kellementology

life according to me

Category: Teenagers

  • Cork for My Attitude, Perhaps?

    I am seriously cranky today. For the most part, I wouldn’t bother to mention it because I rarely am, and if I am, it’s not something worth mentioning. I have committed myself to a permanent state of being one who does not deserve to be cranky ever again, no longer having to deal with the stresses that those who work deal with. My four hours a day do not qualify me.  What a martyr.

    But I’m mentioning it anyway.

    It.

    The aggravating sensation that something is not quite right. An annoyance, hovering somewhere just out of reach.

    It’s making me crazy and I’ve begun a mental check of all that it could possibly be, torturing myself with the stupidity of it.

    Masochist.

    If I was intelligent, I would bury myself in a good book, or go for a walk. Fresh air seems to cure all. But I’ve stubbornly chosen to tackle a few tasks that needed to be taken care of, stewing with each check made on my mental list of things to do:

    1. Finally, finally contacted our neighborhood association with the needed information to register our cars. (We’re not allowed to park on our own street because we have room in our driveway and garage and cars parked on the street makes the neighborhood look tacky). You, too, should live in Paradise. Whatever. We do park in our driveway, but once in a while we leave one on the street. What? They’ll tow us?

    2. Emailed the RTR’s counselor at school to set up some meetings to monitor his assignments (He likes to bring home classwork to be finished, that by his own admission, isn’t challenging, and won’t take very long to do, but doesn’t do it. Because. He can…). Oh, but he does want to go away to college, just in case I was wondering. No problem, dude. See if you can get one to let you in.

    3. Tried again to book our flights for our vacation this summer, found the website uncooperative, and feeling a bit wary, called to get assistance since a screw up could cost two years of saved points. Wouldn’t that be a great story? (This would be the bright spot in my day since the woman found tickets and we’re booked at last).

    But right now, I am just cranky. Getting into bed and pulling the covers up over my head might help, but the sun is shining, the weather is cheerfully unlike my mood, and I’d end up sweating like a pig.

    Do pigs sweat?

    Regardless, there’s a cherry on this little sundae of mirth and glee. It appears that I’m going swimming this evening. Yes, my friends and I are going to try and get back into our little routine of exercising regularly.

    Winter legs. Ugly bathing suit. Lumpy body. Chipped toenail polish. Grouchy face. Bitchy mouth.

    Oh, hell ye I’m in the mood for this.

    This tells it all. Just six words. I think you’d agree, right?

    Does it LOOK like I’m in a good mood?

    Which means you need to partake in this exercise — seeing if the sum of your life can be reduced to a mere six words.

    By all means, have some fun with it. Olga did. But Olga always has fun. Double the fun.

    Some girls have all the luck. Lumps in all the right places.

    Pfft.

  • Spring Break, The Fed, & Bracketology

    It’s Spring Break here.

    That means that at least in Paradise, the clear blue sky and brilliant sunshine will coax you outside after you’ve donned your tee-shirt and shorts only to find that the air is less than warm. Chilly, in fact. It’s rude.

    What’s even more rude is having to look at winter legs that need lotion, a good shave, and some color.

    Whatever.

    Spring Break is also a time for the RTR to engage in some serious house potato-ing. Yesterday he saturated himself with shows he DVR’d in preparation for this week. Today, he’s mid-gorge session, loading the second of three Pirates of the Caribbean DVD’s. The blinds are closed and the sensurround is turned up enough to cause the floor to vibrate on the good parts.

    Arg, mateys.

    (more…)

  • Silver linings and Butthole dragging dogs.

    As Far As Today Has Gone…

    What was annoying?

    Getting up the second the alarm went off, getting ready for my first official day as a person who actually goes to work after a year (only part time) and is ten minutes late because of traffic.  Three miles in twenty minutes is a problem.  I am not someone who is ever late.  Ever.

    But what’s good about it?

    Not getting pissed off about it.  I got to work.  All was well.  And tomorrow, I’m taking another route.

    What’s gross?

    Realizing that the dark smudge and related four-foot streak across one of the only clean places left on the carpet this morning was caused by the dog who couldn’t take an extra minute to poop outside, so came upstairs, summarily parked her butt hole on the carpet, then proceeded to skooch forward using all four paws, removing whatever offending turdlett was hanging on for dear life.  It worked.  What a genius.

    Where’s the proverbial silver lining?

    Obviously not on the carpet.  But the image of the dog dragging her butt hole is completely, side-splittingly HILARIOUS even though the spot remover didn’t quite remove the stain.  The bottle lied.  I’m an expert at lying carpet stain bottles. And in knowing that she doesn’t have worms or clogged anal glands.

    What makes me want to rip my hair out?

    After pulling off a B+ so close to an A in Algebra II during the first grading period this year, the RT has systematically worked to destroy his grade (okay, so it’s a B-) by not doing most of his homework because he doesn’t feel like it.  He’s knows it’s more than strange that he’s engaged in this rather highly developed form of academic suicide, but hey!  He’s good at just not thinking about it.
    Why do I grit my teeth, grinning to bear the agony of this revelation instead of ripping his lovely brown eyes out of his skull?

    He’s in more agony about it than I could ever be.  Daily, he procrastinates, then doesn’t do the work and the routine begins again the next day.  He must love the torture.  Plus, he must love my rather lengthy and antagonizingly argumentative discussions about life and work and responsibility.  And the concept of beginning to look for a job now that requires no degree and a cheap place to live while employed in said fashion.  In San Diego, that would be a cardboard box.

    And the bright side of this debacle is?

    He gets this flat look about the eyes, like I have the calm audacity to suggest he will have to fend for himself in this world, and that he may not get it right.  It lets me know I’ve gotten through.  And then I get to tell him that he’d better figure it out because he only has about six years of math left to take in his life if he isn’t planning on the minimum wage job route.  It doesn’t matter that he most likely will NEVER use any of the math he’s required to take, but you can all rest assured that at least with my kid, the good ol’ U S of A will have a chance to compete.  You know.  Mathematically.  In the world.

    Could someone tell Edwards for me please?  He was sweating bricks over it during the minute or two I listened to the debate today on NPR.

    Oh, and the RT completed his math while I wrote this, so clearly it’s not challenging.

    Like I said.  Torture.

  • Just another Friday

    His large feet shush across the carpet toward my bed in the dim rainy day light. I can hear his hesitancy as he approaches and know he must be wondering if I’m awake, or even alive. I’m tangled in and out of covers and sheets after another restless night. It must be time for him to leave for school and he’s come to check on me since I’m not downstairs. For a second I wonder if he thinks I’ve forgotten carpool duty on my one day off.

    “Morning, Doog,” I mumble to him before he turns around to leave, trying to sound more awake than I am.

    “G’ morning, Mom,” he responds in a voice with a Friday lilt. I can sense that he has drawn closer to the edge of the bed and is standing there, most likely trying to decide just how he might give me a hug. But I’m not perched on my usual edge. Instead, I am sprawled across the middle and not quite reachable for a 15-year-old who more and more seems to find the business of hugging awkward. I find myself wanting to erase his discomfort.

    “Are you ready for school? Do you have all your things together?” I ask even though I asked last night before bed, and even earlier after his homework was complete.

    “Yes.  I’m ready.”

    “Do well on your tests today, okay?”

    “‘Kay. And I just wanted to remind you that I won’t be there to pick up after school ’cause I’m going with W,” he tells me, already headed out of the room.

    “It’s not my day, Doog. Don’t forget your book for English so you can read today,” I add unnecessarily, as that, too had been discussed last night.

    “I won’t, Mom.”

    I hear the weight of his still growing body on the stairs as he heads down, and a few muffled words with his father as he clicks the lock on the front door to leave, his backpack banging against its frame. It’s 7am and his car pool is most likely waiting outside. “Bye, Mom,” he calls.

    “Bye, Doog,” I say, never quite loud enough.

    “See-yah-later.”

    “See you later, too,” I finish.

    I wait to hear the car pull away before I drag myself from bed and shuffle down stairs to take care of the animals.

    It only takes a second to notice that he has left the book I reminded him about. It’s on the floor right where he drops his backpack each day.

    I sigh and am glad that I have resisted learning how to text message. What good would it do to remind him of what he’s forgotten unless I plan to drive the book to him? It would just remind him that he just can’t seem to get the details of school right. Besides, when it’s time for him to need his book, he’ll remember that I reminded him, and that yet again, he has forgotten. He hates it. But he also seems fairly incapable of fixing the problem.

    I head into the kitchen and tell the MoH. Annoyed, he tells me it isn’t too late to call the RT to let him know he can’t go to his friend’s after school. I make a mental note to not tattle on the RT unless it’s important, because it doesn’t solve the problem. It just sends the MoH off to work on a Friday morning with a less than buoyant attitude about his son. It all feels a bit Ward and June-ish to me.

    It isn’t that important. What is important is that he takes the time to say good morning to me before he leaves for school on a Friday.

     

    I’m left wondering when the last time was that I told him I loved him. I pick up his forgotten book and place it near his calculator which he has also not taken to school today.

    the RT

  • Summer Trough in Paradise

    There’s a significance about this summer: it’s the first one in about 10 years that the RT hasn’t had to attend a camp. Hasn’t “had” to. “Had.” He has attended camp because like many others, we worked, and he would have been alone at home for a good portion of the day if we hadn’t found something for him to do. No siblings his age to stay home with like we were able to when I was growing up. No endless days of doing absolutely nothing — although I do remember being completely entertained. Hours of black and white television reruns. Dressing up in my mom’s clothes. Mixing every ingredient in the spice cupboard and daring each other to taste it. Watching my brother take the dare. Tying my sister up and chaining her to the street sign in front of our house. Like I said — fun.

    So the RT’s been packed off to a variety of YMCA camps to endure popsicle stick craft projects, “special” weekly outings, and a tough kid or two who have tried to poke him in the nose. He’s been to camps that focused on mask making and rocketry. San Diego Zoo camp, and Sea World camp. He’s had plenty of time at Camp Gramma as well, to fill in the spots between the other camps. The last two years, he’s been dropped off at UCSD, a host site for iD Tech Camps. It’s a bit pricey, but he has shown some interest in various aspects of computer technology like every other boy his age — read video games — so this was an opportunity to provide some depth learning in a couple of areas. He seemed to enjoy it, but all in all, it was still camp. No buddies to hang with. No war mongering soul mates to hunker down with and talk shop. Just camp.

    This year? I guess it’s all about me. Call it Camp Mom. Apple pie, baked bread…well, not exactly. More like frozen microwavable burritos and and an IV with Black Cherry Vanilla Coke flowing from its bag. Endless trips up and down the stairs from the computer in his room, to the TV, to the PS2, to his models. Oh, and there is the daily chore of walking the dog I neglected to mention. Some movement will be involved.

    What’s my role then? Balancing the inertia I’ve described above with semi-constructive “other things to do that involve learning and moving your body.”  Unfortunately, I’m not very good at this but I have been thinking about it for a couple of months now.

    The first things that come to mind are museums. You know — special exhibits. Things we could talk about. I picture the RT sort of slogging after his mom through these places, wishing he was in front of his computer, or tinkering with one of his tanks. That image doesn’t particularly sit well with me. Or art galleries. Take our sketch pads, do our own renditions of what we’re looking at. That could be interesting. Abstract nudes? He’d shoot those flat eyebrow darts at me for that.

    And the beach is five minutes away. We could rent bikes  because we don’t own them. And when the RT did own a bike, he chose not to ride it. Ever. It ended up in a parent raffle at my old elementary school, scoring me many bonus points. We could ride on the boardwalk or around the bay. I think he’d like that. We could see how many rollerbladers we could crash into, or tourists we could knock down because it’s been a while since I’ve been on a bike as well.

    Or we could rent kayaks. He enjoyed it when we went to Cape Cod a couple of summers ago. Besides, Mission Bay doesn’t have the currents that Nantucket Sound does, so he wouldn’t have to worry about exerting himself, or spraining his mouse finger. Just kidding. And what about one of those boards you run, jump on, and skim across the water with before falling on your posterior? Yes, I can see myself doing that, all right. It does look fun, though. I’m thinking he’d most likely not be interested in being close enough on the beach to me that people would connect the two of us as belonging together. So maybe the better purchase is a board for him, and an umbrella for me. An umbrella, beverage, and a really juicy beach read. Except there isn’t one in that stack of books I’m wallowing through. On second thought, I do have The Bride Stripped Bare somewhere just waiting to be read…

    The library is definitely in order. Once a week should do it. Yes, he always gets to choose his books. What do you think I am? I’m only a wannabe control freak. He’s always enjoyed his books, and although I’m sure he’d like to purchase them so he can savor them over and over again, we’re on a semi “what can we save if we don’t really need to spent it” kind of quest here.

    I’ve heard our local branch has quite the collection and some great events scheduled, so I’ve wanted to investigate. Has he? He’s 14. He’d most likely rather rent time at Office Games over at the mall while I shop. Or hang out with the seals at Casa Beach.

    I’d like to nudge him to set up his own website. He is a walking storehouse of knowledge about WWII, tanks, military vehicles, aircraft in particular, weapons, and history in general. It’s truly incredible. So in an attempt to get him to consider bringing together his knowledge, tech interests, and to sneak in some much needed writing practice–along with some graphics for good measure–I think he’d enjoy that. However, I’m only the camp director. Time will tell whether my influence leads to success.

    There’s always photography and Photoshop–something he learned to use this past year at school. He can show me how to use it so I won’t have to learn. Trick. But he does click those buttons faster than I seem to be able to.

    We’ll see how that goes. Camp Mom. I’m not great at it, but I’m willing to try.
    You can lead a horse to water, but… if you have to, you can push its nose in the trough.

    Troughs are not quite the same as hoops. It’s easier because all you have to do is fall in — or be pushed. And if it’s big enough, you can either sink or swim.

    Or get a floatie and then splash water at the person who pushed you in.

  • Adolescent Milestones and The Geometry Teacher

    Ninth grade is one of those really big milestones for me. No, I’m not talking about my completion of ninth grade, but as I think about this, perhaps so. Tenth grade signaled the end of an awkwardness that took up residence around the age of 11 and sowed many seeds of doubt about who I was to become in this life. But it’s the RT I’m talking about at this point, and not me. With just 18 or so days left of school this year, I find myself taking stock of this very soon to be young man — the youngest of my three, and the only one I’ve had the pleasure of “mothering” for the past six months without the distraction of my own career.

    So what has brought this on? It’s one of those things that has been on the back burner, simmering, festering, wanting to be put down in written words. Spoken words have all been used throughout the year — and some not so kind. And now it’s just a story. Another story that will sit alongside so many others in the volume we’ve created as parents of the RT. And it’s unique, because neither of my other two boys ever had an experience with a teacher quite like that of the RT and The Geometry Teacher. Yes. Her.

    Photo 6 When the RT got in the car after school a couple of days ago, it took little time after he had slung his 80 lb. back pack into the trunk before settling into the passenger seat and exclaiming, “Today was the most efficient day I’ve ever had in school.” Well. If that didn’t stop me in my tracks, then nothing ever would. It was one of those moments that had to be written down, as monumental as it seemed, or become lost in all the others that accumulate over time. One, because they — adolescents — just don’t say things like this often; and two, they aren’t often recognized for routinely sharing their revelations — especially with one of their parents. Whether the relationship with the parents is a comfy one, is a completely different issue.

    Don’t get me wrong. The RT is an exceptional human — if you can get over his slovenliness — but that’s really not anything we pull our hair out over. It just makes him more warm and fuzzy to us. I know. Gross. But it’s true. He’s a nice kid. Very. And his outlook on humanity is a model for others to consider. If you ask him about what he thinks the biggest problem the world has to deal with, he will tell you that it’s global warming. He can also tell you why he thinks that, throwing in the scientific theory behind the concern. He will also say that he believes obesity is our country’s biggest concern because it’s creating significant health problems for people who aren’t getting proper care. He genuinely likes people and sees good in everyone. He has absolutely no expectation that many people can be very cruel, and like spiders, ready themselves to dart across carefully crafted misery webs to trap unsuspecting humans and wrap them in darkness. Oh…*ahem*…got a bit carried away there. Still… The Geometry Teacher. The award goes to her for being the first person — not just teacher, but person — to have alerted the RT to another kind of human in this world. IMG_0842

    I knew things would be less than great when the MoH called me at school one night very early in the school year while I was still at work. He had attended another Open House without me and when my cell rang, I glanced at the clock and thought it odd, because he had only been at the school for a short while. What could be going on? “The Geometry Teacher’s a freak,” he began, in a very terse voice. I could tell he was walking as he spoke because he had that shaking kind of sound going on with this voice. Either that or he was ready to blow.

    “What’s going on?” I asked.

    “Nothing. I just walked out in the middle of her presentation. She’s a complete freak,” he continued, clearly pissed off. And that’s odd, too, because the MoH never gets that worked up over school stuff. Well, except for that first grade teacher. And maybe that one math teacher in middle school. Okay. So I lied. Anyway…it quickly became evident that we’d have quite the discussion when we both got home that evening.

    How can I explain the feeling of being between a rock and a hard place with a teacher who:

    • Puts a zero on homework because the notebook paper we purchased for the RT was not exactly 8.5″ x 11?” That’s right. The paper was 10.5″ x 8.” Three different stores sold paper this size, so you just don’t think about it because, hell, maybe it’s about conservation — you know? So the RT received many zeros before we realized that we were at fault here and that his paper was a half-inch too small on two sides. Wait. I could give you the difference in area…..
    • Won’t respond to emails because of some phobia about having her writing in print like evidence that could be used against her in a court of law;
    • Makes her students copy the problem. No, I’m not just saying that she asks them to copy the algorithm — I mean like, “The given vector represents the velocity of…” You get the idea. Some of these scenarios are almost a paragraph long and when there are 20 or more problems to complete, what is the kid spending most of his time doing? Copying the problem or doing the geometry? Right.
    • Takes points off if she can’t read the part that was copied, so when the grade comes, it isn’t clear whether the kid is being evaluated on his knowledge of geometry, or copying. And since the RT has dysgraphia, I can guarantee you her routine red-ink evaluations have been on his ability to copy — not do geometry. Oh! But you can photocopy the “problems” and paste them onto the homework paper if you’d like. Uh….I’m supposed to go out and buy a photocopier and do this nightly? Didn’t cutting and pasting happen in Kindergarten? Oh, I forgot. All I ever really needed to know I  learned in Kindergarten.
    • Allows students to make 3″ x 5″ cheat cards for quizzes and exams, but collects them at the door when students are done with their exams. That means that instead of being able to reuse the cards for future tests — because knowledge is built on what precedes it, right? — they have to create new ones. I created the RT’s cards on the computer just once and it took a very long time. His handwriting is so illegible,  he can’t even read it at times, so my eyeballs were popping out of my head, and my drug store glasses not getting the job done with their .5 magnification lenses.
    • Won’t attend meetings that the parents request and the school holds to discuss student need. Like, we get it that our kid has a problem, so what can we do together to help him? But the instigator, the one making it worse, can’t even come to the table to work out a solution? This is extremely challenging when I’ve done what she has done — been in her situation — had teachers on my staff in her situation -and never — EVER — have I seen this kind of unprofessional behavior. Ever. In the real world, she would have been fired so long ago.
    • Review test answers with students the day after the test by working out problems on the board, but does not allow them to take notes so they can actually LEARN from the experience. And they’re not allowed to have a pencil out when this whole thing is going on. Huh? So this would be an exercise in long term auditory memory — well visual if you count being able to memorize what she had written on the board — and not geometry.

    So the RT’s very excellent and efficient day? Well in spite of The Geometry Teacher — or because of The Geometry Teacher, part of the thing we’ve been working on since I’ve been at home is to encourage, support, cajole, reprimand, and force him to be aware of and responsible for his learning. That is huge. It isn’t that we weren’t working on those things before, because those are things that have to be worked on. But it doesn’t mean sitting down with him as he does his school work — although we’ve done that. It doesn’t mean digging through his back pack to find missing assignments he has completed but hasn’t turned in — but we’ve done that, too, finding 4 fermented apples and all. It doesn’t mean that I ever do his work for him, which would mean that I’d have to relearn it myself — although I, too, have at least done the “copying” of the completely ridiculous geometry problems so Her Highness could read his papers. And it absolutely doesn’t mean that I paid a tutor $75 an hour to tutor him. But that was the next thing on my agenda. Of course, I’d have to get a job to afford it, but goodness. I could tutor middle school students in English for $75 an hour and then use the money to pay for the RT’s tutoring. Or barter — you tute my kid and I’ll tute yours.

    It means he finally took himself to the library to work with junior volunteers after school — kids who actually like math, and understand math differently than the RT may, and who have survived THE GEOMETRY TEACHER. They survived her — not just her class.

    And you know what? The RT got a B+ on his last test — only 2% from an A-. Woo-Hoo! Now are we sure that means he understands the concepts? Who knows? But what it does mean to me — his mom, and erstwhile English Teacher? It means that I suppose you can force your kids to do what you want — what you believe is good for them — like these folks — but ultimately, I think it’s about persistent talk, nudging, suggesting, telling, expecting, and relentless questioning, so they’ll get there themselves. So they feel it was their accomplishment, because it should be theirs. They deserve that very important feeling as they mature into adults.

    The Geometry Teacher will always represent this important time in our lives when my youngest, and very accepting son, not only realizes that life is often like a game, and that sometimes, there are people who make it more challenging for us to succeed, unlike others who thrive on supporting success. Ironically, the unsupportive people we happen upon exist to help us learn more about ourselves. It’s not especially pleasant to realize, but sometimes, those who are supposed to help the most, don’t.

    Sobering lesson for an almost 15-year-old to learn, but he’s feeling “efficient,” so heartfelt congrats to the boy who was just a baby not so very long ago.sc00b2fe69

  • Teenagers and Circus Hoops

    “Mom…MOM,” the RT rumbled yesterday morning, slinking around the corner to the kitchen in his new size 12 tennies. Do they even call them that anymore? And how can a 14-year-old have feet that big? His feel are suddenly the size of very large bricks.

    “Huh? I responded, fumbling with the coffee grinder and looking at him cautiously, knowing he was going to ask for something that was going to be challenging for me with only three minutes left until carpool time. Something that may require I had to put clothes on to do. And I was already going to have to do that as the day wore on because I had a dentist appointment. Ugh. I am underwhelmed about ever going to the dentist, but they all know it and take very good care of me.

    “When you get a chance today, can you go to Staples and get me a calculator?” he continued.

    “What happened to the three we have? I asked patiently — well, it felt patient. Sort of.

    “You mean this one?” he said, holding up an old Texas Instruments business calculator that the MoH used in college. Yes, it still works. “It doesn’t have tan, sine, or the other functions I need for math.”

    “You have two of those already. Where are they? I saw you using one the other day, adding up stuff for your Warhammer game.”

    “Imperial Guard,” he cut in.

    “Huh? What guard?”

    “You know, my game. Not Warhammer.”

    “Uh…can we get back to the calculator, please? What’d you do with it?” He had that flat look he gets when his patience is being tried — like when I could never get Sun-jay’s name correct and he had to remind me every single time what the correct pronunciation of the former American Idolness‘ name was. “Sanjaya. Not Sun-jay.”

    I could feel the beginnings of steam rising over this nonsense of the calculator, like it was something that really mattered — which it wasn’t. But it was an opportunity to make another point about his lovely bedroom. Dirty play by Mom sticking it to the RT again over one of his biggest challenges. “When do you need it? You don’t have a test today, do you? If your room was clean, you’d be able to find your stuff when you need it — like now. See what I mean?”

    “Mom. I need it by Monday. Okay?” he said quietly before walking to get his backpack. It was time for the carpool and it was our day.

    “You need to spend some time in your room today when you get home and find the calculator. It’s here. Are you going to need it in class today? Do you have a test?” I persisted because maybe it didn’t compute the first time I said it.

    “Mom. No. I. Do. Not. Have. A. Test…Okay?” he said, looking right at me, and with the utmost control, as one might display when communicating with something which had little or no capacity for language. A boiled potato, maybe.

    He’s such a good kid, but The Geometry Teacher’s class has been an up and down challenge all year, and this business of him being loosey-goosey about her drill sergeant tactics is getting old. He has conformed to some extent, and that actually makes me a bit sad because he has given in to someone who, in my opinion, should not be in a classroom with kids. She has sharp teeth and anti-productive hoops she’s installed for students to jump through like circus animals instead of actually teaching something. The fact that he was actually asking me to get something for him for the class was significant. It must be the excellent “B” he got on her last test that has perked him up. Her test, not his. It’s all about Her. In the past, we hadn’t found out he needed something until it was too late, and then we were forced to get out our “DORK PARENTS HERE” sign and stand under it for making it seem too challenging for the RT to ask us a simple question. Lecture avoidance technique strategy armed and ready.

    Yesterday, when I was at the dentist’s office, a woman came in with her own teen-type. I think that’s what it was — a lanky sort of unhappy looking thing who had his attention glued to his cell phone. He must have been playing games on it or something, because at one point, the thing’s mom told him to turn it off, and he completely ignored her. Four times. Four. Then said, “What?” quite loudly in the small room, like she was some obnoxious creature who had slimed in from the swamp and had soiled his air space. I was dying to look at their expressions but was mortified for her and wanted to verbally wring his skinny neck myself with a terse, “Can you step outside for a minute, please?” just to see what he would do. But it was only a fleeting fantasy. To her credit, she persisted, and told him he had to turn off the cell phone because there were signs posted in the office. “Where? What sign?” he barked at her as he slid off his chair to glance over my shoulder at the sign. “That’s for when you’re back there, not here,” he finished, not looking at her. She sighed and picked up a magazine, and I carefully kept my attention on mine, even though I couldn’t see a damn thing because I’d left my glasses at home. All three pair.

    The experience reminded me of just how pleasant our son is. By the time I got home from the dentist, he had found his calculator. He said it took him an hour to find it, wedged behind his bed, against the mattress and the wall. I got to hear all the colorful details of the closet and under the bed, too, where he said he spent ten whole minutes. Yes, I know. I’ve been there myself, far too many times, and for much longer.

    So with the calculator tucked safely where he can find it himself next time (Yes! All children can learn!) we drove off to Friday morning at L-T-DHS, with no chance of sunshine, and a high chance of rain. But the car crew was bubbly this morning, with the princess grousing about an AP Euro exam like it was a badge of honor, and the two boys talking about the cold and a crash involving two semis being announced on the radio and hypothetically discussing what would happen if one was filled with fish and the other with chips. It’s not funny, but the RT is. His brain sees the world in comic strip form. At any moment, he breaks into dialog, or an announcement, or narration of some unseen event, reported in some accent that he’s picked up from Monty Python or somewhere. Half the time, I can’t understand him, but he clearly entertains himself. And he makes me smile every day.

    So I’m off to my mom’s. You guys may have to live without me for a day because she lives in the serious sticks east of Paradise and has……Dial….Up. It should be illegal for anyone to have to suffer from a dial up connection. My sister is visiting from VA, and we have work to do on the house she hasn’t sold here yet. Anyone out there want to move to East Paradise? It has a swell pool, good schools, and a kitchen with a face lift.

    On the home front, tax season is over, so the my husband is a human again. The Momolator or whatever the hell he’s calling our dog this week is happy to have him back, for obvious reasons. The Yack Star Fresh Face Prince Ass Fuzz Bag Flea Incu-Bus hasn’t graced us with a hairball in a week, and I finally completed one food blog obligation last night, with more to come this morning (or perhaps not).

    A million thanks to a techie who, in response to a question I asked, put up a great post about transferring my blogs to my own domain, Thought Sparks. If you remember the laughing baby I linked in a previous post, that is courtesy of him, too. Such a nice guy!

    Have a splendiferous weekend searching for something besides Sanjaya on Google. And then let me know so I can join in!