Stuff I Am Digging:

- Navy blue nail polish
- Cookies off of the roll (This one is actually a shocker, as I am something of a homemade cookie purist who collects only the best cookie recipes and normally would not dream of tasting some lesser, crappy, processed cookie; but damn, my mom whipped up a batch of said crappy cookies and they are oddly crispy and delicious.)
- My well-worn Tegan and Sara t-shirt, which I have decided to wear for the rest of my life
- BB King and Muddy Waters on the iPod before I fall asleep
- Generic Dollar General coffee, which is much stronger and more flavorful than most crappy generic coffee (my tastes have become amazingly lowbrow in my state of brokeness)
- Wallowing in my mild state of depression rather than Trying To Analyze It All/Worrying That It Will Get Worse/Being A Big Bitch
- The J-Man’s brand spankin’ new school supplies. I love new school supplies. Untouched markers! Mechanical pencils! Composition books! These bring out the geek in me.

Stuff I’m Not Digging So Very Much:

- The fact that we have to put thousands of dollars that we don’t have into our old house before we can rent it out again due to a hole in the roof that has utterly hosed the entire bathroom.
- Lethargy
- Laundry (see Lethargy)
- The book I’m supposed to be writing that now contains exactly one chapter
- Fucking fleas
- The fact that this season of So You Think You Can Dance is over, therefore my life has no meaning
- The fact that I have not done one abdominal exercise in over three weeks (see Lethargy)

And with that, laundry beckons.

Happy Tuesday.

My stepdad sings that song just to irritate the J-Man. As you can imagine, it goes over really well.

There are two days until school starts, and my eager and happy morose and moody child is thrilled to the gills angry as hell to re-enter the hallowed annex of learning chamber of torture.

I have to admit I’m approaching this school year with a little trepidation myself. With last year’s bullying problems and poor grades, I can’t say I’m anxious about the eighth grade.

We did have a great math tutor over the summer and worked on building better study skills, but I wonder how much of it he really and truly absorbed.

I’ve also been giving near-daily lectures on how to better get along with the kids and better deal with the somewhat sizable population of ill-bred little asshats who torment him, but I do realize that his knee-jerk reaction is to either yell something sharp back or to wind up in the nurse’s office, vomiting.

Oh, the vomiting.

He’s lost 19 pounds since December, probably much of it due to the vomiting, and while his doctor is thrilled and I’ve been somewhat proud myself because he did certainly have extra weight to lose; part of me also worries that he lost most of it in an unhealthy fashion due to this nervous stomach problem.

Over the summer he’s been OK, for the most part. I think he’s thrown up twice or three times. Still, school approacheth, and I wonder whether this year is going to echo last year with its pitfalls and problems.

All I can do is advise and hope for the best.

Now that he’s a slimmer J-Man, he wants to wear skinny jeans. Have you seen these on the rocker boys? They look utterly ridiculous, like women’s jeans, or the popular yet stupidly named “jegging”. I broke down and bought him one pair, but I think they look crazy. Your thoughts on the male jegging, if you please. I think the tight-ass pants should best be left to Mick Jagger, Steven Tyler, and men of their ilk.

In other news, football season is almost upon us, and I could not be more thrilled. I am getting so sick of baseball and our sadly mediocre Sox that I could spit, and while I am attending one more game this year which I will wholeheartedly enjoy, I am enjoying the football preseason and watching our Bears knock the shit out of some folks. Soon, my beloved Notre Dame will be out there, getting the shit knocked out of them.

Why am I a Notre Dame fan? Because I enjoy the abuse. Bring it.

In still other news, We have a mysterious flea outbreak – mysterious because our cats do not ever, ever go outside. Ever. None of them have ever escaped, not even once. How then, have we contracted fleas? Are the little fuckers getting in through the screens? Is the J-Man bringing them in from someone else’s home? Am I a dirty person?

It mystifies me. So far they seem to be contained to the basement (lucky me), but I am covered in little red welts, and so is J. We are very snackable, apparently. I have dosed the cats with Frontline and am almost ready to treat the scruff of my own neck, so frustrated am I.

I have managed to hide all of this from my stepdad so far, because if he knew, Catmageddon would ensue, and the offending beasts would be tossed out into the cornfield.

(Yes, there is a cornfield behind my house. I am country now.)

In still other news, I called child support today for oh, the forty-fifth time this year and was told that they do have a lock on The Shit and that I should be receiving regular money soon.

And the people rejoiced.

He’ll probably quit his job again, but maybe I’ll get a couple of months out of him.

In the final news of the day, today’s nail polish is navy blue. I think it’s quite fetching.

The final news of the day was anti-climactic as hell, but what do you want? I’ve become boring and passe.

Happy Monday.

Attitude is the hallmark of the teenager. I get that, I really do. As someone who used to stomp around in Doc Martens in a surly manner, smoke cigarettes far before she was legally able to, and practically practice her scowl in the mirror, I get the attitude. It’s also not lost on me that I am being punished, punished for my previous life as a rotten teenager by having to deal with the crabbiest of them all – the J-Man.

I don’t know whether this kid is having hormone surges, whether he’s become schizophrenic, or whether he’s possessed by a creature named Zuul, but I’m pretty much ready to pick him up by the scruff of his neck and toss him into the driveway with nothing more than a couple pairs of shorts and a toothbrush (not that he would use it without complaint).

Apparently it’s cooler to let your teeth rot out of your face than to brush twice a day.

This grosses me out more than I can say.

So, attitude. There has been so much eye-rolling that I am quite sure his eyes are in no way attached to the sockets. He cannot possibly have any muscle or nerve fiber in there, so free-moving are his eyeballs. And while I have somewhat gleefully imagined that one eye would actually roll right out onto the floor during one of his dramatic displays, it hasn’t happened yet.

It will, though. Oh, it will. And I will be there to catch it and grin my mofo ass off.

There is also an inordinate amount of sighing, so much that I fear he has become either a wheezing asthmatic or a closet smoker. “J-Man, log off of the computer.” Heavy sigh. “Take a shower.” Sigh. “It’s time for dinner.” Sigh, exuding all the pain of the ages.

With all this sighing and moaning going on, you’d think I was running a nursing home.

All of this is annoying, to be sure, but it pales in comparison to the Gods and the Mahms (Here in the Midwest we don’t say “Mom”, it’s “Mahm”).

“GOD, MAHM, I’m logging OFF, OK?”

“GOD, I took a shower YESTERDAY.”

“MAHM, I was JOKING.”

“GOD, Gramma, I only spent ten dollars on XBox points. Just take it out of my bank account.”

“MAHM, stop talking about school!!!”

It’s the GODs and the MAHMs that are killing me slowly, one snarky little razor at a time.

I do see small windows of hope. Sometimes he comes and sits with his head on my shoulder and talks in a normal tone of voice, and sometimes over breakfast while we are reading the paper he asks intelligent questions and doesn’t act like I’m a complete moron. Sometimes he hugs me for no reason at all, and sometimes I catch a glimpse of truly stunning character.

Sometimes, though, he is a stinky little crabmaster.

I hired a math tutor over the summer. I did this both because I am mathematically retarded and because, well, he wouldn’t bitch and moan so much if it was someone else.

I lucked out and had a friend recommend a remarkably empathetic dude who is into both video games and Star Wars and pretty much won the J-Man over like *that*.

Still, when Dude is gone and it’s just the J-Man doing homework, you would think he was undergoing Chinese water torture with the moaning and the groaning and the sighing and the GODs and the bitching and the occasional “This is stupid!”s and the general raincloud flying over the basement table.

It makes me insane.

I know he’s thirteen, which is a miserable age, and it’s not like I expect him to be Mary Freakin’ Poppins, but a little bit of levity in this house would be BEAUTIFUL right about now.

Attitude, begone!

In other news, we had to evict the tenant from our old house for non-payment of rent – two months and some change non-payment. My mother, who did not do a background check and who did not let it bother her that this woman had neither a checking nor savings account, let her slide for a while because her union was on strike, and was entirely too nice.

As a result, she never paid us a dime, and also refused to sign a paper saying that she owed us money, and also didn’t leave her forwarding address. So there goes THAT money.

That wasn’t the worst of it, though. We walked into the place after she’d moved to find that the light beige carpets were covered in mud spots, and that she had tiled the bathroom and the back hallway with some cheap, crappy, chipped tile, forcing us to do the job over. She also put up some ugly wallpaper in the bathroom and painted (badly) some dark stripes on the walls that took about three coats of white paint to cover, so we are talking days and days of work to fix all of this bullshit. My mom and I spent the weekend there, and there’s still a long way to go.

I guess we definitely learned our lesson as far as doing a background check and a credit check and specifying in the lease that no shitty home “improvements” should be made, but my mother is stressed out beyond all reason and I just wish this wouldn’t have happened.

Remember the Kid From Down The Street? The bane of my previous existence? He still lives there, and was overjoyed to see the J-Man when we came out this weekend.

I won’t lie, that little fucker must have gained fifty pounds. I’ll bet he weighs a good one eighty, and he is SHORT. He’s only eleven, and it’s just a dirty shame.

I would also like to report that he still smells like dirty socks.

The unfortunate thing about this is that now the J-Man is RE-obsessed with hanging out with this kid (I wish to GOD I knew why), and cannot understand why he can’t spend the night at our house.

People, it just isn’t going to happen. My stepdad is fully aware that he once broke our WALL, for the love of Jesus, and he would no more have him in our house than invite the local biker gang over for high tea.

My stepdad’s memory is long, and it bears grudges.

I can’t say I’d be thrilled to have him either. I still can’t get the funk of forty thousand years out of my nose.

Anyway, to get back to the attitude, we’re all absolute fascists for failing to let his beloved friend (you know, the one that he’s made no effort to contact in over a year) come on over.

And I’m a particular bitch for letting this all happen, because as his mother I should rule the roost.

Yeah, that’s certainly the case.

In still other news, today I am going back to my roots, at least what I *think* are my roots, with a dark blond conditioning hair dye. Gotta take a break from the bleach. I’ll let you know how it works out, as I know you all must be terribly excited…

Happy Tuesday.

The heat is never, ever going to break.

I know it’s only in the nineties here, and everyone who lives in Godforsaken Texas or some other Southern state is going to immediately jump on my shit and say, “Well, it’s a hundred and ten here,” but y’all can kiss my Midwestern butt. The humidity here is like eighty-five percent, and I am from lily-white and delicate stock who was meant never to see the sun’s harsh rays.

So, there’s that. Poor Jen has to go outside to smoke cigarettes in the burning, nasty heat. Poor, poor Jen.

There is also this: I hate people whose personalities drastically change for the worse when they drink.

When drinking, I become more animated, definitely more talkative, and much less shy. I think that these are good things, although I probably can get a little “Fuck yeah!” annoying. Still, I’m a happy drinker. I don’t get morose or moody.

I have this friend, Julio. We frequently meet at the local watering hole for beers and bullshitting, and he’s an extremely nice guy. Likeable, fun. However, if he has a few too many Bacardi and Cokes, he becomes a crabby, aggro son of a bitch. If his girlfriend doesn’t show up by the end of the evening, he either gets morose and maudlin, or he hits on me.

This weekend, a few of us went to his place after visiting the bar, his girlfriend included, and he lit into me about the way I dress (apparently too “dark”), and at one point, told me to shut the fuck up.

I was livid.

I don’t buy the excuse “but I was drunk”.

I was an asshole, but I was drunk.

I grabbed your butt, but I was drunk.

I beat the shit out of someone at the bar, but I was drunk.

I got into my car and killed someone, but I was drunk.

It’s hooey, as far as I’m concerned, and I think it’s just part of one’s underlying personality that emerges when drunk, not some rogue character trait.

If you can’t handle your liquor, don’t drink.

I hate a mopey drunk as well. Good Lord, Sad Sack, suck it up.

I find that there are an alarming number of drunk drivers at the local watering hole, which disturbs me beyond reason. They’re mostly young kids who probably think they’re infallible, and I have to admit that I used to feel the same damned way; but Lord, it scares me as I watch them stumble away from their seats, keys in hand.

I haven’t been honestly drunk in a while. I drink two glasses of ice water per beer and only indulge in the occasional shot of Patron, so generally I’m good to go, and a large Gatorade before bed means I’m fine by the morning. I highly recommend this practice, even for heavy drinkers.

If you’re going to drink, drink smart, folks.

I’ve had a lot of people bitch and moan at me for drinking while on seizure meds, and to them, I say, Screw Off. A: I have never once had a seizure while drinking, leading me to believe that if I became a functional alcoholic I would probably never have them, B: I only drink once a week, and C: I’m a grown-ass woman.

So, there’s that.

Then there’s this. All four of the cats have taken to sleeping in my room. As you can imagine, this creates some friction. My stepdad’s crabby-assed cat growls when anyone comes anywhere near her on the bed, and hey, it’s only a queen-sized bed; and first there’s me and my favorite, the twenty-pounder. There’s not that much real estate.

I tried locking them all out one night, and they actually pounded on the door for a solid hour with their paws or possibly their hard little heads. I had to let them in.

Again, poor, poor Jen is so put upon, poor Jen who gets entirely too much love from the family pets.

Poor Jen.

If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be off hanging streamers for my pity party.

Have a wonderful day.

OK, first, can I talk about Monday night’s Sox game?? My friend Poppy generously gave us four tickets, 13 rows behind the DUGOUT for Christ’s sakes, and LORD, I will never be able to stomach sitting in the cheap seats again.

It was so great to actually be able to see the game, and it was a great game indeed, with the Sox taking Detroit down 6 to 3, and even a couple of home runs from AJ Pierzynski and my future husband (once he leaves his current wife) Paulie Konerko.

The J-Man had a blast, and even though I had to pay $7.25 for my lone beer, I didn’t have to spend very much cash, because neither J or I are eating much these days.

Did I mention that the J-Man has lost eleven pounds over the summer? I’m so proud of my kid. He’s growing taller, too, so his once-sizable spare tire is almost gone.

So, vacation. We drove the two hours to Indiana Beach in separate cars, my stepdad taking my sister and the two-year old, and my mom schlepping me, the seven-year-old, the five-year-old, and the J-Man.

People, I was in the crazy car. These kids knew every word to every song on the radio, and they sang LOUDLY. So did my mother. Since I am not a pop/rap aficionado, I was a bit out of my element, but the odd song came on that I did know, and I have to admit that I joined in the fracas.

We arrived to find a rather neat little three-bedroom cottage that was reasonably clean and close to the boardwalk. This is where the kids began to get batshit hyper. This is also where my main problem with the vacation began.

It was HOT. Not wussy little eighty-degree hot, but I’m-gonna-fucking-kill-you-dead ninety-nine-degree hot.

It was so hot that I saw a cluster of dead camels on the boardwalk.

I don’t do well with the heat in general. I’m not supposed to be out in the sun thank to my seizure meds and I already tend to pass out, so anything over ninety presents a huge gamble for me.

The first full day we were there we went to the beach. I coated myself liberally in waterproof, sweatproof SPF 100 and sat under an umbrella for eighty percent of the day, coming out only to ride the Lazy river for a bit and play in the sand with the baby. I still got burned.

You have to be one white-assed motherfucker to get burned with SPF 100, let me tell you. Even my kid, who is half Cuban and normally sports a lovely summer tan, got fried.

The heat didn’t abate during the evening when we went on the rides, either. Just stepping out of the air-conditioned cottage for a second was enough to make one break into a heavy sweat, and by the time we purchased our ride wristbands, we were all sticky and gross.

Now the J-Man is generally a wuss when it comes to rides. He won’t go on anything scary. He won’t go on anything that goes up high, or any roller coasters. I, however, am a ride junkie, and the scarier and higher and bigger the better. I love roller coasters with a passion, and if they go upside down, more power to them.

I figured I’d be alone in this, until the wee seven-year-old piped up, “I wanna go on the roller coasters.”

I figured she’d bail at the last minute, but I said, “I’ll go with you.”

People, this child had some brass balls. She went on all the roller coasters multiple times, sat in the front row, hands up, and barely even screamed. I was so impressed that I couldn’t believe it. The J-Man was so impressed (and a little shamed, I think) that the next day, he sucked it up and went on the big roller coaster, twice, screaming all the way.

One thing that we all agreed upon was that the haunted house was out. I will not go in any haunted house, no matter what, world without end, amen. I don’t like people reaching out and grabbing me, and I don’t like things touching my feet. I don’t like anything that requires a “chicken exit”, and I would not go near anything that would actually refund your money if you made it all the way through without pissing yourself/chickening out. Call me a big baby, I don’t care. Haunted houses are for crazy people.

My stepdad was actually pretty cool during this trip. He did yell at the kids quite a bit, but everyone was yelling at the kids quite a bit. If those kids heard “Sit down,” “Be quiet,” “Eat your food,” or “Go upstairs and play,” once, they heard it a hundred times. My sister, short on patience to begin with, was actually slapping kids upside the head by the last day.

It was interesting to notice people’s reactions to our racially mixed family. When you have three small black kids calling out “Grandma!” and “Grandpa!” to two very white adults, people take notice. I also noticed a lot of staring when I was playing with the baby on the beach. The “resort” (and I use that word VERY loosely) was highly populated by people of the redneck persuasion, and we got more than a few dirty looks and headturns.

I will admit that I wanted to start fucking with people.

“Oh my GOD, my baby turned BLACK!!!”

That probably wouldn’t have been nice.

In this area, a racially mixed family is so common that no one blinks an eye, but I guess down in Farmville, it’s an anomaly.

The heat index was 115 at one point, so I chose to forego the family activities and stay in the cottage and rest. This is when I found out why one doesn’t go out in the sun while on seizure medication, or at least I think this is why.

I was stricken by an attack of explosive diarrhea so bad that I really can’t even describe it, and you’re all probably glad that I can’t.

Let’s just say that I drank half a bottle of Immodium that day and leave it at that.

All in all, I had a pretty good time, in spite of the evil shits; and the kids had a blast. I just wish it could have been twenty degrees cooler.

In other news, I am no longer dating Guy I Am Dating. I know this is a huge surprise, as I go through men the way most people change the litter box. I did, however, meet a very nice guy on Saturday. He’s a Special Ed teacher, which of course is right up my alley, as I am a Special Person.

I kid.

Anyway, he seems extremely nice, he’s divorced, two kids which he’s taken to Florida this week, tall, good-looking.

We shall see.

I just wish they had a Judge of Character app for my phone.

Happy Wednesday.

Sounds like a stripper name, doesn’t it? Except it would be spelled “Summer Rayne”.

Anyway, the morning started out unreasonably hot and humid as I sat on the side porch smoking and watching the squirrels play tag, when all of a sudden one huge dark cloud covered the entire sky and it began to spit down rain.

I quickly ran inside and began my rain ritual, which is to grab towels and stuff them along the perimeter of my bathroom floor; since not doing so causes animals to march two by two into the basement and nobody wants to have to deal with camel shit.

Then, just as quickly as it had started, it stopped. It was a drive-by raining, if you will, and now I can see the last few drops dripping off of the orange tiger lilies outside the window.

I love little weather anomalies like that.

So recently, I fell off of the motherfucking treadmill. I didn’t pass out or have a seizure or anything, I just misstepped and fell right on my knees, and of course I didn’t have the little safety string clipped to my clothing so the motherfucker kept on going, ripping the skin right off of my knees and legs. Finally I was able to reach the idiot string and pull it, and my nightmare ended.

There was actual visible skin on the treadmill, people. It was seriously gross.

So now I look like a kindergartner, sporting these giant band-aids all over my knees and legs, and a few days ago the motherfuckers got infected, probably from treadmill germs, and green shit was involved (I spare no gross detail), and now I am pouring peroxide on those damn wounds like five times a day and using more Neosporin than anyone has a right to.

So let me just say this: Be careful on the treadmill. Especially if you’re uncoordinated like me.

I’m just lucky I didn’t skin my whole face off or something. And you can bet I clip that safety string to my clothes Every Fucking Day now.

So, there was that.

In other, decidedly less disgusting news, we have talked my father into coming and feeding the cats, hamster, and fish while we are on vacation next week.

To say I have trepidations about this arrangement would be an understatement. My father is not what you would call an animal person, and our animals are what you would call people animals. The cats and even the hamster like to be petted, and even the fish will swim to the front of the tank when people approach.

We live with some attention whores.

I wonder where they get that from.

Anyway, I think my dad thinks he’s just going to walk in, throw down some chow, scoop the poop, and boogie on out of here; and that, dear friends, will not be the case, for he will have four cats attached to his calves and a fat hamster in his hand.

My father, the stoic animal-ignorer, is going to have to dole out a little lovin’.

I’m still nervous about this vacation in general. I think my stepdad’s going to be a stressed-out maniac in the car with all the damned kids and a downright crabby grouch in the cottage with all the damned kids, thereby dampening our spirits (I love how a couple of you in the previous entry suggested I drink copious amounts of liquor, and John, pain pills are always good, but I can’t necessarily share…). He seems to have gained a modicum of interest in the trip, even checking out the website for the place, so maybe I’m just being paranoid. I hope so. I just know that historically, he doesn’t mix well with small children.

But then, neither do I.

I kid. I love those crazy kids like fire.

Lastly, I am without my iPod, Lamont Sanford, since I left him at Guy-I’m-Dating’s house over a week ago. Agony! Despair!

I sleep with Lamont every night, so this has been a difficult week. I can’t sleep very well without my tuneage, for Lamont doth soothe the savage beast that is my insomnia.

Guy-I’m-Dating lives sorta far, so we see each other only on weekends, and we didn’t this weekend, so no Lamont.

After another week of this, my eye bags are going to be hanging down to my bloody and bruised knees.

Happy Monday.

Wow, I disappear from the internet for a while, and everyone assumes I am dead. I appreciate your e-mails, calls, comments, and texts, but in the words of Pearl Jam, “I…oh…I…I’m still alive!”

To be honest, I just haven’t been online. I realize that this may come as a shock, as most of you probably were under the impression that I had a mouse surgically implanted into my hand. (I do, but I can turn it off with my pinky finger.)

It’s been relatively busy in the Trance house. The J-Man has been tearing in and out of doors, helping the kids in the cul-de-sac blow up the neighborhood with firecrackers, and making good use of the kid down the street’s pool; and B the cute geeky math tutor is coming twice per week to get him up to speed on all things algebraic.

I have been haunting the local bar, working out like a freak, and planning the family vacation that is approaching all too rapidly.

So here’s the deal with this vacation: We are renting a cottage at Indiana Beach (if you live in the Midwest, you’ve seen the commercials, which boast, “There’s more than corn in Indiana!” I disagree.), which is a couple hours away. This small cottage is going to house me, my mom, the J-Man, my stepdad, my sister, and all three of her children.

Scariest vacation EVER. For one thing, my stepdad hates children and cannot be in close proximity to them for more than fifteen minutes without yelling. For another thing, did I mention that this cottage was small? It is.

I’ve been going to Indiana Beach since I was a kid, and it’s kind of a good time for a kid. There is a beach (shocker) and rides and waterslides and a particularly scary haunted house and a big old boat to ride on and lots of junk food like elephant ears and chocolate-covered frozen bananas with nuts (mmmmmm) and an arcade, so I think the kids and myself and my sister are going to lose our damn minds, but I think that my mom and my stepdad are going to be crabby and tired and therefore big old Debbie Downers.

We shall see. My goal is to force this chickenshit J-Man onto a rollercoaster. This sounds cruel, but I just know that if he ever actually got on one, he’d love it, it’s just taking that first scary step.

I’m not above using duct tape, people.

I missed a large part of July fourth’s festivities, which included a parade and a festival due to a Very Icky Stomach, but I rallied in time to blow shit up in the driveway.

And isn’t that what it’s all about? Celebrating our independence by blowing shit up?

If you’ve been reading this page for any length of time, you know how I feel about fireworks. Stupid, expensive, dangerous, dumb-ass waste of cash.

Still, I have this thirteen-year old who LOVES to blow shit up, and when he looked at me with huge brown eyes and said, “Seventy-five percent off today,” I relented. So we bought some stupid fireworks, pretty benign stuff like the cones that shower pretty sparks and the little spinny ones and some smoke bombs (I was very firm – nothing that simply goes BOOM), and I let him light them with one of those long butane lighters as long as he wore his glasses and ran like hell after the wick was lit.

He did run like hell. I think he has a pretty healthy fear of the things thanks to my near-constant You Will Lose An Eye or Blow Your Arm Off speeches.

Let’s see, what else is new. I’m dating someone, and I’m not telling you all a thing. La di da di da.

More next time.

Happy Tuesday.

It’s come to my attention that my comments aren’t working… so give this a shot…

So, it’s my kid’s thirteenth birthday today.

If you’ve been reading me since I was attempting to get him to stop hiding his dirty Pull-Ups in his dresser drawers, this may come as something of a shock to you, as it kind of does to me.

Am I ready to be the parent of a teenager?

The teen-ager-ness has been slowly oozing out – there are six different kinds of Axe deodorant and body sprays in his bathroom, he wears contact lenses most of the time now, and his smart mouth is equal to or perhaps beginning to surpass my own.

Thirteen years ago, I held a slightly orange baby while slightly stoned on morphine. I looked down at his large eyes and face so like my own and thought, “Just what the hell are we going to do with each other?”

It’s definitely been a long, strange trip. From beads up the nose to toilet floods to wandering in the street while I lay passed out to learning to ride a bike to calling 911 on the neighbor kid to everything that’s come along with it, the J-Man has never provided a dull moment, save the times he’s been glued to the XBox.

Now that I think about it, there have been a LOT of dull moments.

We’ve discussed poop at the dinner table, mastectomies over breakfast, and menopause while getting ready for school. I think my child is the most well-informed person on the planet regarding the body and all its foibles and functions, thanks to this sick family.

He’s seen surgeries and seizures and has come out a strong child who is good to have around in an emergency and entertaining to have in a hospital room.

All in all, I’m proud of my kid, and I think he’s going to be a fine teenager, and a fine man.

I told him this morning that I would forgive him for being a smelly rotten teenager. He replied that he’d remember that when I asked him to start driving me around.

Touche.

A teenager. Sometimes before I go into his room to wake him up in the morning I still think I’m going to find a toddler in a bed with a rail on it, a chubby cherub curled up to one side clutching a blanket and an Elmo doll.

What a trip.

Please forgive me my little burst of nostalgia. My kid’s thirteen today.

Happy Monday.

Two more days until summer vacation.

Two more days until “I’m bored,” and “I have nothing to doooooo,” as a perfectly good bike sits in the garage and a perfectly good neighborhood with perfectly good parks remains unmolested by kids, who are consummate wusses and say that it’s too hot to go outside.

Am I wrong for telling my kid to suck up to the kids who have pools in their backyards? I think not.

I am Not Having an XBox addict this summer, nor am I having a child who bogarts my laptop. If I have to pick him up, carry him outside, and lock him out of the house, I will do it. If he wants to stay inside, I can find him plenty of chores to do.

Like cleaning the toilets. Or scrubbing out the oven.

Perhaps he would like to give me a pedicure, too.

Yes, folks, this summer I am Not Fucking Around.

The J-Man is also going to have to see a math tutor this summer, much to his chagrin, because another thing I am Not Having is a crappy math grade next year.

Lest you think I’m cracking the whip too hard, fear not. We have plenty of fun things planned: the upcoming Sox game (thanks Poppy!!), a Gary Railcats game, a vacation, and probably every festival and fair in Northwest Indiana.

I just don’t want this to be a summer of electronic devices. Let this be an old-school summer of popsicles, outside games, sprinklers, bike rides, and raucous running around.

I could use some running around myself. Am I too old to play Kick the Can? Do kids even know what Kick the Can IS?

Probably not.

Anyway, here’s to a good summer, to beers and begonias on the back porch, and to family vacations that don’t drive you too too nuts.

Kick it off right and kick those damned kids outside.

Happy Monday.