The alarm clocks awoke us both from our blissful slumber. As we came out to our daily meeting point, the sofa, we rubbed the sleep out of our eyes.
“Is it time yet?” he asked.
Nope, not yet, I replied.
We went about our morning tasks. Medicine taken, breakfast eaten, bodies dressed. The checking of the backpack to make sure he had everything he needed, but more importantly, that he knew where they could be located.
Teeth brushed, hair combed and then tousled so he had that ‘I just rolled out of bed’ look. Deodorant applied just in case he forgot. A quick glance in the mirror showed him he was ready.
Some downtime on his brother’s DS while the last few minutes clicked down to seconds. The familiar rumble of the bus outside. A hug, a quick kiss, a few “good luck!”‘s, “I love you!”‘s and “have a great day!’s” and then he dissappeared into the dark and a few moments later the bus rumbled away, it’s strobe light pulsing in time to the beat of my heart.
Yes, son, it’s time.
High school is going to be great.
I love you.
Posted by Shash @ 7:04 am
| | August 24, 2009
Because teenage angst is not only reserved for teenagers
Dear ex-friend of Spiff,
Yep, I saw you today. I saw you scowl at my son, like he had done something terrible to you instead of the other way around. He has been nothing but a good friend to you, worried about your happiness and just simply wanting to be your friend. You have said many mean things to him, and all he says is “Oh, she’s just grouchy today”. Or “moody”.
I’m sad. I’m disappointed. I don’t expect you to always be friends, but I was kind of hoping that he would have one friendly face in the crowd; one person that could be his touchstone while he figures out the new school, the new schedule, the new everything.
It’s not going to be you.
Okay. Just do me a favor, ok? Leave middle school in the past and let the others get to know him before you tell them how you feel about him. Give him a chance to meet other people and make some new friends so he will finally do what you clearly want him to: Leave you alone.
Besides, we didn’t want to sit next to you anyway. So there.
Posted by Shash @ 3:11 pm
| | August 13, 2009
Because Apparently I Enjoy Making A Fool of Myself, Internet.
So on Saturday night I, along with several other of my Dr. Phillips High School Class of 1989 classmates
(yes, I did worry about that sentence structure. But guess what? WAY. TOO. TIRED. TO. CARE.)
will gather at a local hot-spot, and find out if we still remember each other 20 years later. Oh, and take lots of pictures. Also? There might be hugging.
So here is a crib sheet that might help everyone out:
I do not look like this anymore.
Like not even a little bit.
So don’t look for this person.
You might remember I wore these pants.
Yes, they are still my favorite pants.
If I, say, still owned them.
Yes, I dated him when I was a Junior.
No, I have no idea what he is doing these days.
I can guess it may include “living his life” and “being happy”.
Yes, I have noticed that his smile does look painful.
(my mom thought he looked possessive.)
Yes, I deliberately cut my hair this way.
No, he is not from Dr. Phillips.
He drove all the way up from Dunedin to take me to prom.
Yes, he’s a nice guy.
No, I don’t keep in touch with him, either.
Yes, I LOVED this dress.
Also, if you see someone that looks like this:
Come up and say hello. I can’t wait to catch up with you!
Posted by Shash @ 6:43 pm
| | August 5, 2009
Revenge is a dish best served smokin’ hawt!
It took me all summer to earn enough money for those damn jeans.
Seriously. This was back in the 80′s, before the robber baron babysitters of today jacked up the price of babysitting that makes me consider robbing a bank every time I go out on a date with my husband. $10 an hour? Say WHAT? I’d better come home to a cleaned house as well. A REALLY cleaned house.
Does that ever happen? No.
So. Summer. 1980-something. I babysat my ass off to buy a pair of jeans. But not just any pair of jeans. Oh, no.
A pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans.
Back then that was what you wanted to wear; had to have. Either Gloria Vanderbilt or Jordache. If you had big bucks you had Calvin Klein jeans.
I didn’t have big bucks.
Quite the contrary. While other girls went shopping at the Limited, Contempo Casuals, 5-7-9 or Rave, I got most of my clothes from JC Penney or Sears.
It was because my mom had credit cards at those places. And it would take months for her to pay off my clothes. Many times she was still paying for clothes after I had already outgrown them.
Needless to say, neither of those stores sold Gloria Vanderbilt jeans.
So I scrimped. I saved. And just before my sixth grade year started, I was the proud owner of a pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans. I treated them like liquid gold. I washed them carefully, and I hung them up.
What teenager hangs up their jeans? Seriously?
The first time I wore them was to the roller skating rink. Paired them with a top I can no longer remember, but I knew I looked good. I hoped a certain someone might also think the same way. When it came time for the racing around the rink, I took my spot. I was good at this, and I had a feeling…
As I skated past the finish line, and I won, that certain someone was looking right at me, calling me over. As I skated over, exhausted from the race but thrilled he finally noticed me, I didn’t notice her foot in my path. It vanished almost as quickly as it arrived, but the intentions were there.
As I fell to the ground, all my weight fell onto my knee. I collapsed onto the rink with a thud and immediately people rushed over. I was lifted off the rink and whisked into an office; placed on a table and the paramedics came to asses the damage. One came towards me with a rather large pair of scissors. When I asked what he was doing with them he replied “I’m going to cut your jeans so we can look at your knee.”
Um, WHAT?!?! Cut MY jeans? Oh Hells NO!
I cried. I begged. I pleaded to please just let me take them off. Don’t cut them! Pretty please with sugar on it, DON’T CUT OFF MY GLORIA VANDERBILT JEANS!
My pleas fell on deaf ears. The sound of the cutting into that denim is something I will always remember.
I never got to wear those jeans again.
Fast forward thirty-some-odd years later. I’m shopping for jeans for my trip to Chicago, and on the rack I find a pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans in my size. And costing a fraction of what I paid for my pair back in the ’80′s. When I try them on, the fit perfectly. I buy them and pack them in my suitcase.
Friday night, I wear them. With these:
I paired them with a halter top and those shoes.
You want to know the best part?
I get to wear this pair of Gloria Vanderbilts again.
HAH! Take THAT, jealous middle school girl and scissor-happy paramedic!
Posted by Shash @ 4:51 pm
| | August 1, 2009