6:30 A.M.  “Simon, I need those turkeys!  The Cavendish’s and Stewart’s are coming this afternoon for our harvest dinner, and there you sit with your pipe!  And Eliza Cavendish said she heard from a really reliable source that Massasoit may show up—bringing about ninety of the Wampanoag tribesmen.  Good grief!  Can you imagine how much they’re going to eat?  Simon, I don’t care.  I know your musket isn’t as good as James Stewart’s, but you’ll have to deal with it.  And see if you can get some swans, geese, and partridges.   Massasoit will bring the venison.  Really–do I have to do everything around here?”

8:00 A.M.  “Jacob and Rebecca, I want you kids to go to the root cellar and load up a peck of onions and three or four cabbages.  Oh, and see if you can find the wheat flour and the Indian corn—I think the sacks are in the back left corner.  I’m going to whip up a few quarts of furmenty for our dinner.  What do you mean, it looks and tastes like library paste?  Yes, I know the root cellar is dark and icky.  Here—take this candle.  Hurry!  Help your mother!”

8:20 A.M.  “Where are those two kids?  Teenagers these days!  No sense of work ethic.”

10:00 A.M.  “OK, let’s review the menu.  We’ll have wild turkeys, venison, swan, partridge, cod, herring, and eel.  Check.  Thank goodness it all tastes like chicken.  Then, I’ll bring out the squash pudding, the dried strawberries, and the furmenty pudding.  Check.  Oh, and corn on the cob.  I don’t want Squanto to show up and get ticked because we’re not having corn.  He gets so easily offended….”

11:00 A.M. “Jacob, Rebecca, Nathan, and Ezekiel, I want all of you kids to set up trestle tables outside.   And place a grouping of pine cones and a pumpkin on each for decoration.  Tilt the pine cones just like this.  Well, we can’t have plain tables now, can we?  I know, I know–that’s what my neighbor Julia says to me all the time.  I don’t know what she means: ‘You are soooooo Martha!’   Who’s Martha, anyway?”

1:00 P.M.  “I’m having a fashion crisis.  Shall I wear the black dress with the white collar, or the gray dress with the white collar?  The white cap with the two tucks in the front, or the white cap with the three pleats?  Hmm, let me check my backside.  Does this dress make me look fat?”

3:00 P.M.  “Welcome, King Massasoit!  Oh, how nice of you to bring me a hostess gift.  Uh, do fish heads go with pinot noir or chardonnay?  I do what with them?  Place each one in a mound of dirt with my seeds?  What for?”

7:30 P.M. “I can’t believe I ate so much!  And look at you, Eliza, so slim and trim.  Oh, you’ve been on a diet?  Fantastic.  What are you doing?  Oh, counting carps.  I’ll have to think about that and see if it works for me. . . counting carps.  Seems simple enough…wait—there are good carps and bad carps?”

8:30 P.M.  “What a wonderful day this has been.   Eliza, I have a great idea—let’s do this again next year.  We could call the celebration ‘Happy Harvest’.  You think that sounds stupid?  Well, what about ‘The Time of Blessings’?  Too long?  Ok, how about ‘Thanks Giving’.  That has a nice ring to it.  Well, happy Thanks Giving, Eliza!  Now, let’s get to those mugs and porringers—they won’t wash themselves, you know.”

            My son comes home from school last week and announces that he has to create a “body box” for seventh grade biology. 

            Let me explain the concept.  The student must create a likeness of the human thoracic cavity inside a three-sided box.  I’m dismayed.  I’m an English teacher; my husband Scott is in business.  We are out of our league!

            “So, Jason. . . .”  I say one day when he gets home from school.  Jason ignores me as he digs out four pieces of bread and begins massaging massive globs of peanut butter onto the bread.   I wave the biology assignment sheet at him and ask, “Where exactly IS the thoracic cavity and what’s in it?”
“I uh-no,” he says, thick with peanut butter.  “I think your heart and lungs and stuff are in it.  I just know the teacher said we could go to a craft shop and get junk that looks like our heart and lungs and put them in a box.  It’s supposed to look like our insides.”

            How encouraging.  Jason and I must go shopping for “heart and lung stuff.”  We’re doomed.

            The next day, I get on the internet and research the thoracic cavity.  I learn that  “. . . the heart and lungs are situated in the thorax. . . the heart lies between the two lungs, and is enclosed within a fibrous bag, the pericardium.”  More foreign terms swim in front of my eyes: the Longus coi muscles, the vagus nerves, the abdominal viscera, the diaphragm, and the sternopericardiac ligaments.

            You know, there’s a reason I stayed clear of the “ology” classes as a kid.  I don’t know how my body works or what’s in it.  I nervously print off pictures of any body parts I can find from the internet.  I dig up old Reader’s Digest articles entitled, “This Is Joe’s Heart” and “This Is Joe’s Liver.”

            The next day Jason and I go tripping through Hobby Haven.  We have exactly forty-five minutes to find “heart and lung stuff” before we head to tae kwando.  We look like Peyton Manning and Tom Brady sprinting down the aisles of the store, tossing potential organs into our cart.  Hmmm….this artificial eggplant sort of looks like a liver.  Toss it in.   Could this rust-colored yarn be manipulated into Longus coi muscles?  You bet!  Toss it in.  And these long, white glue sticks?  Yep, you guessed it—ribs.  The pile in the cart grows as we toss in pipe cleaners, plastic tomatoes, Play Dough, and glitter–just for good measure.

            My husband is assigned to be the project assembler, and Jason will “help.”  It is the night before the box is due.

            Somehow Jason avoids any work on the box.  Dad comes home at 10:30 that night, after a long business dinner and even longer social hour.   I’ve painted the interior of the box a garish flesh color.  A pile of would-be organs spills onto the kitchen counter.

            My husband blows up a red balloon, draws four chambers on it, and tapes it into the box.  Voila!  The heart.  He wires in kidneys, muscles, ribs, and even a spleen for good measure.  By 12:30 a.m., the body box is done.  Is it anatomically correct?  At 12:30 a.m., who cares?

            The next day the three of us rush to school and excitedly set up Jason’s box.  We sigh with relief–it doesn’t look too bad!  We glance at the row of projects one table over.  There’s Tyler’s project.  Tyler’s body box has a pulsating heart, flowing blood, and expanding lungs.  Scott and I crawl away from school, cursing Tyler’s mom, the cardiologist.

            The next night at dinner, Scott, Jason and I hash over the fiasco.

            “Well,” says Scott.  “Did you learn anything from this project?”

            “Yeah,” replies Jason.   “I learned that next year, we outsource this!”

            My husband and I are in a crisis mode because we are about to become empty-nesters. We sit in the family room, ponder, and polish off a couple of cool ones.

            “I’ve heard that Serenity Lakes Adult Community has a great golf course.  They even have a Seniors jazz band and couples bunco.  What do you think—should we move?” Scott asks.

            I’m a LOT younger than my hubby—by at least two years.  “I think we should take the young-and-hip route instead,” I reply. 

            The next day Scott and I purchase matching Ed Hardy hoodies and low-rise Lucky jeans.  I color my grays, sign up for Facebook, and slide on a toe ring.

            “Hey, we should also think about taking ballroom dance lessons,” I say to Scott.  “It’s good for our minds and bodies.”   We had been watching “Dancing with the Stars” for weeks.  I could just see Scott in his tails and me in a strappy chiffon peach number.  Of course, I wouldn’t look quite the same as the sweet young things on TV.  There might be extra flesh amidst the peach chiffon.

            “Hey,” replies Scott.  “Couldn’t I just do that colonoscopy you’ve been nagging me about?”

            We end up at a ballroom studio nearby with spiffy new dance shoes on, ready for Lesson One.  We know we can do this!  After, people teach circus bears to dance.  Why not us?

            We start off learning a basic foxtrot, with B-B-B-Bing Crosby crooning “Harbor Lights” in the background.  It’s going great!  “Slow, slow quick-quick. . .” Scott whispers romantically in my ear. 

            Suddenly, our dance instructor is beside us, clapping his hands sharply in exasperation. 

            “No!  You do not lead by grabbing the flesh on your wife’s back and pulling!  Lead like this.  Your whole body.  And pull your carriage UP.” 

            We work on keeping our upper bodies “up.”  Soon, we look like dancing bears, but with good posture.

            We learn next how to navigate an outside turn. 

            “Again.” encourages the instructor. “Again.”

            Our cool new dance shoes have footprints all over their tops. My pedicure is shot.  But, we complete a perfect turn.   Encouraged, we try it again.  Halfway through, my hair gets caught in Scott’s watch band.  I come to a screeching halt mid-turn and yelp.

            I couldn’t make this stuff up.

            The instructor comes running over to us and carefully untangles us. We pick up the shreds of our dignity, a few shreds of my hair, and continue.

            Fourteen weeks later, Scott and I are in the thick of cha-cha lessons.  The cha-cha dance is full of precision, passion, and attitude.  The attitude I’ve got.  Scott and I rename ourselves Edwardo and Chenise.  I buy sparkly spiked red dance shoes, while Scott tries to grow a debonair mustache.  I offer him my eyebrow pencil to help the mustache situation.

            The cha-cha turn is a sharp pivot, completed in about one second.  In the midst of “Bailamos” by Enrique Iglesias, Scott raises his arm to signal my turn.  This move translates into a swift left hook to my jaw.  We can hear the “whap!” all over the dance studio.  The instructor runs over and checks for blood.

            Scott and I both start laughing, because the Three Stooges couldn’t have orchestrated this any better.  Then, he frowns, “You need to pay attention and follow my lead!”

            “You call THAT a LEAD???” I toss back.

            Week twenty-four.  The samba.  Edwardo and Chenise are still at it.

            When it comes to dance lessons, my mother was right.  She used to say, “Divorce no, murder yes.”

            It’s the day after Halloween.  I wander out to the mailbox, chip off some dried eggshell, and prop my mums back up.  Moving back to the front porch, I sweep up one pound of fluorescent pink silly string.  Who knew Halloween could be so fun?

            The Halloween fun actually begins two days before the big holiday.  My son decides to prepare his Halloween costume—he will be the infamous “Hamburgler”.  “How cute!” you think.  “The little tyke is planning for the big day.”  Actually, the little tyke is six foot one and shaves.  He fails to realize that Halloween is on October 31^st—much like the prior year, and the prior, and the prior.         

            So, my tyke and I go motoring off to the nearest party store.  We see cashier lines fifteen people deep and empty racks that, at one time, held ghoulish costumes and monkey heads.  Despite these challenges, my son finds a black gaucho hat, cool black gloves, and a vampire cape.   Not surprisingly, the black and white striped jail shirts and pants are sold out.  These, of course, are integral to the Hamburgler look.

            Now we run next door to a discount store.  We need a white shirt and pants!  Also, a red tie embellished with hamburgers is a must.  Brooks Brothers, perhaps?  I doubt it.

            Here is the next day’s scenario.  Back to the discount store.  Buy black electrical tape.  Tape stripes on the white shirt.  Run out of tape.  Back to the discount store.  Buy black electrical tape.  Tape stripes on the pants.  Need white ribbon trim for the gaucho hat.  Back to the discount store.  Buy white ribbon–plus two really, really cool skulls with red flashing eyes.  Get out to the parking lot.  Remember black mask.  Back into the store for a mask.  Repeat for several more hours.

            Finally, Halloween night comes.  I excitedly place my gruesome skulls on the front porch.  My “spooky noise machine” is the piece de resistance—it emits low groans and soulful wails.   Next, I race upstairs to don my costume.  I transform from Mom to a Grecian goddess, complete with gold snaky arm bracelets and a laurel wreath.  I line my eyes with a flair that would make Cleopatra jealous.

            The big moment comes!  As the doorbell rings, I grab candy and chips, assuming a goddess-like pose.  One little bumble bee stares at me and cries, “Eoooooowwww!”  A fairy princess asks me, “Are you being a witch for Halloween?”

            The next three hours roll out like this.  Take a bite of navy bean soup.  Run to the door.  Assume goddess stance.  Hand out candy.  Eat some candy myself.  Pick up silly string.  Run back to my soup.  Run to the door.  Eat more candy.

            And so it goes.  Is it Thanksgiving yet?

       I consider myself very young, but I must admit I’m having grandmotherly feelings.

            I’ve tried to squelch these feelings.  I’ll be shopping at All-Mart and a gooey-faced two year-old screams nearby.  I still want to be a grandma.  I head to my sister Linda’s house and help with baby Sean.  Despite messy, odiferous diapers and an occasional surprise shower, I still want to be a grandma.  As I throw canned beans in my cart at the supermarket, I hear a pre-schooler with spiky blonde hair whining repeatedly, “I want Reece’s Pieces!  I want Reece’s Pieces!  I waaaaaant em’!!”  No good.  I still want to be a grandma.

            One Sunday my husband Scott and I are walking our golden retriever pup around the neighborhood.  Miss Penny Lane prances down the street—she has a new pink scarf and she’s lookin’ good.  It’s at that moment that The Great Thought comes into my brain.

            “Scott!  I’ve got it.  Let’s dress Penny Lane up for Halloween and go trick-or-treating.  Wouldn’t that be fun?  Just like having our own grand daughter.”

            We make a beeline to downtown Somervile in search of a doggie Halloween costume and perhaps some moose-tracks ice cream.   It doesn’t take long to scout out a pet store.

            Inside the store, Scott and I paw through canine costumes.  Should Penny Lane be a ballerina in a pink net tutu for Halloween?  No, too sissified.  How about a pirate?  I think a bit.  The eye patch could be problematic.  An inmate?  No, horizontal black stripes are not slimming on any female.  Finally, we find the perfect costume.  Miss Penny is about to become Luau Dog.

            The night before Halloween arrives.  Scott and I put on “Last Mango in Paris” by Jimmy Buffett and excitedly rip open the costume packet.  We pull a pink flowered lei around Penny’s neck and snap a Hawaiian shirt on her body.  We tape a glow stick onto Penny’s tail for safety’s sake.  Her plastic orange pumpkin is ready for Halloween loot.  Scott and I run upstairs.  He throws on a 1970’s toga left over from rambunctious college days.  I don my Grecian goddess white tunic and flashing orange pumpkin earrings.  We are ready to do this!

            We head next door to our first victims.  I heft the forty-five pound luau baby up to the doorbell and press it with the dog’s paw.  Little Stacie, Jeffrey, and Jack run to the door, shouting, “Miss Penny!  Miss Penny!”  Miss Penny gets a chew stick and a squeaky bunny.  On to the next house.

            The night continues.  I’m in a magical, grandmotherly haze.  After ten houses, the toga man, the goddess, and luau baby arrive home to check out the loot.

            What a haul!  Miss Penny has gotten three chew bones, a squeaky bunny, a furry Kermit the Frog, pink dog biscuits, a green tennis ball, a rope pull-toy, a pink flowered dog collar, a Giants dog scarf, and a banana.  I dump the contents on the floor and say to Penny Lane, using my best school-teacher voice, “Now, you can pick ONE treat tonight.”

            Penny looks at me coyly with her almond-shaped black eyes.  She waits two seconds and lunges at the entire pile, gobbling everything in sight—both edible and furry.  In ten minutes, she gets a glazed look in her eyes and deposits recycled treats onto my kitchen floor.

            I think I’ve gotten my grandmother fix now.

Oh yeah--I DID know better!

I’ve been around the block of life a few times–well, at my age, quite a few times.   So, you’d think I would learn from life’s bumps and scrapes.  Oh no.  I continue to amaze myself at the silly things I do.  I should know better.

            One day I’m reclining in the dentist’s chair, with a probe, suction hose, explorer, mirror, curette, and sickle in my mouth.  My dentist says to me conversationally, “So what’s new with you?”  I cease my handkerchief-wringing long enough to reply, “Mwf!  Blowfmr weltkj wekupn qunk kewk rgkhuo wjetr srllgk.”  Now, I know my dentist has taken “Advanced Veneers”, “Zoom Whitening”, and “Gingivitis, Our Enemy” as just a few of her graduate school classes.  What I don’t know is that she has also taken “Dental Chair Mumblings.”  She has clearly heard me say, “Man!  Your stylist really got your hair red this time!”  Suddenly, she is staring at me, tapping her foot and brandishing a very sharp syringe quite near my face. 

            A few days later, I’m cruising through town in my 1965 Mustang convertible—it’s a beautiful, mid-life crisis red.  I’m feeling cool, feeling sassy.  I see that the highway patrol has stopped a poor soul by the side of the road.  I blurt out, “Woo-hoo!  You’re in some kind of trouble now!”  Both men turn to glare at me.  A few days later, on Sunday morning, I’m squirming in the pew, looking around—taking inventory.   I catch the eye of the man I had “Woo-hoo’d” just two days earlier.  I beg to be swallowed up into the earth’s magma layer.

            Then there’s the time I run into my son’s school to grab some PTA information.  No one will see me this early.   My hair looks like an alfalfa field rototilled by the finest Kansas farmer.  In fact, the band Kiss will want to get my stylist’s name.  I’ve got a few crumbles of yesterday’s mascara on my left cheek, while the Heartbreak of Psoriasis is emerging on my chin.  I have on a baggy sweatshirt that says “Mom,” accompanied by jeans that are ready for high tide.  White socks and Teva sandals finish the ensemble.  As I sneak into school, I run into the PTA president, four teachers I know, and the principal.  As I sneak out of school, I run into the district superintendent. 

            One day at the local supermarket, I’m tossing bread, chips, and soda into my cart with a speed and accuracy that would make Dan Marino jealous.  I reexamine the can of baked beans I had so frivolously tossed in, look around furtively, and stick the baked beans next to a box of cake mix.  I turn around, and there stands the supermarket police—a boy of about fourteen, with fuzz barely discernable on his chin.  He sternly marches me back over to the canned goods aisle.   I meekly replace the beans and slink out of the supermarket.

            Clearly, my learning curve is not very curvaceous.  Is there hope for me? 

            I don’t know.  I think I’ll just open up my mouth, remove my foot that’s in it, and put the other one in.

It’s 5:30 A.M.  About 2,800 of us huddle under the overhang of a building at UMASS.  A light but determined rain makes the forty-five degree temperature seem about thirty.

I lean against the wall of the building, sipping coffee and eating a banana.  A stream of pink flows in every direction—pink hats, pink walking shoes, pink hoop earrings—even pink headbands with fuzzy flamingoes perched on bouncy springs.  My stomach gurgles a bit uneasily as I contemplate the two day, forty mile walk.  Would I wake up in my tent on day two with a mass of aches and screaming arthritis in my left knee?  Would my feet be a morass of flaming blisters?  Worse yet–would my mascara run?

7:00 A.M.  The opening ceremony is brief but emotional.  We learn that as a group, we have raised $6.7 million for breast cancer research and assistance. 

This is going to be a GREAT walk.

7:30 A.M.  The long pink stream of walkers eases forward, winding along the Charles River.  After mile five, my tennis shoes and socks squish water with every step.

8:45 A.M.  I peek out from my dripping pink ball cap.  A large van drives by, strewn with assorted lacy pink undergarments.  Volunteers lean out the windows, wave pink pom-poms, and cheer, “Come on, ladies…..it’s a wonderful day to walk!”  I feel hope drifting above the surrounding drizzle and grayness.  A few blocks later, families huddle under umbrellas by the side of the trail, cheering and handing out cereal bars.  One lady, her bald head shining under her ball cap, claps for us and cries, “Thank you for walking for me!”

This is going to be a GREAT walk.

2:00 P.M. Three rest stops and a hefty sack lunch later, I experience a new highlight of the walk: one of the Harley-Davidson biker guys who directs traffic for us.  The man has stood in the rain for hours, with drops rolling off his well-formed biceps.  His pink dew rag is soaked; pink poppet-beads glisten around his neck.  The man’s nearby Harley is adorned with more pink underwear.  Each biker guy, the epitome of eye candy, smiles and flirts with us shamelessly.  “Ladies!  How are you doing?  Keep it up!”

This is going to be a GREAT walk.

4:30 P.M.   We approach our camp for the evening.  My friend and I–mummies covered in rain-slicked Gortex–bat our soggy eyelashes at the “tent fairies”.  It’s a miracle—in our disheveled state, we can still flirt.  The tent fairies assemble a two-person home for us.  I step back to view the large open field.  The five hundred tents look like tiny blue dots on a green flag.  After a hot meal of lasagna followed by a yoga class, we stagger into a long semi truck and ease into hot, steamy showers. 

9:00 P.M.  One of us is snoring.  A small pool of water collects in the center of the tent.

Day two–8:00 A.M.  Thirteen miles left.  Piece of cake!  I have on fresh walking shoes, three pink leis, and a sparkling pink tiara over my ball cap—accoutrements from day one.

12:00 P.M.  I pass by a group called Men with Heart.  They walk with us, handing out bandages, pain relievers, and most importantly, chocolate!  Would I walk forty miles for chocolate?  Sure!

12:30 P.M.  It’s the last six blocks.  Male volunteers in pink togas with incredibly hairy legs cheer us on.  A man in running shorts jogs by us, screaming “Only six blocks!”  We enter into a roaring tunnel of clapping, cheering family members and friends.  My friend and I can-can and cha-cha down the tunnel in a state of true Nirvana.

Forty miles never felt so great.

            It was a great weekend! 

            On Saturday, I shoot hoops with my son Michael, the basketball bouncing into scattered piles of leaves.  He skillfully performs a lay-up to the hoop, and it’s in!  Victory shines in his thirteen year-old eyes.  My status moves from that of a parental unit, homework-checker and ATM to that of “Dad”.  It doesn’t get any better than that. 

            Later that night, my wife and I share a wonderful New York strip steak dinner with friends that go back twenty years.  My steak drips with a delicate bourbon sauce, and the crème brulée is crunchy and creamy.  Heaven in a cup, I call it.  Thank goodness calories never stick on a Saturday night. 

            Sunday I bound out of the house dressed in my spiffy new black running tights and jacket trimmed with red, reflective Gortex.  I jog along Hillcrest road, breathing in the sunny crispness that hints of a coming spring.  I ignore the little hot spots creeping all over my left foot.           

            Monday morning comes with an annoying 5:30 “beep beep beep” of the alarm clock.  I stagger downstairs, only to find that some fool forgot to set the coffee pot the night before.  The pot stares at me blankly, cold and empty of the liquid gold I want.

             At 6:40 I’m on I-78 heading east.  Actually, “heading” is a bit of an exaggeration.  I inch forward a few feet, pick at my cuticles, and peer in my rear-view mirror.  A huge semi truck is five feet behind my ecologically small car.  One good sneeze from the truck driver and I’m an ecologically flat pancake.  The driver honks at me impatiently.  “What?!” I scream inwardly.  “All lanes are packed.  Where are you gonna go??”  I pass the time by watching the sea of eastward-bound humanity around me.  The guy next to me in the black BMW is pecking at his BlackBerry as well as reading the Wall Street Journal.  Yes, but does he own a cool black and red jogging outfit?   There’s a lady in front of me working a Soduku puzzle.  Man, it’s a big one and she’s almost done.  I guess she’s already put on her mascara.

             I’m at work now, taking a circuitous route to my hamster cage so my manager won’t know I’m fifteen minutes late.  I quickly stir up the papers on my desk, scatter pencils, turn on the computer, and grab a large file folder so I look like I’m on an urgent mission.  I get diverted a few seconds by Jim, the accounting analyst in the cubicle two doors over.  He wants to tell me his latest joke: something about a dog named Sonny, a Big Mac, and the Kansas University basketball team. 

             Onward to the cafeteria.  My left foot’s hot spots have turned into three screaming blisters.  A muscle in my right posterior tweaks every time I take a step.  Funny—I never knew I had a muscle there.   At last—a big cup of steaming hot coffee and a bagel.  The day is looking up.

             Back in my cubicle, I start on the day’s project—3^rd quarter goals.  The hot java surges through my veins.  Maybe Monday won’t be so bad after all.  I bite off a big chunk of blueberry bagel and enthusiastically key in data into the goal software system, aptly named “Achieve It!”   “Fatal Error!” the system retorts back to me.  I sigh and look down at my bagel—the only redeeming aspect to my Monday right now.  I look again.  One of the blueberries is wriggling.  It looks like it’s doing the backstroke.  Hey, that’s not a blueberry.  And it’s only half of—

             Ya gotta hate Mondays.

            The kids in New Jersey have been in school for several weeks now.  And so, it all starts.

            “What starts?” you say.

            The chaos-and-grumbling episodes start.

            You first notice that your son’s backpack is expanding like a container of Jiffy Pop.  A sour, musky smell wafts out.  Against your better judgment, you dump the contents. You discover a ten day-old container of banana yogurt, vibrant with moldy blues and greens.  Next, you pull out tightly wadded-up gym clothes, red plaid boxers, and one aqua sock with lace on it.  Boxers?  Whose boxers?  And, more importantly, whose sock?  Then, you hit the mother load.  You find a pile of mushy notes in the bottom of the pack—from teachers, the PTA, and assorted girls.   Note One: you have missed a vital PTA meeting regarding gift wrap sales.  Note Two: you have missed a vital PTA meeting regarding the content of hot dogs in the school cafeteria.  Note Three: Mrs. Harding, your son’s seventh grade teacher, states: “Please note: Jason has received five yellow tickets this week.”  “Is this good or bad?” you wonder.  Note Four: Mrs. Harding regrets to inform you that “. . . Jason is not working up to his potential and is extremely social.”  That’s news?   Note Five: Lorie writes, “I heart you!”  Note Six: Stacey writes, “I heart you!”  Ok, Lorie and Stacey, back off.  Go “heart” some other kid.  This is my son you’re talking about.   You decide that ignorance is indeed bliss.  You dunk the morass of notes into the trash.

            Next, the grumbling begins.  One morning, you visit with Jason as he eats his lovingly-prepared oatmeal and scrambled eggs.  Between mouthfuls, you hear it from your son.  Boy, do you hear it.

            “I don’t know HOW the school expects us to get up so early and function properly.  Don’t they understand that we teens have special circadian rhythms?  We need to start school at ten o’clock!  And HOW am I supposed to survive on a slice of pizza, limp broccoli, and canned cling peaches?  I need some decent brown rice to properly bulk up for my weight training.  And this homework load!  What’s up with this busy work?  Quadratic equations?  WHEN am I going to use that in my REAL life?”  

           Jason starts to rev up like a preacher at a Wednesday night tent revival.

           “And you know what?  My science teacher actually took off seven points on Friday’s test because of SPELLING ERRORS.  Spelling isn’t supposed to count in science class!  And did you know that we have to build a bridge that weighs only 100 grams?  But it has to support 100 pounds.  This is ridiculous!”  Jason finally takes a breath.

             He should become a Shakespearian actor.

            “When is the bridge due?” I calmly ask the Drama Queen.

            “Thursday,” he whines between gulps of apple juice.

            Oh, great.  Today is Tuesday.  So it begins.