Middle School Logic

Last night I attended the open house for Son #2 at the middle school. No red flags, no cranky or flighty teachers. Two things really made me laugh:

1. Bumper sticker on the math classroom door.

4 OUT OF 3 PEOPLE HAVE TROUBLE WITH FRACTIONS

2. Description by the science teacher of the process of reviewing for exams, followed by the conclusion that the kids who don't do well on the tests must deliberately be missing multiple opportunities to get on board with the work. Parting shot:

"When we put the forms through the Scantron and we hear the 'machine gun' sound, we know they blew it."

Let's hope the teachers with the lighthearted perspectives can pass it on to our kids.

Are Ya One, Are Ya Two...

This weekend I will begin practicing a new answer when asked my age. 47. (yes that's the real thing) Is it much different from 46? A straw poll of friends who were born a bit before I was indicates that it may not be. Time will tell!

Comforts of Home

Son #1 and I have returned from our second band camp weekend, four days in rural Pennsylvania. While last year's trip had people in tank tops, shorts, and flip flops praying for a cool refreshing breeze, this year we had high temps in the fifties and low temps in the thirties. Funny, since we went on 9/15 this year and 9/23 last year. We packed according to the forecast, which predicted temps twenty degrees higher than the actual weather. In short, brrr.

Some of the kids, including my son, did not bring long pants. Braving Mother Nature's gifts during the day was enough of a challenge -- although we were grateful it did not rain except for a little while upon arrival. The cabins where campers stayed, and most of the chaperones too, did have electricity, showers, sinks, and toilets, but were not heated. I wondered whether homeless people do what I did: dressed in several layers of clothing to go to sleep when it's that cold out. The first night I was too cold to sleep, except fitfully after 3:30am. The second night I went all out: panty hose, pajama pants, sweat pants, three pairs of socks, three shirts, sweatshirt, jacket, hat, hood, gloves. Inside the sleeping bag with all of that clothing I did sleep soundly the second night, and the third. But boy what a shock having to disrobe to get in the shower. Brrr.

I hope I never again take for granted the industrial world comfort of a heated home.

Memorable Service

Last night hubby and I went out for dinner sans kids to celebrate our wedding anniversary. He chose an excellent Italian place which takes about half and hour to drive to from where we live. By the time we got there, after taking care of various things at home when I arrived from work, it was 6:30. We looked at the menu for a little while -- this place has a fantastic variety -- plus the specials...couldn't decide easily. We hadn't seen our server but it wasn't yet an issue...until I noticed that hubby's blood sugar had started to drop. Insulin Man was getting a little shaky and his eyes seemed to be resting on the appetizer section for way too long.

I caught the attention of a bus boy and asked him if he could help locate our server. We had a visit from a waitress who told us she'd just given our waiter a heads up. When the young man arrived he was quite apologetic; they'd added tables to his section and he hadn't known. I explained that we could use some bread right away and we'd have to wait a little while until hubby was on an even keel before we could order our dinner. Not only did he bring the bread but he promised to pass by and look in on us every few minutes...which he did. He offered to comp us a couple of appetizers, and I agreed to receive a plate of mini meatballs.

About half an hour after I began feeding hubby the bite sized chunks of bread I'd dipped in the herbed oil (which I know he loves) he was fully back on the air. Our waiter came by to shake his hand and apologize again for the initial delay. Hubby gave him the "sometimes it sucks to be a diabetic" response. Hubby had been half conscious when he wolfed down most of the dish of meatballs, in a rich tomato gravy, and had then polished off the rest of the bread after I threw the chunks into the gravy. Waiter offered to bring us a second dish of meatballs, which we accepted.

Naturally, hubby was unable to finish his chicken caesar salad, and I ate only two of my delicious lobster ravioli. Waiter practically insisted that we allow him to comp us a dessert, so hubby figured some chocolate ice cream would go down nice and easy...which it indeed did. The check was only $42 including hubby's beer ("extra carbs") so hubby left the waiter a $30 tip ("I'm assuming that he helped you save a trip to the hospital"). I was pleased since I had suggested we give the waiter a twenty.

I know we often remember the lousy service but I think I will remember this experience.

Cabin Fever

I think I have to do a partial recant of my earlier comments about how teenage boys disdainfully disavow the social habits of females. Last night I heard several updates from my oldest about the frantic texting that was being done by 10th grade guys to try to secure cabin arrangements for next week's band camp trip.

Apparently one of the leaders of their social circle planted himself in the midst of a mostly freshman cabin (possibly to recruit new followers?) and there was a kerfuffle over who else would be able to fit into that cabin (max of 10). Son #1 found himself on the outskirts of the group and therefore seemed to be expendable according to the group. I recommended that he instead lead a few other friends, the consummate shy nice guys, to commandeer their own cabin and go for the sure thing. Less stress, as far as I can tell.

The alternative, waiting around to see whether someone can make room for him as a personal favor, seemed pathetic to me...but then again I'm much more socially secure as I am about to turn 47 and have enough personal supporters in my life that I can comfortably say I don't give a damn about anyone who's out to yank my chain. As a parent, I can say the words, but when all is said and done the teenager's emotional state is paramount and I must watch from my ringside seat while he works it out. Sigh.

I'll have to stay tuned for the outcome of today's episode of Book That Cabin.

A Teenage Boy's Take on Things

I went with my 15-year-old son last night to the high school, where there was a meeting about marching band camp. I decided to be a chaperone again. Next Thursday the 230 or so kids in the symphonic band, wind ensemble, and kick line will head to Greeley, PA to the Pine Forest Camp for four days of intense practice and workout, to learn and perfect their walking, marching, dancing, singing, and whatever else they are going to do on the field during the performance of the four musical numbers for this year's routine. They are supposed to have the actual music memorized already so they can concentrate on the other stuff. They will get the chance to hone their craft at the home football games, and the day of reckoning is October 20: the annual Newsday Marching Band Festival at Hofstra University. Parents sit in the bleachers and whoop it up and usually freeze their extremities off until 11PM or so (we are normally the second to last group to perform).

And so we get ready to do it all again this year. Last time I rode the bus to and from the camp, helping to herd the kids on and off, manage their behavior, entertain them, hand out snacks and water, take attendance, check for contraband, etc. A couple of weeks ago my friend H, mom of one of my son's friends, mentioned that she'd like to drive out instead of take the bus, and asked whether I'd like to keep her company. She's a people person with a really wacky and fun sense of humor, but she's also an intellectual like me, and so the only thing holding me back was to make sure that there were enough bus chaperones...which we confirmed last night at the meeting and celebrated with hugs and smiles.

As we were leaving the school, my son gave me and H a disdainful look (in front of H's daughter, no less) and said that he thought the two of us were carrying on some kind of girl romance. H and I, amused, blew each other kisses, which of course brought other expressions of disgust. H's daughter just kept walking. Did he put on that show for her benefit? Is it a validation of the difference between his budding manhood and his female peers?

Who cares? I'm all set to have a good time. I doubt it'll be Thelma and Louise, but we don't need to go there. And I guess we're at the point where we're supposed to be embarrassing our children. I'm doing my job and doing it well. Hurrah for me!

Alternative Meteorology

You've heard of alternative medicine? Well, now hear this.

As I was getting my hot cocoa in the lunchroom today, a coworker came in for her morning cup and remarked that she was achy. I smiled, and told her that my mother accurately predicts when it will rain, how much we'll get, and how long it will last.

"She has arthritis?"

"OH yeah."

A knowing smile and nod.

Let's have an alternative weather channel, staffed by AARP members and armed with the knowledge that comes from within. Can't you just hear it now? "Listen, Mr. Steve Badabingo on Channel Eight, I don't care how many degrees you have. My sciatica is the worst it's been in three or four years, and we're getting at least eight inches of snow by tomorrow night! Young whipper snappers think they know it all. Humph."

Some of these folks might even volunteer their time or work for salaries that are quite reasonable compared to the usual. This network would really pull its weight in entertainment value. People would tune in so they could debate the veracity of the oldsters' predictions as compared to the classically educated meteorologists on those "other" channels.

C'mon, who's willing to take this on as a startup?

Senior Citizen?

Pshaw, not in my mind's eye or my memory. I'm talking about the great entertainment icon, Freddie Mercury, who would have been 65 years old today -- born Farrokh Bulsara on September 5, 1946 -- if he had not believed in living life to its fullest pleasures. Take this quote:

I always knew I was a star and now the rest of the world seems to agree with me.

I tip my hat to Newsday, our Long Island daily paper, for publishing that as the Cryptoquote in today's puzzle section.

I recall the first time I heard Queen's music. It was at the home of my godmother, the best friend of my mother. Her daughter Francie, a year and some months older than I, had the single (45 rpm) version of Bohemian Rhapsody and played it for me. I had gone to musical heaven! On that fateful day in 1975 I became a lifelong fan of Freddie, his music, and his persona...apparently along with millions upon millions worldwide.

When Freddie came to understand the seriousness of his illness (which we now know as AIDS) and began to attack his bucket list, e.g. the fabulous album he recorded with soprano Montserrat Caballe, there were probably other ideas he had which he didn't have the time or energy to pursue. I mourn the loss of those opportunities along with the memories of how I enjoyed all the music when it was new, and especially the one Queen concert I got to see live. Madison Square Garden, with opener Billy Squier. It was a double header. Billy played for an hour and a half, including a couple of songs joined by Freddie and the boys...then the headliners played for two hours. 30 years ago. I was a kid then.

Thank you, Freddie. And happy birthday.