Last night, Steve and I went to a party in the other side of town. We’re in the newer section. Here, there are a couple of old Dutch homes awkwardly positioned near major intersections, but mostly the homes went up in the late 50’s when they drained the swamp. Some of the colonials and split levels have been torn down and turned into tacky mansions. That will probably be the fate of this house when we move.

On the other side of town, there are large 100-year old homes that were built when the train came to New Jersey. They were built for New York City’s upper middle class, and they continue to owned by the same type of people, only these ones wear Lulumon yoga pants. These homes scream “GOOD TASTE.” It’s hard to hate people who understand how to preserve  old woodwork and how to arrange artwork. I’m shallow like that.

Also, it was impossible to hate the particular people at this party, because they were just good people. These were special ed parents. I talked to one woman who found her daughter in an orphanage in Kazakhstan. Another couple drove hours every day to take their daughter to a special pre-school.  Several had uprooted their whole families and moved to this town to get help for their children. Everyone in the room had been humbled and had worry-related insomnia and made serious sacrifices at one time or another. Nobody bragged about travel lacrosse teams or AP bio.

One woman told me that she went to a PTA meeting at one of the elementary schools in town. The superintendent gave a speech about the school budget and showed some Powerpoint slides with the breakdown of expenses. After he left the meeting, the president of the PTA stood up and asked the room, “How do we stop special needs families from moving to this town?”

I wasn’t at this meeting and have never been to this school, but I’ve decided that this woman has $200 blond highlights and personal trainer-honed abs. I don’t like this woman. I’m trying to decide if I should start making phone calls to the school district.