Wednesday, June 30, 2010
I know that sounds like a cop out but I am not that good at verbalising things I personally have an deep issue with. Besides, I find it easier to communicate via written word. It makes more sense to me and I am able to be more objective. It helps distance me from the situation or turns it into a third person thing. Whatever.
Also, my husband likes to take time to process what he wants to say, only he takes time while I am standing in front of him which is hard for me as you can bet I have been processing anything I want to say in life for the past 46 years! Carefully managed and thought out words are ready to burst from me whereas when K is confronted with that he may inadvertently say something he may not mean, or it comes out wrong or something along those lines. So we have this weird protocol which works.
For example, I am so anal about money that when he and I need to make a significant dip into savings he no longer speaks to me in person, he sends me an email to discuss it. I can connect my "thing" about money way, way back to childhood and the financial ups and downs that my parents experienced.
Being the bookkeeper at work and being tight with money makes my boss happy. Being uptight about money at home can make me a bit of a bore. However, after doing bookwork for extravagant and self indulgent clients and seeing where they end up completely justifies my attitude towards money.
That is not to say I do not spend money. I just like to have a stash to spend when we want to. And I like to think about it.
Anyway, about two months ago K sent me an email expressing his desire to purchase a second classic car to tinker with.
The email had sentences like:
I did not want this to happen but I have fallen in love.
It is a midlife thing, all about men and sheds and the need to have projects.
I will understand completely if you say no.
Anyway, needless to say I said sure thing and we now have another car which my husband adores. I could tell it was pretty important to him.
So, one day we will just email only and not talk. I have suggested we live in separate houses but he said that was a bit too remote.
I mean, if we lived in separate houses I would have to make my own cups of tea.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Ages ago I did this post here about paying my son to squeeze a pimple.
I swore I would never do it again.
Sadly, I caved in.
Paid my son $10 to get a very angry pimple on his face.
Fool that I am.
Although part of the deal was that if it was still there the next day or two I was able to have a second go at it. The $10 include that as part of the verbal contract.
I need to work on resisting before I become poor.
Teenagers tend to have more pimples than I can pay for.
Monday, June 28, 2010
I bought a premade lasagne.
And a premade garlic bread.
A premade soup.
When I went to pay for it at the checkout I felt more embarrassed than if I had been buying condoms and hemorrhoid cream. I felt like a very bad and lazy mother (despite having worked all day etc..) I felt a teeny bit vindicated by the fact the food was organic, preservative and colour free.
But, you know, sometimes, just sometimes I just do not give a shit. Well, not that I don't give a shit but it is hard work being a perfect person and that is what I do when cannot reach the benchmark I have set.
Anyway, I got home and heated it up and presented it rather untidily onto a plate before getting changed to go and do exercise outdoors in the freezing cold.
After my son ate it all in a flash he said "that was great, you should not cook more often".
Why do I bother.....
Today we sold it. It sat looking very nice in the music room but was never being played. My husband has a baby grand piano and my son is not into the pianola. It took up so much space as it shared the room with the big piano.
So we advertised it on Ebay. It did not sell but after auction somebody emailed us about it, came and had a look and bought it.
I felt a bit sad about it really. The day the pianola was delivered to us after being restored was the day I found out that I was pregnant with my son. This was a big thing after having IVF and I always attach the pianola to that memory.
But, I have to be realistic. The memory is going to be with me irrespective of whether or not the pianola is in my home.
So, later on I had the following conversation with my son.
"Why are you selling it?" asks son.
"It takes up room and we never use it anymore," explains me.
"Oh, okay," replies son.
"You are not upset are you? Did you want to keep it?" asks me.
"No," answers son.
Mother, feeling a bit sniffy and sentimental then says.....
"You know, I feel a bit sad because the day I found out I was pregnant with you was the day we got the pianola."
"Yeah, well, you could have been eating a banana when you found out. What then? Keep all bananas from then on?" comes the reply from son.
"Well, no, of course not," I half laughed.
"Or stepped on an ant. Or eaten bread. Or picked your nose," he went on about a few more things I could have been doing at the time of finding out I was pregnant.
"Yeah, okay I am getting the reality check here thanks," I said, suddenly feeling like a sap.
Gee, nothing like a teenage boy to put sentimentality into perspective.
Friday, June 25, 2010
And went into the city.
It was raining. All day actually. I had my umbrella up a lot of the time when I was outside. It took a bit of a mental effort to get myself out of the house and out into the wet weather. However, once I jumped on the train it was obvious I needed to get out.
I went to the National Art Gallery where there were two major exhibitions on. But I did not feel like seeing either of them. I figured they could wait until another day. They were a bit crowded and I wanted my own space.
So I walked around to a few shops. Had lunch in an obscure cafe. I had soup which was lovely and hot. As I ate it the place filled with office workers. Men in their suits and ties. Girls in high shoes and fashionable clothing. It reminded me of the days when I was one of those girls. I felt a bit old but that was okay because, compared to them, I am.
There are two places where I love being on my own. The city and the beach. I love feeling isolated amongst throngs of people. Although, looking at these two photos you would think that nobody is in the city. The crowds are further in, past the river and in the business and shopping part of town.
When I am in the city I feel aimless with a sense of purpose. It seems contradictory but I enjoy walking around to some favorite places in an aimless sort of way. I allow myself to be distracted by what is happening around me.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
I turned to get something out of an in tray and there, on the desk, nestled under a bit of paper was a dead mouse.
I knew things were bad. Remember this post.
I could not remember the rest of the phone conversation and hung up saying "there is a dead mouse on my desk". The person at the other end of the phone must have thought I was a nutter. I got the computer guy to get rid of it. That is a man's job.
Now bossman is getting in the pest control.
Gee thanks. A mouse has to expire on my desk to get action.
However, I noticed the mouse was a bit flat and not just because he was sad and dead. Why was that? Did something sit on him. And, just how long had he been under that piece of paper? I had not touched it for at least two days as I was working on other bits of paper.
Was he on my desk yesterday and I did not notice? That is possible. Which is a bit awful in so many ways (messy desk, dead companion etc.).
I don't even eat at my desk so there is nary a crumb to nibble on.
It was totally gross. I should report it to HR but since that is me (as well as bookkeeper) there is no point.
Sigh. Poor mouse.
That was my day.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
I read a blog that is done by a life coach and he talked about sense of self.
When I think of it I just think it is about the things I do that give me a sense of self.
Work, mother, wife.
Is that my sense of self? Or is that a sense of duty?
Does the sense of duty give me my sense of self?
If I did not have those roles in my life would I have any sense of self or would I be aimless?
If you asked me to tell you about myself I would most likely tell you about my life, my son, my work, my husband, my hobbies etc. I would tell you things that are external to me and in my control. I doubt I would tell you about things that make me sick with angst. Or that make me lie awake in a silent night. Or things that make me cry in the shower so that nobody knows I am sad.
But those things have nothing to do with sense of self do they? Are they not just shit things? Or difficult things? Life things?
When I do this blog, I think that is about as close to a sense of self that I can show without absolutely squirming.
The whole thing about sense of self is always lurking in my head.
Is sense of self about freedom? Freedom of my mind. Freedom from responsibilities?
Or is it just accepting who you are and making the most of it?
Or seeing who you are and wanting to better it?
Not that it matters really.
Right now I just have a sense of awareness that I have no definitive sense of self.
I can make that into a project.
Working on finding one's sense of self.
Should take me no longer than, oh I don't know, no longer than a lifetime.
Not how they look, but how they feel on me.
I never wear shirts anymore. This is despite the fact I have some delicious shirts hanging rather forlornly in my wardrobe. Shirts make me wriggle. They touch my shoulders in a way that is different to a nice t-shirt. Kind of a crunchy way.
I like t-shirts. Long sleeved, short sleeved and three quarter sleeved ones. They have to be fitted but not too fitted or it annoys me. If they are baggy it annoys me. If the neck touches a certain part of my neck it annoys me.
Pants and jeans are another thing. They have to be tight but not too tight (reminding me of my body is a big no no). If they are too baggy then I can hear them swish when I walk and I hate noisy clothes.
Clothes that require thinking about to be able to put them on.
Clothes that dangle.
Clothes that have a distinctive smell about the fabric. Some wool is like that.
Anything that is scratchy.
Tags that tickle. I like to have tags on so if the tag tickles I won't buy the item.
Today I have particularly annoying cardigan on. For the love of me I have no idea as to why I bought it and while I actually kind of do love it there are aspects to it that go against what I want in clothing. It is grey and very loose and baggy with big baggy sleeves. It even has a faux fur collar (something I have a soft spot for is faux fur). It looks great. Really wonderful. However, it is for wondering around a park on a wintry day. It is a "walking around to look nice" kind of cardigan. It is an item that you do not want to do anything in. Apart from swan around and look cosy.
But, it was cold this morning and I wore it to work.
My day is now stressful. The sleeves flap when I move. They knocked off the paper from my desk onto the floor. It is just a flappy and annoying heavy thing. And as I only have a t-shirt underneath I cannot take it off as it is too cold.
It is so stressful wearing it that I have a headache thinking about it. And I can feel it on me. It is a bit weighty. Plus I can kind of see it when I move. Like a grey being moving in on me throughout the day.
Heavy, flappy, floppy and dangly.
And I still have at least five hours to go.
I may crank the heater up and then take it off.
Who would think a cardigan could have such an impact.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
I worked almost full time there. Doing books and setting up a monumental data base system that allowed them to ensure they were paid from the big mobile network company they franchised for. In between it all I was going through IVF and when that succeeded I worked until a few days before I had my son.
This couple were not close friends, they were work friends. The wife was about my age and her husband was at least 15 years older. He was a nice enough guy in his own incredibly rude and abrupt way. He was of the generation that you said things as they were which was fine by me as I find that quite refreshing (and amusing).
He looked a bit like Terry Thomas who was a terrific English actor from days yore. Mind you, he only looked like him, he certainly was not imbued with the gentlemanly and humorous charm of Terry Thomas.
He shared the same name as well. Anyway, he smoked heavily. And he also drank a few glasses of Scotch when he got home from work. In fact, both he and his wife were like that. It kind of intrigues me how a person could indulge in things that are bound to give you bad breath and yellow teeth. Let alone the health aspects of both.
So, he smoked and he had grey kind of skin and grey hair and a grey old fashioned moustache. He swore like a trooper and the more stressed he was the more often I heard the "f" word.
But at the core of him, he was a really good guy. Really very funny and a loving father. Can't say he was the best husband as he and his wife fought all the time when they were together. They must have gotten on well enough because they had three kids and were planning on another one.
He spent most of his time at a shop that also sold televisions and similar items. The mobile phone aspect came later on. The shop was in an older area and trams rattled past all day long and you could see them through the open door. Nearby was a tired old supermarket and some other obscure shops eking out a living selling bits and pieces.
Right opposite our shop was a milk bar. It kept a reasonable trade selling newspapers, milk, lunch items and bread. A couple of years beforehand it had been sold to a Chinese couple who were really lovely and gentle people. However, there was a bit of an ongoing issue between Terry and this couple on how to heat a pie.
You see, the meat pie is a bit of an Aussie icon. Most tradesmen eat one for morning smoko. My son would love to eat one everyday but since I am not an Aussie as such, there is no way that is happening. Unless it is a homemade meat pie.
However, I am digressing. A meat pie should be heated in an oven to enable it to be piping hot inside with a lovely, flaky and slightly crisp pastry on the outside. It should not be heated inside a microwave oven as it will just be limp, hot and soggy with not the slightest bit of flakiness in the pastry. Horrible.
Well, this Chinese couple who owned the milk bar just did not get the whole concept of how a meat pie should be. So when Terry went across the road to get a meat pie for lunch he would invariably come back with a microwave heated slop of a pie. It really, really annoyed him.
He would come into the shop saying something like "fucking pie" before throwing it into the bin and complaining for the rest of the afternoon.
On and off over a few months he tried to tell them how to heat the pie. Once or twice they agreed to crank up the oven and do the pie how Terry wanted it but the next day it would be back to the microwave and Terry would despair.
I could hardly blame them. It costs a lot of money to heat up the oven and that would eat up and measly profit they made when they sold it.
I often wondered why Terry continued to get his pies from there when it was obvious that the odds of getting a microwaved pie were extremely high. More intriguing was the fact that only a few minutes walk up the road was a bakery that sold very fine meat pies that were lovely and flaky straight from the pie oven. I did ask him and he said it was too far to walk....
So, this thing continued. Buy pie, come into shop, open bag and then say "fucking pie" before throwing it away and moaning about it. I used to tell him to get a salad sandwich or something instead. It was really funny.
However, one day it obviously got the better of him because he came inside the shop with the hot and soggy pie and was fuming.
"I have fucking had it with this. I am going to do something about it," he said and turned and walked back out of the shop.
I stood up and followed him to see what he had in mind.
He stood in the middle of the road. And I mean in the middle of the road with traffic passing.
He then yelled out to the Chinese couple in the milk bar to come out as he had something to show them. They stood at the door watching.
Then, he took the pie out of the paper bag and threw it with all his might up into the air at least twenty feet high. It came down hard on the road and splattered across like some sort of dead animal.
"That's what I think of your fucking pie," he yelled and then stormed off back into the shop.
The Chinese couple laughed and went back into their milk bar. A few other people just shook their heads and went on.
Then, much to my utter surprise, two days later Terry went across to the milk bar and bought a pie for lunch.
And it was microwaved.
All he said was "fucking pie". Only this time he took a few bites before throwing it into the bin.
I never really understood what was going on in his mind.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Tick and tock.
I picked up two new pairs of glasses this week. My usual script was updated and this time around I also had to get reading glasses. Yes, the age of reading glasses has arrived. I am short sighted in one eye and long sighted in the other. Not much, but enough to now NEED to wear glasses more often than not. I chose not to have bifocals because I like my reading glasses light weight and my other glasses more heavy rimmed.
Anyway, the other night I was sitting in bed reading with my new glasses and my husband came into the room and said something. As I answered him I did that thing where you look up and over the rim of the glasses. He stopped, stared and then said.........
"Oh, I really am married to a middle aged lady now."
And, lately , I have been feeling a bit middle aged. I know that forty is the new thirty and fifty is the new sixty. Or in my case, forty six is the new thirty six.
Well, I am telling you that it ain't so. Forty six is forty six. How one chooses to treat ones body is what defines what age we feel. But the fact is, no matter how hard I try, aging is happening. The external stuff I am fine with.
It is the internal happenings which annoy me greatly. The waking up to go to the toilet. The slowing down of the metabolism. The wearing of glasses more often. The great effort it requires to maintain fitness and good health. The semi forgetfulness. The intolerance. And that is despite being a patient sort of person.
There is, within me, a creeping general annoyance at the majority of the unknown portion of the population. You know, people kind of shit me. Not just anyone, but stupid people. Not unintelligent ones, just dunderheads and "know it alls". Not so much older ones but more often younger ones. In fact, I am turning into a bit of a grumpy sort. I don't like being told what to do at all. Or being "informed" about what is best for me.
I am feeling as though the world is constantly rehashing the same old shit and I am now hearing it for the tenth time. I cannot explain what I mean but it is all about the ongoing society education of the consumer.
Things like what to eat and what not to eat, what to wear, what to drive, what exercise to do, what not to do, what to think, how to bring up children, how to treat old people, what to buy, where to go. I am sure they have been talking about this stuff since the beginning of time and the older I get the more often I am hearing it!
Everything that was once "out" is now in and what was "in" is now out. In, out, in, out. Rehashing the same old, same old.
In Nature, the changing of just those four seasons year in and year out is bliss but in society the changing of everything only to have it repeated five years later in a better looking shape just does not have the same feel about it.
Not only that, my husband went through this and, being ten years older, tells me it gets worse.
I think this is happening to me because I am living with a teenage boy and everything is new to him. And he loves it.
And I want a taste of that newness.
Sigh, I may go shopping. Get something new.
Monday, June 14, 2010
When I was growing up I always used a boring old steel can opener. Super basic. Clip onto the side of the can and then twiddle the knob. For years this cheap type of can opener was just fine. Then my younger sister bought me a Tupperware can opener about three years ago. I would not be lying if I said that every time I have to open a can I am unsure about how to use this new fangled opener. I have to stop and think about the process. It is great - once I work it out that is. Now, this either suggests that you really cannot teach and old dog new tricks OR that I don't eat much out of cans.
Actually, as I write this I realise that the problem is that lots of tins of food are now using ring pulls to open them. Oh, no, this is terrible. The skill of opening a can with a can opener is becoming a dying art now. I am slowly forgetting how to use any can opener. But doing well with ring pulls.
Socks and undies. The other day my son paired socks in exchange for some Xbox time. Well, I had to unpair most of them because he just randomly just put them together with no thought as to whether or not they matched. Then when I confronted him he said "well, you better remember that next time you ask me to pair socks". I know that old trick. My husband uses his colour blindness to avoid pairing of socks and also poo patrol. Why poo patrol? Because he cannot see the brown barker's eggs against the green of the grass. I don't know. It just seems that I am being given a bit of a story line here.
Also, yesterday I baked some apple and zucchini muffins in an effort to be a bit more healthy with baking. They tasted great. Even I ate one. My husband ate one. Then my son said he really could not eat them as there was no chocolate in them. He did not even know about the zucchini! Although, I do have to confess, the wholemeal flour did make them a bit time consuming to eat.
So next time I bake I am making him choc chip zucchini muffins and I will use wholemeal flour.
I am getting those veges into him one way or another.
If there is one thing I love it is a fine wooden box with bits in it.
This one is not very old. Maybe about thirty or so years. Made in India and has a lovely patina to it.
I love the rudimentary carving and decoration in the paper holders on the underside of the lid.
The lift out tray is lovely and I have put my jewellery in there for now. Bits and pieces of sentimental tat that I wear. Nearly all silver as I don't like gold very much.
It has a slide out "secret" piece of timber under which I can hide my stash of what? Love letters? Money? Both? Mmmmmmmm.
Plenty of room for things I treasure and of that I have loads. Things that are of value to me only I suppose.
However, I must make mention of the fact that the box was very smelly inside. It smelt heavily of pot pourri which is fine in small doses but I think this had it stored inside for a long time.
I gave it a quick wax (the swipes you can see under the light of the camera) but I do think it will be a while before the smell dissipates.
I was so pleased with the box.
It filled with with that "ownership" thing that I love when I collect something.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
It was about a man on the stairs.
Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish, I wish he’d go away...
When I came home last night at three
The man was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall
I couldn’t see him there at all!
Go away, go away, don’t you come back any more!
Go away, go away, and please don’t slam the door... (slam!)
Last night I saw upon the stair
A little man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
Oh, how I wish he’d go away
I must have been young enough for it to have made an impression because it frightened the life out of me.
Tonight I heard one line of it on television and that creepy feeling came over me.
It was written by William Hughes Mearns.
Funny how things stick in your head.
Reading it again reminds me of how scary I found it.
It came in a box.
Which was full of bits.
Initially I assumed that my husband would put it together. However he had to go out for a couple of hours so I did the job.
It took just over an hour and was a bit fiddly.
Thank goodness for the numbers and well labelled bags with all the bits in them.
Got my easel now.
I then spent some time pottering around in the messy room of mine where I can leave everything as it is when I have had enough.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Or they need an upgrade. Server needs looking at. Back ups have to be checked etc.
We use the services of a computer guy. And we have been for years and years. It must be at least ten years.
Started with one computer. Then another. Along came a server and now we have six computers and remote access.
Over the years he and I have built up a good relationship. I would consider him a friend and in fact, three years ago, he and I did a fun run together.
We talk a lot about food. And weight. And calories. And exercise. And other stuff.
He has seen me lose a lot of weight, change my exercise habits and continue this disciplined way of life for years.
We have swapped healthy eating tips, email calorie counters and links to other fun runs. It may sound boring but we like it.
He has an issue though. He loves food. Has second helpings. Eats big serves and once he told me that he ate during the night without recalling it.
He exercises a lot but in life there comes a point where the body says "dude, I cannot burn up any more calories so you are going to carry them instead" and he reached that point a few years ago and carried more weight than he liked. He looked fine but I suppose he did have an extra layer. Not just that, he had a fatty liver so there is a health issue here as opposed to a vanity issue.
Now, when a person can no longer eat what they want it takes a long time to get your head around it when you have a delicious relationship with food or emotional one as well.
You think of eating more protein or drinking more water or eating calorie negative foods or drinking detox juices or taking laxatives or just trying to increase your exercise regime to burn of extra calories. You just deny the fact that you can no longer eat what you want if you want to keep you weight at a healthy level. And there are books around that promise you can eat what you want and never put on weight as long as you do blah blah blah. I mean, we all know what an industry it is.
Whatever. At the end of the day there comes a point where you really have to have a long hard look at what is going in. You just have to have a serious lifestyle change, accept your body shape and get on with stuff. Set the bench mark to a reasonable level as opposed to a super model or uber athlete level.
I am not saying it is easy, I am just saying that is what has to happen if you want some level of success.
Well, yesterday "puter guy came into work do to some things.
He said something me.
"Linda, I have finally connected the brain to the reality of what I have to do to lose weight and it is working. I have lost five kg's", he told me.
"Really? What is it that you did?" I asked.
"Well, you know. I drink more water. And, well, I am actually eating less," he told me.
"That helps. The eating less certainly helps," I replied with a laugh.
"Yes, yes, but the brain has finally accepted it," he admitted.
Then he went on to tell me he no longer has second helpings or snacks in between and he feels good about it all and is no longer obsessed with eating.
It is great when the penny drops right where it should.
No matter how long it takes.
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
Or loading them up to Facebook for my family to see.
Now and then I come across some unexpected treats I had missed.
Like this little home video from 2007 that my son made.
It made me laugh.
The things that children do when nobody is watching them.
Monday, June 07, 2010
My husband found these photos packed away in the garage.
I loaded them up to my Facebook for a little bit of retrospective fun. Then I thought they were worthy of a blog post.
So, even I have to admit that I was a bit of a babe at age eighteen. Although, at the time I did not think so.
Looking at these photos and seeing the girl that I was makes me think "yeah, that's me" but there is no feeling of wanting that youth again or to be in that place.
I suppose that is because I am kind of happy right where I am today.
Thirty odd years later.
Sunday, June 06, 2010
He is a geek. Nerd. Whatever you want to call it. He like books. His Xbox. His computer and just hanging around at home.
It never bothers me as I am the same. Although I do exercise more but that is because I am motivated and interested. At my son's age (almost 13) I can tell you that I was into books, comics and television. Had there been a computer on hand I would have been into that as well.
This bothers my husband. In his day he was out riding his pushbike. Making billy carts. Walking around the streets. And into his music.
It has been an issue on and off about our son. Not for me because my son is actually very much like me so I really get where his head is at a lot. My husband says things like "S is not into anything" or "Other people's kids do things with their fathers" or "S should be out more".
I say to him that it does not matter. That S will find his way and do his own thing and it will have nothing to do with what his parents were into at his age. It will be his thing.
Today I said to my husband to take S out for an hour. The discussion came up again. K did not know what to do. Where to go.
"S is not into anything," came the comment. I asked my husband if it would bother him less if S read a book for three hours rather than play Xbox. He admitted it would be preferable.
So, I just said to S to go for a walk with his dad. Get out in the fresh air. Off the Xbox for a while. Take the camera I said as they left.
Off they went. For an hour. And when they came back S showed me the photos he had taken.
The side of the local pizza shop where he gets his pizza on a Friday night (fat food Friday).
A banksia flower against the sky.
The street where they walked. Quiet on a cold Sunday afternoon.
The view between two autumn leaves.
Leaves on the grass.
The rear entrance to his high school.
The same spot but minus the gates. He walks through here each day to get to school.
A photo taken crouched down in the middle of a quiet side street.
The sky in grey.
The sky in blue.
What do you think?
Does my son seem to be into nothing much?
I think he is into lots.
He is just not into what everyone else is.
Just into his own thing.
That is what counts.
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
Mother to son: "Do you have any homework?"
Son to Mother; "Nope."
Mother to son: "Do you have any homework?"
Son to Mother: "Nope."
Mother to son: "Do you have any homework?"
Son to Mother: "Nope"
Mother thinks son is forgetful or lying. Prefers to think he is forgetful as all parents are in denial about their children being bare faced liars.
Mother to son: "Are you sure you have no homework? Maths? English? German?"
Son to Mother: "No I haven't. I did it at lunchtime."
Mother thinks son is dreaming if he thinks she believes him.
Later on Wednesday evening just as son is going to bed Father informs Mother that son did not hand in German homework LAST FRIDAY and now has Saturday detention.
Mother says Father will have to handle that one because she will be at the hairdressers on Saturday.
Son then informs Parents that if he hands it in Friday he will not have to do detention on Saturday. Lucky for him that teacher is giving him a chance.
Later Mother goes to talk to son about homework and other life responsibilities and also to inform him of punishment for not doing homework. Mother is very shitty at son for not doing homework and now she realises, again, that she is going to have to read the riot act more and more as son gets older.
Son then comes up with long and convoluted bullshit story as to why he did not do the homework.
Mother rolls eyes and tells son to stop wasting his breath.
LC (aka Mother)