Note: My son discovered the auto-play function on my daughter’s electronic keyboard. So please know that everything in this post was typed to the beat of something reminiscent of a 1982 “Key Party” playlist. I didn’t realize “Porno Tunes” was included when we bought this machine at a garage sale, or I would have paid more handsomely for it.
Oh, wait; he’s just found the “Great Aunt Ethel’s Funeral” button. Annnddd… now it’s birds chirping and I think some kind of a fart noise?
Boys are fun. I wrote about raising boys at iVillage this week; have a read:
Other things using up real estate in my brain this week include:
I got my final student loan bill in the mail, and it’s equivalent to the Gross Domestic Product of a small but developing second-world country. I’m trying to not think too much about it, and for now I am just letting it sit, untouched, on the growing pile labelled “SCREW IT” on my desk. This is not a whining post – I went in knowing full well there would be money to re-pay, and that’s cool. It’s just hard seeing it in one firm line of print, and hey, maybe a $10 Tim Horton’s gift card in the envelope would take some of the sting out, just sayin’, Government of Canada.
The loan amortization period is 10 years, which means this loan will be paid off the same year my son will start University. (Unless he doesn’t go; I’m thinking of letting him pursue the hobo lifestyle he enjoys so much, but I’m leery about all the train-jumping. And the possible sunburn during seasonal fruit-picking. Also, too many plums give him diarrhea.)
Being a caring parent is hard.
I used to enjoy hearing a kid sing now and then. I’ve been to my share of choir recitals and Christmas Concerts to know that they’re not all bad. But YouTube, The X Factor, America’s Got Talent, and Please I’m Begging You Get Me Outta This Hellhole Indiana Town and Into Hollywood – all those type shows really – need to share the blame. So I just wanna say thankssomuch for making the previously angelic sounds of children singing now make me leave the room in disgust. I don’t care how nice your voice is, how well you hold a note, how varied your range can be: if you are not at least 18 years old, I do not want to hear you singing about how love “done you wrong.”
I do not want to hear you singing at all.
It starts in less than 2 weeks and I am positively tingling with the prospect of future facial hair. There’s nothing I love more than a beard or a mustache and a certain someone has promised to participate again this year. If you’re a fellow pogonophile, maybe you’ll like my Pinterest board dedicated to the beauty of facial hair.
They are driving me nuts this week. There must be some sort of Air Duct cleaning quota to fill because the calls have been relentless. I don’t have call display, so I have to answer the phone every time it rings. I know if I just let it ring it’ll be an emergency cheeseburger invitation so I’m kinda stuck with this here.
I’ve put my name on the do-not-call list, but it’s not working. So, this week, ala Jerry Seinfeld, I’ve taken to dealing with telemarketers in my own way. Here are some tweets about it:
…signing off now to a nice electronic ragtime rhythm….
How was your week?