“Why all the questions? I haven’t had to come up with this many answers since I broke curfew.”
“No problem. Unless you’re as creative with the government as you were with me.”
Son One is filling out tax forms with the same hearty appreciation he musters for cleaning the litter box. He was finding the two jobs alarmingly similar. I’m in the kitchen weaving bits and pieces of leftovers into something that resembles supper.
He frowned at the paper. “Tips? I don’t get tips. I found a penny on the floor once and the boss claimed it was overtime pay and made me mop the floor.”
“That reminds me. It’s your turn to do the laundry. I get half the change you find, but you can have 100% of the dog treats. No questions asked.”
“This line says Subsistence Allowance. Is that the money I lose in the school vending machines trying to get a Twinkie to hold me til lunch?”
“No. The government isn’t interested in the state of your state of being until you graduate.”
“Just as well. Whatever you’re making in there would probably count against us. Are you mixing things? You know I don’t like my food to touch.”
“Sometimes you have to have to be creative, remember?”
“What about Contributions to the College Investment Program?”
“Put zero.”
“But I paid enough in college tuition to make everyone in the county smarter than a fifth grader.”
“Doesn’t count.”
“Railroad retirement?”
“Six seasons in front of Thomas the Tank Engine? No.”
“HazMat? I can sign up for HazMat?”
“You don’t get to make hazardous materials," I said, layering asparagus with eggs and cheese.”
“Why not? I’m a natural. I’m exposed to hazardous materials every day.”
“In what form?”
He sniffed the air and made the yukky face.
“Casseroles.”
Laugh
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Monday, April 18, 2011
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
School's In, I'm Out
I have a friend who can tell when school starts by how many of her kids get sick. If somebody throws up, mark your calendars for cafeteria duty because school is in session.
My kids are older now, but there are still definite clues that let me know it’s time to obey the speed limit between the flashing yellow signs. I can tell school is in by the vacuum in my wallet. If I try to put a dollar in the bill section and it hits a jet stream that carries it directly to a slow-moving boy dragging $400.00 worth of school books across the kitchen floor toward the back door, classes have started.
My guys go to community college across town. At least I think it’s a college. The way they hit me up for lunch money, I’m beginning to suspect they are supporting the efforts of a five start restaurant. Any day now, I’m expecting to catch one of them sneaking up the back stairs after dark with crème brulee on his breath.
Schedules are different at college. When the kids were in grade school, I could count on at least six hours a day without having to watch a Barney video or share my Girl Scout cookies with anybody except the dog. These days, young people blow in and out of my house at random intervals, changing my easy-listening radio station to brain-twister funk, and killing larger than life video game zombies on my big screen TV. It’s hard to keep up, but I’m not entirely sure all the kids that come through my living room are original family members. In my heart of hearts I believe we upgraded to the Supersized Family Plan when math class let out.
Now I find out that my guys will be done with this semester a month before Christmas. That means I’ll have to spend the time I had budgeted for wringing my hands and begging Santa for travelers checks by restocking the refrigerator and establishing a time-share program for the computer. Things turned ugly enough when I established the “If you’re old enough to shave, you’re too old for Trick-or-Treating” rule. I don’t know if I can stand having a house full of young men who think Peace on Earth means ridding the world of the undead.
Hopefully if I'm good, Santa will spirit me away to the Island of Misfit Toys. Otherwise, it’s going to be a long winter.
My kids are older now, but there are still definite clues that let me know it’s time to obey the speed limit between the flashing yellow signs. I can tell school is in by the vacuum in my wallet. If I try to put a dollar in the bill section and it hits a jet stream that carries it directly to a slow-moving boy dragging $400.00 worth of school books across the kitchen floor toward the back door, classes have started.
My guys go to community college across town. At least I think it’s a college. The way they hit me up for lunch money, I’m beginning to suspect they are supporting the efforts of a five start restaurant. Any day now, I’m expecting to catch one of them sneaking up the back stairs after dark with crème brulee on his breath.
Schedules are different at college. When the kids were in grade school, I could count on at least six hours a day without having to watch a Barney video or share my Girl Scout cookies with anybody except the dog. These days, young people blow in and out of my house at random intervals, changing my easy-listening radio station to brain-twister funk, and killing larger than life video game zombies on my big screen TV. It’s hard to keep up, but I’m not entirely sure all the kids that come through my living room are original family members. In my heart of hearts I believe we upgraded to the Supersized Family Plan when math class let out.
Now I find out that my guys will be done with this semester a month before Christmas. That means I’ll have to spend the time I had budgeted for wringing my hands and begging Santa for travelers checks by restocking the refrigerator and establishing a time-share program for the computer. Things turned ugly enough when I established the “If you’re old enough to shave, you’re too old for Trick-or-Treating” rule. I don’t know if I can stand having a house full of young men who think Peace on Earth means ridding the world of the undead.
Hopefully if I'm good, Santa will spirit me away to the Island of Misfit Toys. Otherwise, it’s going to be a long winter.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
How Much is That Mommy in the Window?
My teenage son is cooler than Santa’s shorts. He’s above eating school lunch, wearing jeans that look brand new, and doing homework. He is exempt from science projects, term papers, and standardized tests. Right. And I’m going to his senior prom in a plaid thong and fringed halter top.
As a Mom, my major duties include creating fabulous meals out of leftover parmesan cheese, tomato soup, and ground beef, nagging people to finish every bit of that homework, yes every bit, and wearing out a trail between home and school carrying forgotten band instruments, lunchboxes, and school projects. The school secretary and I see so much of each other that I know all about her uncomfortable polyester allergy, the names of all her grandchildren, and what size stretchy pants she wears. (And if she’ll lie about that, she’ll lie about that fake tattoo peeking out of her Sag Harbor separates.)
Last year, Son Two created an elaborate poster project in order to rescue his grade from the bottom half of the alphabet, and snatch the low-slung seat of his jeans from the jaws of spending the summer studying flash cards with Mommy. So one morning after he mumbled his fond farewell and got out of the car and I saw that poster rolling innocently in the floorboard, I did what any mother with no make-up on and morning breath would do. I slammed the car into park, dug my feet into my fuzzy slippers, and set out after my son at a pace usually reserved for sprinting for the last Nintendo on the shelf at quarter past Christmas Eve. Poster under my arm and the theme from Chariots of Fire drumming in my head, I raced down the sidewalk like the three blind mice at a cat show.
The cafeteria is the before-school gathering place. It was almost time for the bell to ring, so there was already a burst of activity when I reached the side window and saw my son, slouching around a table with his comrades. I’m not sure whether it was the sight of me dressed partially in pajamas and partially in office attire that alarmed the crowd, or the sound of me beating on the window shrieking my son’s name. If I had thought about it beforehand, I would have taken the time to put on lipstick. Or a bra.
As one, the student body looked up and took in the sight of a crazed woman bouncing through her “Forgotten Project” dance outside the lunchroom window. To his credit, and out of a well-placed fear of summer school, Son Two acknowledged my existence and came to retrieve his poster.
On the way home, I reflected on the truth that experience comes at a cost. Poster Board: $1.50. Fuzzy slippers: $2.99. Teenager making a mad dash for the cafeteria door in a desperate attempt to save his pride and project at the same time: Priceless!
As a Mom, my major duties include creating fabulous meals out of leftover parmesan cheese, tomato soup, and ground beef, nagging people to finish every bit of that homework, yes every bit, and wearing out a trail between home and school carrying forgotten band instruments, lunchboxes, and school projects. The school secretary and I see so much of each other that I know all about her uncomfortable polyester allergy, the names of all her grandchildren, and what size stretchy pants she wears. (And if she’ll lie about that, she’ll lie about that fake tattoo peeking out of her Sag Harbor separates.)
Last year, Son Two created an elaborate poster project in order to rescue his grade from the bottom half of the alphabet, and snatch the low-slung seat of his jeans from the jaws of spending the summer studying flash cards with Mommy. So one morning after he mumbled his fond farewell and got out of the car and I saw that poster rolling innocently in the floorboard, I did what any mother with no make-up on and morning breath would do. I slammed the car into park, dug my feet into my fuzzy slippers, and set out after my son at a pace usually reserved for sprinting for the last Nintendo on the shelf at quarter past Christmas Eve. Poster under my arm and the theme from Chariots of Fire drumming in my head, I raced down the sidewalk like the three blind mice at a cat show.
The cafeteria is the before-school gathering place. It was almost time for the bell to ring, so there was already a burst of activity when I reached the side window and saw my son, slouching around a table with his comrades. I’m not sure whether it was the sight of me dressed partially in pajamas and partially in office attire that alarmed the crowd, or the sound of me beating on the window shrieking my son’s name. If I had thought about it beforehand, I would have taken the time to put on lipstick. Or a bra.
As one, the student body looked up and took in the sight of a crazed woman bouncing through her “Forgotten Project” dance outside the lunchroom window. To his credit, and out of a well-placed fear of summer school, Son Two acknowledged my existence and came to retrieve his poster.
On the way home, I reflected on the truth that experience comes at a cost. Poster Board: $1.50. Fuzzy slippers: $2.99. Teenager making a mad dash for the cafeteria door in a desperate attempt to save his pride and project at the same time: Priceless!
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