Once Upon A Time There Were Three Beautiful Girls Who Went To The Police Academy

In our house we have back-to-school season. All three of the gals start their various school activities in a stagger - first SGK last Wednesday, then Self yesterday and YHWH on Thursday.

The first step, of course, was the annual school supply odyssey. Mid-July of every year the big box retailers close out the flip-flops and inflatables and concentrate all the school supplies for one stop shopping. At least that's the theory. There's always one specific item you can never find. Sometimes they forget to put the kleenex over there, or if they did put it there, they have a bundle of three 150 count, but you're supposed to get two 225s. Or they only have the .5 oz glue stick, but you're supposed to get the 1 oz. A sane and rational person would conclude that you could get two 100s of something instead of a 200, but that person has obviously never spied the look of anxiety in their child's eyes as thoughts of being the only kid in class who brought undersized gluesticks race through their minds projecting the year-long horror of seeing their name Sharpied on the tubes lying unused at the bottom of the community supply cache to be opened only in case of an emergency.

The other part of Supply Day is the ritual selection of the backpack and lunchpail. I myself looked forward to selecting a new lunchpail (never lunchbox by the way) every August almost more than I anticipated my birthday. I lunched in the Aladdin era, just after the introduction of plastic Thermoses to replace the glass-innard ones, but before those stupid soft puffy plastic ones they have now. The ones I remember were GI Joe, Six Million Dollar Man, Charlie's Angels (rowwwrrr), Land of the Giants, and in 1977 I got one that had all the NFL helmets on it - AFC on one side, NFC on the other. It was the bane of my year, though, because the Seattle Seahawks and Tampa Bay Buccaneers had switched leagues that season and my lunchpail did not reflect that. It drove me crazy. I must post about the reason I only ever took my lunch to school and avoided the cafeteria. Anyway, I was sure the Killer would take forever, but she gravitated immediately to her new backpack. There was no other backpack for her. This was it. She was sure. She was even willing to shun Hello Kitty, Bratz and Barbie lunchpail and get a generic one so that it would match her backpack. Here it is:









That is so SGK.

So, Super Giant Killer started last week on half days. Her sister had the same teacher SGK is getting this year. The Self was miserable with Ms. Legend as a teacher and said she was mean and grabbed kids by the neck or yelled at them for no reason. I'm not positive, but I think I remember Tex's eldest had the same experience. So, I didn't want to poison the well, but I tried to prepare SGK a little bit:

"Now, your new teacher is very serious, but if you behave and do your work, there won't be any problems."

She shrugged her shoulders and said, "I heard she was mean, but I can handle you, Dad, so I know I can handle her! In fact, you and Ms. Legend make a much better couple. So, if Mom can find a cute guy, you can be with Ms. Legend." She basically called me mean and ugly in the same sentence.

So on the first day, I told her if she jumped up and got dressed I would take her to Dunkin Donuts for breakfast. Actually, what happened was a week or so before her first day, YHWH and I worked out the transportation issues and since YHWH was not back to work yet, she was going to take SGK to school. Then at bedtime the night before, YHWH says, in front the Killer:

"Don't you wish you could take her to school on her first day?"
I felt the rush of rush of emotion flow through me like syrup and cola at a soda fountain - Bad Dad Cola and Backstabbing Wife Strangle Syrup.
"Well, maybe if I you had told me earlier I could've made arrangements at work to be late..."
"You've known when her first day is for months..."

I really wanted to blaspheme the Holy Ghost and invoke half of the seven words, but instead I was inspired (maybe by the Holy Ghost) to reply, "Well, since you probably won't be ready to leave on time, I thought I would take her to Dunkin Donuts before school to celebrate! How 'bout that Killer? Huh? A little Double-D to kick off the year?!"

She selected a Marble Frosted and we got YHWH a giant iced mocha (see, I'm forgiving). On the way back the Killer said, "I think they made a typo on the menu. It should be maple frosted."

She seems to be loving school so far but she misses her best friend from last year (Gouldie's niece) who didn't end up in her class.

Soon, I will relay the first day of High School. You won't want to miss it. I wish I had.

Ooh La La

Super Giant Killer has been obsessed with France ever since her french grandmother died six months ago. She could tell you Marie Antoinette didn't really say, "Let them eat cake." She wears a plastic pouch with a saint card of Joan Arc dangling from a lanyard around her neck. She winces when she tells how Charlotte Cordray stabbed Marat in his bathtub. She can speak a handful of phrases. She even knows about the bourgeoisie and the Third Estate. She also knows that on December 3, 2007 she will be going to France for a month because our neighbor told her Paris has the best New Year's celebration in the world. She wants to get there early so she doesn't miss any of it. But this all has to stop. I've been letting her grieve in her own magnificent way but that ends today. Today she came in and said, "Dad, look at my new baby." Not something any father wants to hear but there are enough dolls around that I didn't panic, but this new kid is it; she's gone too far. Here is the bouncing baby boy...















My grandson, the Eiffel Tower.

Well the pax didn't hold for long upon our return. YHWH has been struggling to get through to the latest crop of frosh who she claims are greatest proponents of dullardry since her institution was founded. So I happened to see that the latest Time magazine cover story is about the multitasking generation. Generation M. It talked about how they do homework, IM, burn CDs, and Google their friends simultaneously. Asked how can these kids' brains do this multitasking, the nation's leading neuroscientist says, "They can't." It's not multitasking it's sequential processing. They're simply prioritizing tasks and performing them in a way that seems like multitasking. The result is that the more things you do at once the less quality of output. They're also being trained by their gadgets to think in ways that make the gadgets more efficient rather than the other way around. Apparently this isn't Luddite thinking or reactionary parent-talk; there's nearly a hundred year body of literature based on studying factory workers and soldiers, etc. So I start telling YHWH about this and in about the time it takes to IM a zit-stricken multitasker The Self starts slamming doors, crashing dishes, muttering loudly, crying, you name it, before stomping off with a final door smash. So it was a nice week while it lasted. Back to the old grindstone. My new grandson will NEVER be a multitasker! I swear on Marat's grave!

TODAY BY THE NUMBERS
New grandchildren: 1
Cups of coffee: 2
Incense sticks burned: 3 (cedarwood, pine, Tibetan lotus)
Sinks unclogged: 1
Episodes of Sopranos watched: 1
Slices of pizza for lunch: 3
Comments on BananAppeal: 2
Shifts on desk: 2