Only one person reminded me to tell you about math problems in this entry. Man, if I need to write a secret on this page, I’m totally going to hide it in fourteen layers of parenthetical.
My 14-year-old brother Jon has been slacking off in his studies. I discovered this when a progress report fell out of his math book when he stayed overnight at my house way back in early December. He was failing math because he wasn’t doing his homework. Since then, I have been tutoring him several times a week and also been in constant contact with his teacher. It’s grueling. I mean, I’m not a math head. I never have been and never will be. I failed a semester of high school algebra and ended up taking my entire geometry credit in the night school with a bunch of high school dropouts and pregnant teenagers (which, by the way, I totally recommend this method for kids who score high on standardized tests and get bored in the classroom, because I finished the entire year in 12 weeks and got a B+, something almost entirely unheard of in my high school math career.) I am 32 years old and shouldn’t have to think about integers. Or math problems. I have a head full of words. Those symbols are spikes into my brain.
But I’ve been persevering. Mostly because no one ever cared about how I did in high school and the same thing is happening with him. When my drunken mama gets his report card, she shakes her head, tsks tsks, and then pours herself another vodka gimlet. And this had made for some interesting discussions between myself, Mo, and our mother, who would really rather that we all just throw up our arms, declare that it’s hopeless, and stop making her look bad. My favorite moment was during a rather heated conversation when she tried to tell me that she DOES talk to him and tell him that he needs to do better in school, and then she made the fatal error of sniping ‘Don’t you remember me telling you that when you were in school? Don’t you remember me telling you that without school you would be nothing?’ With every ounce of self-control I had, I said ‘Well, actually, Mother, I DO remember, which is why I’m so concerned about him.’ And there it was, hanging in the air between us, as palpable as a drawn sword. Just go ahead and say anything. I dare you. The best fiction in the world is our familial history.
Jon endured it until we got his 11 missing assignments handed in. Then I let up on him with the idea that now he was caught up and could remain current. However, a week after Christmas break, I got a voice message from his teacher, stating that he had five assignments missing again. Then the smack was laid down. I confiscated his brand new Game Boy (which he purchased with his Christmas money) and all of his Play Station games and DVDs. He also was warned that should he not get caught up in a week, I was also going to confiscate the television in his room (which is actually one of my televisions) and also his CD player.
It’s amazing the magic of consequences.
Anyway, he managed to squeak by for the semester with a D-, and got all of his assignments in. Last week, he said that he didn’t need tutoring and that he would do his assignments on his own, which he did (I suspect that he was missing his Game Boy). And then his teacher called and thanked me profusely for not giving up on him. However, now Jon’s totally pissed at me because I yelled at him and told him that he should be ashamed of himself and that he’s smarter than a D-. Yay. The fun of parenting without ever needing to pass anything through my cervix.
A few years ago, this would have made me vaguely upset. It would have colored my thoughts in moments when I did not have the best self-esteem. I would have been wondering when I met new people if they thought less of me because I am fat. In the list of four hundred and twelve adjectives and nouns used to describe me, ‘fat’ would have been Billboard’s Number 1 Most Requested Song. With a bullet. And maybe it’s my thirties and maybe it’s just the fact that I am who I am and anything you might think about me from my physical appearance is just ignorant (and also, by the way, wrong), but now I just feel a little sorry for the people who limit themselves their perceptions this way. And also for their friends, who just learned that someone they once trusted thinks that the most remarkable thing about them is that they are fat asses.
Also, just be warned that if you do follow that link, try not to step in the flame war. Trust me, don’t try to sort it all out, it will give you a headache. Just read the very beautiful Gwen’s explanation instead.
A few nights ago, I found Esteban on my computer, about three seconds before purchasing a slide whistle.
Yes. You read that correctly. A slide whistle.
A $22 slide whistle.
‘It’s not $22! It’s $15.99!’ He exclaimed when I looked out from under a perfectly raised eyebrow at him.
‘Yes, $15.99 with $7 shipping, thus, effectively, it is a $22 slide whistle.’
To prove a point, I searched on Ebay and found a $6 slide whistle. Esteban was unimpressed, because he was worried that it would take forever to get shipped and also, apparently there are different lengths of slide whistles. He wants a 9 inch slide whistle. I suggested a 12 inch slide whistle.
‘But no! That would be too long! That would be no good at all!’ He pouted. I even think he stomped his foot on the ground.
‘It’s a slide whistle. It’s all kinds of wrong to pay $22 for a slide whistle.’
He stilled himself and looked at me pointedly.
‘I have one word for you. Soap.’
I knew that I should have never told him how much The Soap cost.
‘Fine. But just so you know, now that you’ve played The Soap card, it is off the table. It’s a one-time-only exchange’ Soap card for slide whistle.’
Esteban was very pleased with himself and his well-played hand. ‘I still have the Hair Junk card and the Makeup card and the clothing card. I have a whooooole deck of cards. Not to mention, the You Love Me So You Should Let Me Buy Whatever I Want card.’
‘No’ that’s MY card.’ I said and walked out of the room. Yes, it really is hard to live with me some days.
It’s interesting to note in the retelling of this that I never asked him why he wanted a slide whistle and also, he never really volunteered an explanation. I hope he’s not involved in some secret clown fetish or something. Because I don’t know if my fragile constitution could handle walking into the house and finding a 6 foot 2 clown standing in my bedroom, wearing gigantic shoes.
True story of cubicle farm life: Over the psuedo-walls, I just heard a middle-aged woman chirply tell her coworkers that she was going to lunch. And then imitated the esteemed governor of California by saying “Ah’ll be bach.” Oh. The hilarity. It’s amazing anyone gets any work done at all.
There’s another entry here.
