How Lovely. You Must Be So Proud.

At Christmas, I am, against my will, chatting with a loser {and it takes me a LONG time to declare someone an 'untouchable.'  Trust me on this one, she defines the word 'yucky.'  No worries on her reading this and getting offended because, as you will see, reading clearly is not her forte.  It may not even be a skill she possesses.  On some level this makes me really sad, on another level she is so past creepy that I simply don't care.  And it kills me to say that ...  And, besides, she found NOTHING odd or shameful about this conversation.  Months later I STILL feel dirty from it.  But, I, well, have standards and dreams for my boys (yes, even the one in utero -- with as much as he wiggles, I am guessing trapeze artist).  


{Small sidebar:  Boys, if I EVER have this conversation or one akin to it with anyone, expect a bill.  I am keeping (or will keep, once I get organized) a running tab of the salmon, spinach, DHA-fortified milk and bok choy that you have eaten on my watch.  If you turn out to be idiots, I ASSURE you, you will get a bill for all the brain food that I clearly wasted my money on.  Backdated.  With interest.  Loan-shark-esque interest at that.  Don't say you weren't warned}.


Feeling much better for having released that threat to the universe.  


This is the conversation:


me: "So how is your son?"  {This poor kid has lived with God-only-knows how many people and has been taken away by the great state of Texas.  Twice.}
loser mom:  "Good.  He's 19.  I think.  Maybe 21"


{How the f do you not know how old your child is?  And not even to the nearest year?  Honestly, this is how he ended up like he did:  his mom thinks (and, yes, I use that word loosely) he might be 19 or 21?  "Well, I think it is an odd number, could be prime, might be divisible by 3...."  What the hell is wrong with you, lady (yet another term I use loosely}.


me: "How lovely.  What is he doing now?"
loser: "He is thinking about going back to school and getting his GED."  (And, yes, I get the irony of leaving to school to go back to school to get a piece of paper that says "I dropped out but might be functionally literate nonetheless.  Please hire me.")
me: "Of course he is.  How lovely."


{Has anyone else ever noticed that every drop-out is simply "too smart for school" according to the parents?  I will admit it here and now:  I will refuse to accept/admit/acknowledge the fact that my kids are morons even if it is blaring in my face but, seriously, explain to me the logic in the statement "He was too smart for school.  The teachers were jealous of his intellect.  So he dropped out."  


Honest to God, I know a LOT of smart people and some downright brilliant people and somehow they all managed to graduate from high school.  Without fanfare or major cause for celebration.  Just a piece of stale cake and a pat on the back.  


Not that I am bitter, I don't really think high school graduation requires some kind of major hoo-haw or three-day pagan ritual celebration.  It is HIGH SCHOOL not NASA's astronaut program, for crap's sake.


And, please fortheloveofgawd, I am begging you NOT to tell me one. more. time. "Bill Gates dropped out of school and look where he is."  


1) he willingly left college, not the 8th grade  
2) he left Harvard rather than being booted out by the Pigsknuckle Public Education System 
3) not to be too much of a statistician, but Gates defies all odds on many levels 
4) if your kid ends up as Bill Gates (or even manages to stay out of prison), I will personally tutor him to get his GED (and I loathe tutoring, especially tutoring morons) and, finally,
5) post hoc, ergo propter hoc (correlation, not causation for those of you who did not take Latin or a half dozen logic classes).


Yes, I realize that that was a really long non-sequitor and you have my apologies.  But, once again, it is my blog so nanner-nanner-nanner if you don't like it.  It is funny and free.  Back on task now.}


In case you don't recall I am standing in a kitchen, wishing I were anywhere else, talking to a loser.


me: "What does he plan to do for a job?"
loser:  "He feels like he has three choices."
me:  "How lovely; options are good.  And they are?"


And I SWEAR TO YOU, I am NOT making this up.


loser:  "Rodeo clown.  Professional wrestler.  Porn star."


{I have a frighteningly long pause with, I fear, my mouth ajar}


me: "How lovely.  You must be so proud."