Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Why? Why do teenagers *insist* on disagreeing about things they cannot even know?

Youngest wants to start looking for a new guitar teacher as his last one retired. That's cool. I'm all for shelling out the money for music lessons.

"Sure," I agree. "Your playing is fantastic and I'd love to see you continue. Also, you need a coach to help you with your timing, you seem to have some difficulty staying on beat."

Okay. That's not really what I said. That's what a tactful mother would say. The kind and thoughtful words that left my mouth and went straight on to mangle Youngest's psyche were, "Sure, we can find another teacher. By the way, your rhythm sucks. You need to work on that."

"Your rhythm sucks." he adroitly replies. "Besides," he continues, because you know a teen can't let an insult go without trying to get the last word, "you don't know anything about music, you never played an instrument so who are you to judge?"

Good one. But his facts are woefully incorrect!

"Oh, yes I did play an instrument! I played saxophone in junior high! Which is why I know the fingerings for sax, clarinet and flute--they're all very similar. And that's also why whenever I eat red licorice I bite holes in it and play it like a recorder."

Youngest, who apparently has never witnessed my great talent, answered, " . . . >blink< . . . wha? I don't even know where to begin with that . . . "

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"You know how Beautiful and Number One's friends all think you're the cool mom?"

"Yeah?"

"They're misled."

"I know."

Friday, October 9, 2009

signs that my focus is a leeeeetle bit off . . .

I was at my daughter's house on a Friday night so she could pin up a pair of jeans I needed to hem. Because I'm a midget. Practically.

But that's not the important part.

I had worn the jeans to her house because blah, blah, blah, nobody cares why.

After the brisk work of pinning my pants up, Beautiful went to the fridge for a bottle of water and asked me if I'd like anything to drink. A large bottle of Gatorade was in the fridge. Suddenly I had a hankering for Gatorade.

For the life of us, we could not get that bottle open. And that's a serious blow to my ego because I am a freakishly strong woman and I am always the one people ask to open lids. Dammit.

We gave up and I decided to just stop at a convenience store on the way home and buy some of my own. Then I realized I was wearing pants that were pinned up and could not be seen in public that way--and I had nothing to change into. Naturally.

Discussing this conundrum with my daughter, she offered that, since she lives in a bit of a sketchy neighborhood, I could just take my pants off and go into the store pantsless for my juice. "Nobody would even notice," she added.

What I should have been thinking was how dangerous it is for my daughter and her young family to live in such a shady neighborhood and whether we should offer to help them locate a home in better surroundings.

What I was actually thinking was, "No, I can't take my pants off and go into a store. I totally have the wrong underwear on for that."