So, Halloween is next week. Depending on your disposition, you are either stocking up on Fun-Sized Snickers or making sure you can override the timer on your exterior lights. Regardless of your penchant for spooky—or lack thereof--the season often calls for a costume. I have always prided myself on my ability to turn the most everyday, comfortable outfit into a costume. For three years, I was Alex from Flashdance (off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, leggings—piece of cake). I also revisited Mia Wallace from Pulp Fiction a couple of times (all-black with Cleopatra wig—I'd even do the dance).
Halloween is upon us. There's a chill in the air, wet leaves in the grass and an inexplicable credit-card receipt from something known only as the 'Halloween Super Store' on the table. For those of you not familiar, the Halloween Super Store is what I imagine as the modern-day equivalent of the gypsy caravan: It pops up overnight in a previously abandoned retail space, stays open for one month selling all things spooky, and then—more quickly than it appeared—it's gone. The HSS is not a new concept. The receipt, however, strikes me as odd, odd because it means the kids have already gone to the Halloween store—and they have gone without me.
So I've been doing some substitute-teaching of late—just a class here and there. I get to brush up on some subjects in which I used to be proficient, back when the wheels were well-oiled. It's a win-win, really—for me. The students (I think) enjoy their time with their new sub. I haven't been pelted with spit wads or been fooled into spending the entire class discussing The League on FX (OK, once, it happened once). So far, I'm teaching, they're learning. All is as it should be. And that's when the teacher I am helping out informs me of one tiny detail: On Tuesday, you'll be taking my beginning Greek class.
As a parent, you constantly hope you are doing it right. Occasionally, things happen that confirm that hope, changing it into a belief: I believe I'm doing it right. Be it an A on a test, a win in the big game, a good decision on the playground or at a party, the belief becomes a surety. Wow, I'm a good parent—no, I'm a great parent! You bask in the glow of it and fleetingly consider baking cookies or taking on a DIY project. And then one day, your teenage child stands in the kitchen, between you and the cupboard, and says with disturbing sincerity: I need a plate.
Now, I don't know how I missed this, but apparently kids get hit in football. Was there a meeting I skipped where they told you your child is going to get beaten to a pulp in-between Gatorade breaks? I don't want to come across as one of those hysterical mothers, but seriously, I'm not prepared to have Punch finish middle school missing D through H of the alphabet.
So, that happened. After some 17 years of being louse-free, last week, I got the call: Punch has head lice. Now, before you recoil in disgust—well, after you've finished recoiling in disgust, I feel I need to clarify. Having lice is not a reflection of one's general hygiene. The daughter of my most germaphobic friend had head lice five separate times. The cleaner the head of hair, the more likely a louse will find a suitable home. Much like us, it seems lice like a clean living space. Why they would choose to reside on the head of a 13-year-old boy who showers only at gunpoint only confounds me more. Regardless, a home they did indeed find.
We've all been doing a lot of texting. Lately, I have noticed an increase in the use of something that seems to take the sting out of an unfavorable text—something that conveys so much in the small amount of space provided: The emoji.
It's officially fall: School is in full swing, sweaters are coming out and thoughts turn to pumpkin-carving and apple-picking. I know it's fall for another reason: At the cineplex, the film previews have turned to all things sinister. You know what I mean. The trailer starts off with a girl entering a long, abandoned attic, and pulling drop cloths off Victorian furniture. Then she comes across an old charm/mirror/clock/masque and the violent montage begins. After a few lines of dialogue explaining the premise--the man murdered a dozen girls then disappeared/they thought she was a witch and burned her home with her in it/he walked into the old mine one day and never emerged—the credits pop up. Brace yourself. Then, there's one final scary shot of a face with yellow eyes (or a dead body sitting up). Yeah, yeah.
So, I was robbed. Well, more accurately, I was burgled. You see, to rob someone is to approach an individual and take something that belongs to them--remove it from their person. To commit burglary--or 'to burgle' (although I can't say burgle without slipping into a British accent much to the annoyance of the police)--is to enter a structure in the absence of permission...and, well, in this case, take stuff.
----- GET CONNECTED WITH LN -----
Enter your email address below to signup for our mailing list.