 1st season of Fargo on Hulu: Me too.

Took Balthy up to college for the start of his Senior year this weekend. If all goes according to schedule, he should be graduating in May 2016, God willing.

I almost can't believe it.

These past three years have challenged me, exhausted me. Now I've a year to get my shit together so we can move into a place of our own again, while simultaneously saving the requisite funds to put out another book (oh, and I suppose I should finish writing it, as well). I'm thrilled and terrified. I almost feel like a graduate myself. (I say "almost" because my back and knees frequently remind me that I ain't no spring chicken.)

Not gonna lie—I fear the future. It sucks when you're going through hell, but at least there's a devil you know. Yet all we can do is keep going.

Because what's the alternative? We're either going or stopping. I sometimes don't know which is preferable. But who, on this side of the veil, can know?

I'll keep going, I guess, till I'm either recalled or have no other reason to. In the meantime, I'm going to make myself some hot cocoa and get to work on my story.

That is all.

My Overprotective Kid

You may remember me mentioning how, when he was younger, my son Balthazar disparaged men who showed romantic interest in me. (And by "disparaged," I mean that he denounced them as being serial killers whom I should avoid like...well, like one should avoid a person aiming to end one's life.) Well, given that he's achieved the ripe old age of 20 (holy shit!) and has been away at a very liberal, girl-pow-ah kind of college for the past three years, I figured he'd outgrown this absurd over protectiveness/smart-assed desire to kill my buzz.

I figured wrong.

A few weeks ago, I texted Balthy the following:

So, like, I was waiting for the Shuttle to GCT & this guy comes up to me & hands me a piece of paper saying, "Excuse me, I just wanted to say you're drop dead gorgeous, I love your hair and eyes. Here's my number, if you ever want to call me." Think I should call him?

After two days of radio silence, I nudged him. Thus replied Balthazar:

No

Me: Why not?

Four hours went by. I nudged again. Balthy wrote back:

Ask one of your friends

Me: The two I asked told me to call him. Why do you think I shouldn't?

Balthy: I don't care, do what you want. I just don't want to hear about it or find out that you're beheaded in an alleyway.

So there you have it. I mean, I'd no intention of calling the guy (he never asked me for my name, which I found really weird) and, admittedly, you never know whether a stranger means you harm. But that'd be true at a nightclub or a bar or a party, right? I mean, all the old-fashioned/more traditional ways of meeting people couldn't ensure they'd be decent, non-psycho-killers. Surely there'd be a "safe" way to get to know someone from the above scenario?

Maybe there's a more promising opportunity coming around the bend for me, one even The Kid won't be able to balk at. Obviously, I don't require his permission. But I wonder if he'll ever be OK with me having a love life of my own...

Probably not.

Is The Kid Losing His Edge???

Balthazar & Goth Mom Lite
on Balthy's 19th birthday
May 29, 2014

If you're a regular reader, you'll know how my Kid, Balthazar, and I tend to go out of our way to push one another's buttons. And by that I mean that he goes out of his way to be a smartass and I struggle just to keep up. From being asked how I'd feel about him joining the Church of Satan to being advised that the men who've shown the slightest bit of interest in me must be psychopaths, Balthazar delights in nonplussing me. (What? That's totally a word.) Sure, I've managed to score the occasional hit, but it's generally the Kid who's in the lead in this ongoing game.

Except...I think he's mellowing, a bit. Possibly, he's losing his edge. Rather than seek to blindside me, he's been more...goofy.

A few days ago, I posted on The Facebook the following:

NYC's experiencing mighty stormy weather at the moment. Here's the text exchange between me and My Kid about him getting picked up by his friend to go to band practice:

Me: Ok. Text when u get to [friend's name redacted]'s

Kid: Why???

Me: Cause it looks like Armageddon out there.

Me: Isn't it dark, cloudy, rainy in [hometown's name redacted]?

Kid: Idk what youre talking about the sun is out the birds are singing a unicorn just flew by and Osama Bin Laden is dead like the forecast could not be more positive

Me: ...

Kid: Naw but yeah its p shitty

See what I mean? Goofy! But not obnoxiously so!

I wonder...

...should I worry? Is he simply dialing back in his advancing years? Or is this a fake out, and he's lulling me into a false sense of security, planning to zap me a good one when I least expect it?

Hmmm...

Au revoir, appartement...

Still no Interwebs set up at my 'rents' place, so I'm staying late at the office Friday night to prep something for my regular Monday post.

Moving day came and went. 'Twas a longie. I was up at the ungodly hour of 6am to get myself ready for the movers. Stepped outside for a smoke and became mesmerized by the unexpectedly dense white clouds above...

Before the fellas turned up, I snapped one last pic of my nearly naked bedroom...

And living room, where The Kid and I spent most of our time...well...living...

Was done with everything much later in the day and finally sat down to dinner with my parents around 8ish. I was exhausted. If I'd toted any more barge or lifted any more bale, I don't think I'd have survived. As it was, I was so beat, I took to giggling for absolutely no reason at all. Like, a lot. I went to get something out of the trunk of my dad's car and inadvertently set off its alarm. I doubled over laughing as I tried to figure out which button to press to quiet the infernal thing. And every muscle hurt. That evening, I moved with all the ease and grace of a nonagenarian in her ninth month of pregnancy. Which is to say, none at all.

Things are OK. I really shouldn't complain.

But I will.

I miss my own space and not having to worry about pleasing anyone but myself. I miss my privacy. I miss my pretty village street. I miss my teal bedroom walls. But mostly, I miss that sense of independence. The seven years Balthazar and I spent there were the only in which I completely supported myself. (And him, obviously.) I miss these things deeply, with an ache springing from the pit of my stomach. The empty-nest thing really kicked my ass for a couple of weeks, but I was getting over it, you know? I began to delight in my solitude and, dare I say, freedom. Now this...

Le sigh.

These doldrums shall pass, eventually. Unless I die before they do, but you take my point. And maybe someday, I'll have happier personal tales to tell, though I truly wonder...Anyway—for now, there's chocolate. And music in which I can indulge my 80s-based inner Emo...

Part II: The Kid Goes to College...

...and I lose my mind. (Click here if you missed Part I, as Part II won't make much sense without it.) (It may not make much sense, regardless.)

Dad, Star, and I made it home all right (in spite of continuing thunderstorms!), had dinner with Mom, and then my Sis spent another night at chez moi to lend me some (im)moral support. We cracked open our (second) bottle of cabernet sauvignon and re-watched, for the umpteenth time, the movie Warlock (from 1989, starring still super-sexy Julian Sands and Richard E. Grant). (Hubba freaking hubba.) (I would even add wooooooof!)

I got up with Star early-ish Sunday morning, to make her some coffee before she trekked back to Brooklyn, and then I was alone. Before she left, she asked me how I was doing and, taking her meaning, I told her I'd be totally fine. And I really thought it was true. I'd felt nothing but normal through the past few days and, in spite of the nasty storms we'd encountered, took great pleasure in Balthazar's obvious excitement to be embarking on this great college adventure. I really felt OK.

I went back to bed and snored away a couple more hours, dreaming intense and crazy dreams, one of which included my Dad flying me somewhere in a small plane and telling me not to look. Of course, I looked, and he said not to panic. When I saw we were flying over a beach and about to fly out over open water, I completely freaked out. Quelle bizarre. (My Dad ain't no pilot.)

What Balthazar leaves behind...

I got out of bed for realz a little before noon and headed to the bathroom. I passed Balthy's bedroom, now nearly completely vacant and a bit of a mess with moving-away debris and stuff I'm to throw out at some undesignated point in the near future. I thought I noticed a tumbleweed roll by. Then I became completely overpowered by sobs. I spent all of Sunday alternately keening and telling myself this horrible feeling would pass, without believing it for one second. I felt like I was dying. And, God help me, I almost wanted to die, if it meant I wouldn't feel so awful, ever again.

The thing is, it's not just the reminder that Balthy's gone which set me off. It's the fact that I can either pay rent on my apartment (or on any apartment) OR pay the balance of his college fees that aren't covered by scholarships and loans and whatnot. Which means that when my lease expires at the end of September, I'm moving back into my parents' two-bedroom apartment. It's absolutely generous of them to let me, as they know why it's necessary. I love my parents, a whole hell of a lot, and I'm so grateful to them for all they've done, and continue to do, for Balthy and me. But moving back in with them at this stage in my life, living in such close quarters, after running a home of my own...gah.

Finally, I'm facing not only a midlife-crisis, but an identity crisis as well. Without having to provide such nuanced care for my kid on a daily basis, I feel all at sea. (Aha, that dream now makes sense!) I have to redefine who I am and I'm not sure I know how to be anything other than a mom anymore. Geez, I've been a mother for most of my adult life! I know who I wanted to be, before Balthazar came along. And I reckon I should go back to that head space and re-frame those dreams with the wisdom I've acquired over the years. I know this is a wonderful opportunity to recreate myself, but this parting of ways with the Me I've been since May 29, 1995...it's a stunningly painful divide.

All Sunday I felt grief-stricken, with these thoughts of loss and dreaded change roiling around in my mind and gut. I know, intellectually, that this downpour of feeling was the worst of it. As the days go by, I will adjust, I will re-frame, and I will conquer all of this ick. And I will strive, in the immortal words of my favorite band, Duran Duran, to not "...cry for yesterday; there's an ordinary world, somehow I have to find." (Man, actually listening to this song on Sunday night = big mistake.)

And I may get a tattoo. 'Cause, you know, a midlife crisis is the perfect time of life in which to do something terribly permanent which you may some day regret. Well, one's teen years are the ideal time, but that ship has long since sailed, alas...

Part I: The Kid Goes to College...

Balthazar, snoozing through several deadly thunderstorms.

...and I lose my mind...

About a week ago, I asked some friends what, apart from quarters for doing laundry and condoms, I should make sure Balthazar The Kid took with him when he moved up to college. They helpfully answered:

• Lube! Bleach! Cookies!
• a snuggie
• bug spray and blankets!
• a taser
• mace
• Flint, Steel, a Good Knife, pair of good boots, canteen and a water filter
• pepper spray
• Ramen

Of the above, I did procure cookies but figured he could pick up the other items later, if required. (They sell tasers at college bookstores, right?) (And no, I didn't buy him any condoms, as a quick rummage through his armoire's drawers revealed an already ample supply.) (::sighs::)

Last Thursday and Friday were spent picking up the items I did deem necessary (stuff for his dorm room, some clothes and shoes, refilling his asthma meds, etc.). Then Friday night, Balthy did about five loads of laundry and, with the help of my sister, Star (not her real name, obviously), and myself, folded and packed it all. The three of us got to bed around 2:30am.

Later that Saturday morning, we got all the stuff in my Dad's car and he drove us masterfully through two hours' worth of weather hell in upstate New York. The skies were heavy with dark clouds and it rained, often dangerously, a good part of the way to Balthy's new college and sporadically on the way back. At several points, the rain was so intense that we could barely see the faint glow of the red break lights of cars ahead. I have to say, I got pretty Catholic, praying fervently and begging the Virgin Mary, all the angels and saints, and all our loved ones who'd gone on before us to put some good words in with the Lord so He'd get us safely to our destination. And He did. (For which I thank you again, Most Holy of Dudes.)

Star and Balthy, figuring out where to get started with unpacking.

As I noted earlier, my sister, Star, joined us to lend a hand. She graduated from this very same college back in 1998 and, though I'm not positive, I think the fact that Balthy has an alum in his pocket maybe helped his application to this very prestigious art-school-type-place. He attended her graduation back in '98, just a few days shy of his third birthday. Now, his auntie beams with pride to see him follow in her Doc Martens clad footsteps.

The view from Balthy's dorm room.

Star and I helped Balthy unpack and settle in, quickly getting rid of excess bags (which made me crazy to see, floating about the place) and recyclables (which did the same to my Sis). We got to meet Balthy's new roomie, a seemingly nice young man (fingers crossed!), went through the various hoops of Student Accounts and I.D. picture-taking and whatnot, and got drenched in the continuing rain for our troubles. Oh, and we got to experience the cafeteria food, which was rather crap but all-you-can-eat-for-five-dollars (for family and friends; the newbies ate for "free"), so that was some small reward. Sorta.

"...let us say goodnight till it be morrow..."

Then it was time to mix metaphors and leave my no-longer-little birdling to fly under his own steam. (As it were.) I managed to snap a pic of us despite his bitching. FYI, he's not all gelled up, hair-wise, here; it was just so friggin' humid we all dripped with sweat. Which is less attractive than it sounds...

...be sure to tune in tomorrow for Part II, in which, to quote Spandau Ballet, "...to cut a long story short, I [lose] my mind."

Seventeen years ago today…*

Balthazar, June 1995.

…at 10:21 am, I unleashed the fruit of my loins upon the world. Balthazar popped out of my pelvis weighing 7 lbs, 11 oz, and measuring 21” in length. Born of a slightly jaundiced mother, he did a brief stint under bili lights, which allowed me to get a bit of rest after my ordeal labor.

After fetching us from the hospital, his father left to pick up my sister, who was to stay with us for a couple of months to lend a hand and moral support, as needed (and both were desperately needed). I stood in the little hallway beyond the front door, cupping my one-day old baby in my hands, wondering what the hell I should do with myself. I looked over at his bedroom and realized I hadn’t put any bedding on either his crib mattress or the twin bed my sis would be sleeping in. As I pondered which to tackle first, the kitchen phone suddenly rang, an unpleasantly jarring shrill in the otherwise quiet apartment. It scared the crap out of me - and out of Balthazar as well. Literally.

I became aware of an unexpected warmth and looked down, saw the meconium oozing out of his diaper and onto my hands. The phone continued to bleat at me and I just stood there in the hallway, grossed out and nonplussed, feeling completely alone and useless.

Balthazar, September 2011

Today, he weighs about 160 lbs, stands at roughly 5’8”, and is hairier than I could ever have imagined.

And he’s still giving me shit.

:-D

 




*This is an updated version of a post I made on the message board of an author whose works I heart, under my other online persona, several years ago.

Intuition...?

...or just more smartassery?

I'm sure those of you with teens can relate - sometimes, one's child develops such skill with the latter that it's difficult to discern whether:

A) your child's being serious, and if so
B) the gravitas should be trusted.

In particular, I reference my son, Balthazar, and his ready dismissal of the (very few) men to have interested me romantically since his dad and I split up, lo so many years ago. Oh, he knew there'd been a dude after his dad, but he was about 3 at the time, so who knows what a child that age can really grasp of such matters. But there'd been a long drought since that fella and it was in The Kid's earlier teens that other contenders nearly entered the ring, so to speak.

I commute into Manhattan for work and, a while back, there'd been this guy on the train who eyeballed me with some frequency. He didn't make any moves to reach out to me, just stared and let me catch him staring a few times, you know how it goes. Well, there was something about him, an intensity to his gaze, that appealed, and I was not averse to an overture, should it have come. Then one night, as The Kid and I walked past our town's train trestle, we both happened to look up at the steps leading down from it, casually noting the descending commuters, and there he was! Our eyes met and held for a few heated seconds, then Balthy and I kept walking. I slowed my pace at some point so the guy could pass us and was gratified to see him looking back at us periodically. The Kid noticed him and commented on the fact that he sorta resembled one of our neighbors. I agreed, mentioned seeing him on the train once in a while, and that was the end of that.

UNTIL I boarded a homeward-bound train one night and saw him seated at a window seat, with the middle and aisle seats next to him free. I had my chance - it was now or never! (Or so some twisted little voice in my head assured me.) I took the aisle seat. He looked up, saw me, and an electric moment of mutual awareness passed.

This is the point in the story where things should've taken a delightful turn for the woof! They kinda didn't. He tried, several times, to engage me in conversation. But my natural timidity with men (go on, laugh, disbelieve me, but it's true - I get stupidly tongue-tied and blushy when an object of my interest approaches) didn't allow for the burgeoning of rapport (or anything else, for that matter). Too, the timbre of his voice put me off, for some reason, and I just couldn't relax into the moment. I was interested but antsy, and I couldn't figure why, but I couldn't shake my uneasiness and did nothing to encourage him. Still, he gamely tried to chat me up, valiant man. We disembarked at our stop, walked together for a bit, then parted ways.

When I got home, I ached to share the experience with someone, though I didn't think I was so pathetic as to need to gush to my son. In fact, I was.

Me: You remember that guy from the other night?

The Kid: Yeah?

Me: The guy we saw at the train station?

The Kid: Yeah?

Me: The guy you said looks like our neighbor?

The Kid: Yeah?

Me: We chatted on the train tonight. I think he likes me.

The Kid: (Smirks.)

Me: What?

The Kid: (Smirks and shakes his head.)

Me: What??? (I glare at his continued smirkage.) Well, what do you think of him?

The Kid: He looks like a murderer.

Me: WHAT?!

The Kid: He looks like a psychopath, Mom. So what's for dinner?

And that really was the end of that. Oh, I saw the guy a few more times. Once, he passed by me and tapped me on the arm, scaring the ever-loving crap outta me, but my son's words echoed in my mind and kept me from welcoming further advances. Maybe a few months later, I stopped seeing him around altogether.

Now, I've no way of knowing if The Kid was sharing real concern with me or just being a snot, but what he said seemed to support my unidentifiable discomfort during my brief interaction with the guy, so I chose to believe Balthy had some sixth sense and might just be looking out for me, after all. However, about a year later, I had cause to question his purported altruism.

On Facebook, a male friend of a friend sent me a friend request. The corresponding message read, "I like your hair and eyes." I told Balthazar about this and asked him if he thought I should befriend this dude.

The Kid: No, Mom. He obviously wants to rape you and feed you to a wood chipper.

He had no reason, at all, to suggest such a thing (except maybe he'd caught the tail end of Fargo recently), still he glibly harshed my buzz.

Me (sharply): You don't ever want me to date again, do you?

The Kid: No, I want you to stay lonely. Forever.

Me: Why?

The Kid: It works for me.

Of course.

Mind you, I accepted the friend request and later wound up un-friending (De-Facing!) the dude, on account of his weird rants (and truly alarming misspellings and appalling grammar). So, possibly, The Kid's Spidey-senses did actually pick up some vibes to which this chick's ears are not attuned.

Possibly.