Not Dead, At Least . . .

. . . although I feel like it.

With Helen confined to a wheelchair while we wait and wait and wait and wait for the stupid receptionist at The Doctor to schedule an appointment for her with a neurosurgeon, I am seeing her nearly every day, doing all her grocery shopping, and generally commiserating.

I also baked her a cake, which turned out to be a hideous mistake.

Since she usually bakes for everybody, and often, I thought perhaps she and her husband might be having withdrawals, so I threw together an apple cake. Apparently no one has ever baked anything back at her, and it took her by surprise.

I don't do emotional scenes well. Even the happy kind.

It was just a cake. A doctored mix, no less.

Meanwhile, the moon is full and The Boy is hiding unfinished schoolwork in his desk.

"It's boring."

"It's dishonest."

"It's stupid."

Can't argue with that -- and what is a "number sentence," anyway?

Yes, I know REAL sentences have nouns, verbs and punctuation, and that is math, but you do not argue with your teacher.

And please, stop solving for x. Just add and move on.

Oddly enough, his teacher has not made the connection between his new round of troubles and resentment and the fact that she moved him into a problem table that was talking too much and needed to be seperated.

"What's the story with the new table? He doesn't seem to feel comfortable with the move."

"He seems to enjoy it when he's here. He talks to everyone."

"That is the mean table, Mommy. Everyone there is mean."

Six and a half more months of this.

Which brings us to the Cub Scout Front.

I am the original, anal-retentive, control freak Type A personality. I am the sort of person who will eventually be hit by a bus, lay bleeding on the pavement with actual bits of bone protruding through my skin and insist to the nice paramedic that no, really, I'm fine, nothing I can't handle, and try to drive myself to the hospital.

I had -- had -- a stack of fliers Professional Boy Scout gave me featuring upcoming scouting events (including Rocket Camp, which I am looking forward to just for an excuse to blow things up). When another parent offered to photocopy the fliers for me to distribute to the members of our pack, I clutched them in my hot little hands and thought, "No! MINE! I'll do it!"

Instead of acting on that impulse, I decided that Cub Scouts should be fun.


Everyone should have an opportunity to contribute, and if this parent wanted to help, I should restrain my Type-A-ishness and cooperate and share.

You know what's coming next, don't you?

Said parent vanished immediately. His spouse reported that he was sent to Beaumont to help with the hurricane recovery and hasn't been heard from since.

No sign of the fliers anywhere . . .

** sigh **