Monday, 30 June 2014

Sluts vs. Touch-Me-Nots: The Catch-22 of Being a Girl

Summer vacation has begun!  Laissez les bon temps rouler!

This is Frick's summer before 8th grade.  What a magical time.  It really takes me back to my own "Wonder Years".  For me the summer before 8th grade was when I got my first period.  It was a time where me and my girlfriends talked endlessly about sex and spent lots of time watching the boys skateboard out in front of my friend Jen's house.  We also spent lots of time talking and worrying about high school.

I remember being a little concerned about grade 9 initiation, mostly because me and my other friend Jen managed to piss off the entire graduating class of grade eight girls that year.  They were bullies who liked to push around us grade 7 girls because they felt, as 8th graders, they ruled the school and Jen and I were having none of it.  (Fun fact: I got into my first/only school yard fight with a grade 8 girl that year.  It was a bit of relief that aside from being much larger than me, she had no idea how to throw a punch.)

But what worried me more than getting bullied as a "minor niner" was trying to understand what it meant to be a teenaged girl, socially.  It turned out to be way more complicated than I had imagined.  One night, I think it was at one of our slumber parties, the Jens and I were all talking about what it was going to be like in high school.

Jen B:  I heard that in high school, if you're a girl, everyone calls you a slut or a touch-me-not.

Me:  What?  Really?  How does that work?

Jen B:  Well if you do anything with a boy, even just kissing, you'll be a slut and everyone will talk about you.

Me:  Well, that's easy.  I don't want to be a slut.

Jen B: Yeah, but if you're not a slut everyone will say you're a touch-me-not and no boys will ask you out.

( I don't know what your middle school culture was, but for us "touch-me-not" was our standard expression for some goody-two-shoes who never does anything bad and is a total loser and no one would, like, ever want to be labeled as a touch-me-not.  A touch-me-not can NEVER hope to be popular and being popular was a big deal.)

Me:  But I want boys to ask me out.  I don't want to be a loser.

Jen B:  Well then you'll have to be a slut then.

Me:  That's not fair!  What about the boys?  Does anyone say anything about them?

Jen B: (just shrugs.)

Me:  So those are our only choices?

Jen B:  Pretty much.

Me:  What do we do?

Jen B:  I don't know.

What I didn't know was that we weren't the ones who got to choose.   You got labeled by others whether you liked it or not.  You were held entirely responsible for any attention or lack of attention you got from boys, as if that were a thing you could possibly control.  If you were invisible to boys it proved you were an ugly, boring loser through your own choices like not wearing the right clothes or make up.  If you got attention from boys it proved you were a big whore through your own choices like not wearing the right clothes or make up.

The only way to avoid slut or touch-me-not status was to get a special magical talisman called a BOYFRIEND.  Girls with BOYFRIENDS were the only ones you couldn't mess with.  When you got a BOYFRIEND you got elevated to the status of being Bobby's Girl and that would make you popular because other girls would like you again and stop talking about you behind your back.  Having a BOYFRIEND proved you weren't an invisible touch-me-not loser.  Having a BOYFRIEND made other boys stop paying attention to you which proved you were not (or no longer) a slut.

The problem was, the only way to get a BOYFRIEND was to risk being called a slut because in order to get a BOYFRIEND you needed to attract the attention of a boy somehow.  And attracting the attention of boys on purpose?  SLUTTY McSLUTTERSON you are!

(Le sigh.)

I am very glad that Frick doesn't have to worry about being a slut. I'm not saying that his behaviour won't be strictly policed by his peers (Hello, Heteronormative Bro-Culture).  I'm just saying that at least his social navigations don't involve this lose-lose kind of bullshit.  At least with boys there was a possibility of winning that didn't involve some kind of relationship status symbol.

As for us girls, it seems we must lose no matter what we do.

Monday, 26 May 2014

Parenting For Company: It's Different!

Have you ever been treated to a lecture about your parenting?  I have!  Aren't they terrific?   I swear just hearing the words "I know it's none of my business but..." is enough to send me into a frenzy of anticipation over what I am about to hear because it can ONLY BE AWESOME!!!

You'd think that in this day and age people would know better than to offer unsolicited criticisms of your parenting.

They don't.

Hearing this kind of bullshit friendly advice is only marred by the fact that I know how far off the mark they actually are.  Because the truth is that unless this person lives in my home and cares for my children they really can't know what kind of parent I am.

Generally speaking, when you are on the receiving end of a parenting lecture the person delivering it is someone you know very well like a family member or a friend.  They feel compelled to speak to you after keeping their mouths shut for so long.  They are trying to help you because it is so obvious to everyone but you that you are doing everything wrong.

They feel confident in their right-ness in telling you how wrong you are "because," they will say, "it's been like this every time we visit."

So I would like to explain to all the Well Meaning Dispensers of Wisdom out there on behalf of all us Terrible Parents, why you are wrong.  Dead Wrong.

I, and I suspect the majority of parents, parent my kids differently when I am around company.  I do it differently, but I also do it consistently.

Parenting, when done right, is difficult and time-consuming and complicated.  My kids fight just about every ten minutes.  They fight over toys.  They fight over the best spot on the couch.  They fight over breathing the same air.  When you are not here I would deal with the fighting by first, trying to ignore it in the hopes they will resolve the issue on their own.  If I paid attention to every fight they have I wouldn't be able to get anything else done so I will only interfere if I hear repeated crying or some kind of physical altercation.

At that point I sit them down and cross examine them.  Then I have to play detective to figure out which one's version is closest to the actual truth.  Then I have to come up with some kind of appropriate consequence to help them learn to get along better.  Then I have to oversee that the consequence is being carried out.

Does that sound like a lot to you?  Imagine having to go through this roughly half a dozen times in a three hour period.  Wash.  Rinse.  Repeat.  Do you really think they are going to put their fighting on hold just because I am trying to have a visit with you?


But when I am with you Wise Friend, it is my wish to enjoy your company and conversation.  As a result I am naturally anxious to put the kibosh on any unpleasantness brewing between my kids so as to maximize the pleasantness of our visit.

And so I will jump on them the moment I hear even a whisper of dischord when I would otherwise try to ignore it.  Because I promise you no one wants to listen to them loudly bicker, whine and scream at each other while they sort their shit out.  I will resolve the issue quickly by placing the blame on whichever child is statistically to be most likely at fault and then issuing a quick and easy to enforce, all-purpose consequence.

If it's the first fight during our visit you may have to watch me go on about it a little too long to my kids because I am hoping that I if I lay down the law then and there I might not have to deal with them for the rest of the visit.  A little naive, I know, but believe it or not that sometimes works.

None of this is what I would call top-notch parenting.  At best it is merely unfair.  Sometimes I make a mistake and blame the wrong child (which will happen anyway no matter how good your parenting is).  At worst it would only serve to damage their relationship even further thus causing more fighting.  I already know this just like I know my kids way better than you do.

So understand that when you see me engaging in shoddy parenting it just means that I am putting my concern for their self-esteem and well-being on hold for a few hours out of consideration for YOU.  Because I am trying to enjoy the time we have together.

It is completely unfair to hear the things you imply in your well meaning lecture.  You imply that I favour one child over the other.  You imply that I am making things worse between my kids.  You imply that you have no faith in my ability to raise my own children without your interference.  Do you realize how much you cross the line here?

With all due respect you are just not there to see me being awesome at what I do.  You're not there with me through the parenting classes and meetings with social workers.  You're not there with me through the meetings with concerned teachers.  You're not there with me and my husband as we discuss parenting strategies together.  You're not there with me when I'm talking my kids through problem solving strategies so they can learn to resolve conflict on their own.

Quite frankly, you have no idea what you are talking about.

But since you have decided against your own better judgment to offer me advice I would like to return the favour.

The next time you hear yourself saying the words "I know it's none of my business but..." JUST STOP TALKING.


Nothing good ever came of anything said after those words.  And it really isn't any of your business so you can relax and just learn to trust me when I say I've got this parenting thing.  As soon as you go home I will be all over it.

Wednesday, 14 May 2014

8 Reasons Why Men Can't Take Pictures of Themselves

Selfies are everywhere and mean lots of things to lots of people.  I've seen selfies used to raise awareness for political causes.  I've seen selfies taken for fun like the famous Ellen Celebrity selfie.  And sometimes selfies are taken just because you look good and want a decent picture for your profile.

And while I personally tend to avoid taking selfies (mostly because I am camera shy and my face tends to do weird things in pictures) I don't have a hell of a lot of judgment for those who do indulge because, why not?  Have a little fun.   To each their own.  Hell, even the POTUS and the Pope take selfies.  They honestly seemed mostly harmless to me.

But recently, after James Franco's rather unfortunate, pale and clammy half-naked selfie (blech!) was uploaded, then taken down, and then gone viral (because the internet forgets NOTHING!) talk about selfies seems to be at the forefront of social commentary.

There has been much hand-wringing about the selfie.  Selfies are a cry for help..  Selfies either cause/indicate the presence of poor mental health.  Selfies are addictive.  The pressure to take the perfect selfie is driving teenagers to suicide.  Selfies are going to usher in the END OF AMERICA!

Apparently I was wrong about selfies being harmless fun.  Selfies are super important and super dangerous and can indicate everything and nothing about you!  This is kind of confusing but fortunately for me the internet, in the form of online trashmill of "ironic" misogyny Elite Daily, is here to help you understand.

8 Reasons Why It's Never Okay For a Man to Take a Selfie

I kind of chuckled at the title.  I'm interested in reading articles about selfie-etiquette because the phenomenon interests me as an outsider who does not participate.  I have read a few that seemed to give reasonable advice on the subject but this was the first one I have ever seen that was gender specific.

I didn't expect it to be a good/well-written list of rules (gender specific codes of behaviour rarely are) and it did not disappoint.  As a woman, I am not entirely confident that I can refute such iron-clad social logic so instead I will only attempt to understand it by rendering a rough translation into terms my feeble girly brain can grasp.  So here are...

8 Reasons Why Men Can't Take Pictures of Themselves

1) Selfies are strictly for women.  Women like to brag about what's really important to them: being pretty.  If you don't have titties to display no one wants to see it.

2) No really.  Chicks only.  Men are allowed to have two (or an absolute maximum of three photos if they should be unfortunate enough to get married....shudder), preferably taken by someone else, or you have to officially trade in your dick for a vagina.

Special allowances will be made for more than three photos but only if you are in full Batman costume, which is the most manly of all the superhero costumes.

3 & 4) If you take selfies you are a shallow, attention whore.  Remember: only chicks are allowed to be shallow attention whores.

5) You won't get laid, so why bother?  Nothing is worth doing unless there is an absolute guarantee of a "happy ending".

6) If you insist on taking a selfie like some brainless chick, we'll tell everyone that your penis is small.  Not because there's any research behind that.  Just because we think it's funny to humiliate you if you decide to shamelessly act like a woman according to our arbitrary rules.

7) Real men (like racist, homophobe Chuck Norris) don't take selfies.  Aren't you fucking listening, brah?  Don't you want to be a REAL MAN???

8) You can't be a bad ass and take selfies.  Only chicks and Justin Bieber take selfies and everyone knows it is impossible for either to ever be bad ass.  Don't you want to be a BAD ASS???

(Not paraphrased) "The next time you think about posting a selfie, ask yourself the following: Am I an unmanly, attention-seeking, shallow, small-penised, sissy girl?"

That is a very good question to ask.  Unfortunately Samuel L. Jackson didn't get your memo, guys.  Which one of you Real Man's Men are going to tell him (preferably in person...oh, please make sure it is in person) that he's an "unmanly, attention-seeking, shallow, small-penised, sissy girl"?


No volunteers?

Friday, 2 May 2014

Goodbye, Henrietta Findlay (A Eulogy For My Oven)

Alas, my oven has died.

Hetty: A rusty Old Bitch, but we loved her.
Henrietta (also affectionately known as "Hetty", "Skinny Bitch" and "Piece of S#@% That F#$%ing Burned my F@#$ing Bread Again!!!") was the oven that came with my house.  My first thought was "I have lived in a lot of tiny apartments and yet this is the tiniest oven I have ever seen."  She was an itty bitty 20.5" wide.  20.5 inches!!!

You cannot find an oven this small now unless it's a microwave.  We know this because we needed to find replacement parts for her to keep her running over the years and her petite size meant there were some parts we couldn't replace.  This girl was old and broken when we first met.  And it's all been downhill from there.

Eh.  I've worked in smaller kitchens.
My best guess is that she was made sometime in the 1960's.  The company that made her, Findlay's Limited, was bought out by a corporation in 1965 and then went out of business in 1972.  The only evidence of its existence online is in historical archives.  The only way to buy a Findlay stove is on Kijiji as an antique.  We were reluctant to replace her because the smallest possible oven you can buy now is about 24", so no matter what we would have to cut up our kitchen.  There is no other place to put an oven because my kitchen, much like Hetty, is tiny...though not the tiniest.

Hetty served us for ten years.  Which was approximately 30 years past her retirement age.  There were many times we thought we lost her for sure.  There was the time we lost one and then two burners on the stovetop.  But my ingenius husband managed to fix the already-broken-when-we-got-it element on the other side and we just learned to live with 2 out of 4 instead of 3 out of four.  Who needs four elements on their tiny stove anyway?  Not us.

Then there was the first time the oven shut down.  I thought that was it for sure but my husband hooked her up with some new wires and we were good to go.  The second time she died it was because I tried to clean out the oven compartment and the bottom element just disintegrated into ashes when I moved it.  I think that was the time we just moved the broiler element to the bottom of the oven and learned to live without the broiler.  Which BTW totally sucks when you enjoy making nachos, garlic bread and french onion soup.  I had to learn to sear my roasts on the stove top before putting them in to bake.

But after that she worked awesome!  In fact she was working so well that you had to reduce her temperature to about 100 degrees lower than you would actually bake at.  I burned a lot of stuff during that learning curve.  For a while I was not at all capable of baking cookies that weren't black on the bottom.

One time my husband actually salvaged an old element that would actually fit in her and for about three days we had a broiler!  Hallelujah!  But then the broiler died, never to work again, and the bottom element began to slowly die after that.  I started needing to turn the dial up by a hundred degrees hotter than I wanted to bake.  And that was the pattern for the rest of her life.  She would falter in temperature, die, be resuscitated, burn like the fiery pits of hell for a while and begin to falter again.  Keeping her alive while managing to produce decent meals began to be a point of pride for us.

I think I knew it was over for real when we had to stop keeping her clean.  I stopped cleaning the oven because any movement of the elements could jostle a wire too hard and it would stop working.  The last time I tried to clean out the stove elements I discovered that the burner pans were literally being held together by the old aluminum foil cover I was trying to replace.  She looks solid on the outside but her whole insides are riddled with rust.

We were beginning to question the safety of continuing to use this oven when she finally breathed her last.  My husband worked valiantly on her but a vital part snapped in his hands and we lost her forever.

So, Goodbye Hetty.  I'd like to say you served us well but we both know that's not true.  It makes me a little sad knowing how much you won't be missed.  My husband always felt bad about the fact that our kitchen is small given how much I love to cook but the truth is I never minded a small kitchen.  Not really.  The very worst part of my small kitchen was you.  However, I believe when I think of you in the future you will at least be remembered fondly.

But for now....MOMMY'S GETTING A NEW OVEN!!!  WOOHOO!!!  

(dances on Henrietta's rusty old corpse)

Tuesday, 8 April 2014

Giving Chivalry the Shank

Last week I read this great blog post about how chivalry needs to die already.  (Check out other posts from Jenn at Something Clever 2.0, because she's awesome).

Can I hear an "Amen"?  Can you give me "Hallelujah"?

Hell yeah!

So much YES to this post.  Chivalry ranks in my top ten Things That Piss Me Off.  Not so much because it happens (bad enough but good intentions yadda, yadda, yadda), but because those who perpetrate it force it on you against your will!  Seriously!  Have you ever tried to reject an act of chivalry?  It is near impossible.

When my kids were in the stroller stage men were constantly going out of their way to open doors for me which, sure it's polite to offer to open the door for someone.  But when I told them, "Thank you, but you don't need to do that.  I've got this."  They would open the door for me anyway!  And yes, sometimes it was more than awkward and I would have gone through the door much faster without help than with it, but more than that it made my blood boil.

I felt like I was being told that not only was I not capable of handling the door but that I wasn't even capable of knowing whether or not I could handle the door. You don't know me!  Maybe I've been training for this.  Maybe I worked hard during my pregnancy to be the Formula One Race Car Driver of strollers! 

Quit stealing my Days of Fucking Thunder, asshole!

And it was like this every single time some dude was holding open a door for me.  I would literally  say "No, thank you" and they would do it anyway, sometimes with a big, shit-eating, self-congratulatory grin.  How in the fuck is it polite to do something that someone explicitly asked you not to do?  How in the fuck is that not outright disrespectful?  Grrrrrr!

So Jenn, I want you to know that your post inspired what I did today.

Today, I had to bring Frick to the hospital to see his opthalmologist.  We were waiting for the elevator and when the doors opened I indicated to the man who was waiting with us to go first because he was waiting there longer than we were.  And then this happened:

Man: "Oh no, you can go first."

My leg muscle twitched to do the automatic thing and comply even though I know it will piss me off and then I stop myself.  Why do I have to do what this man tells me?

Me:  "No, you can go ahead.  You were waiting longer."

Man:  "I must insist."

Me:  "Oh no, I insist.  After you."

Man (becoming visibly irritated):  "No really.  You can go first."

At this point Frick is already on the elevator and the doors are starting to close.

Me:  "Frick could you press the 'open door' button so this gentleman can get on the elevator, please?"

Man (shaking his head in disgust and muttering): "...have better things to do than stand here arguing with you all day."

And then he finally gets on the elevator.

I thought that after this I was going to feel guilty, like I had unreasonably thwarted someone's genuine good intentions.

I was wrong.

I felt awesome!!!

I hadn't felt this level of exaltation since the first time I successfully tied my shoelaces ALL BY MYSELF!  Instead of spending the next ten minutes resentfully wishing I had done something subversive, I actually did the subversive thing and now I felt like fist-pumping the air or doing a cartwheel.  

I knew I did the right thing because this guy was the one being unreasonable.  If he was truly being polite it shouldn't have mattered who entered first.  But it did matter to that guy.  His angst at me showed that it mattered a lot.  I wonder if he felt infantilized.  I wonder if he felt belittled.  I wonder if he felt every bit as humiliated as I was going to feel if I had accepted his act of "chivalry".

Doesn't feel so polite when it's being forced on you, does it?

So yes, I am right on board with chivalry needing to die already (Amen!  Hallelujah!  Praise Gloria Steinem!).  But I propose that we hurry things along by giving chivalry the shank.  From now on, when some "gentleman" tries to force his unwanted chivalry on me I'm going to stand my ground.

Anyone with me?

Monday, 31 March 2014

Mirena: The Cadillac of IUDs (Because It Costs Almost As Much As a Cadillac)

I think my favourite part about my husband's new job is their amazing drug and dental plan.  It covers just about anything, which is great because it's looking like Frick is going to need braces.

With his last job we had to be more careful about our drug and dental spending because we could only spend X amount of dollars each year.  Also they made you pay upfront and would reimburse you after they got the prescription receipt.  Which means that the last time I was in the market for birth control I had to pick something that wouldn't break the bank.  I really wanted the Mirena IUD, which is a wonderful, magical IUD that gives you little or no period and makes your uterus smell like a spring meadow (not really).  But the Mirena costs something like $800.  

On the other hand there was the Nova-T, which is not magical, makes your period last longer (mine was 8 days long.  8 DAYS!!!), makes you bleed more heavily and makes your cramps worse. The Nova-T is a lot more like the one your mother probably used before people found out they were dangerous and gave IUDs a bad rep for a couple of decades.  But they're better designed now, they WILL prevent pregnancy and back then they only cost about $80.

And hey, I don't want to knock the Nova-T too much.  Because according to my Nurse Practitioner I should have got mine replaced about two years ago (oops!) and yet I'm still baby free.  So that's something.

When I went to go pick up my fancy new Mirena, they gave it to me like this:

They had to double bag it!

I laughed and told the pharmacist, "That's not going to fit!"

She said, "Oh, we just wrap it up like that to keep it discreet."

Discreet?  Then why is it packaged in such a huge motherfucking box?

Seriously.  Here's a picture for scale.

They crayon is for scale.  The lego is to cover my name.  The upside down is just because.

As you can see the actual IUD is smaller than the crayon.

I remember when I picked up my Nova-T that it came in a little plastic Ziploc bag.  That was plenty discreet.  When I told my husband that he laughed and called it "ghetto".  I guess this giant box is what you get when you are paying $800 for birth control.  Deluxe packaging.  I wondered what else might be inside this enormous box.  Reams of complicated instructions?  Some weird kind of applicator?  A swag bag?  I couldn't wait to find out!

Finally the day of my appointment arrived.  It had been five years since I had to worry about getting pregnant and I did not like having to worry about it again between IUDs.  Also I was looking forward to the possibility that I might be amongst the 33% of women who stop getting periods with this thing.  (Fingers crossed!)  So I wrestled my enormous Mirena box into my purse and headed to my doctor's office.

As usual the nurse handed me a giant paper towel, told me to strip from the waist down and then made me wait, half naked, for waaaaaay to long.  I started playing one of my waiting games.  I have many.  If I'm waiting for the bus I play "Hipster or Homeless?" because sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.  When I'm on the bus I play "Who's Holding the Weed?" because the buses in Anytown smell like a Cypress Hill concert and because it's always fun to pretend it's the elderly lady wearing a sock monkey hat or something.

And in waiting rooms/doctor's offices I play "See If You Can Find Dust."  Spoiler alert:  you can't.  But it's super impressive once you start really looking for it.  In this particular office there were these hanging butterflies made out of coloured nylon stretched over wire wings.  They had little fluffy pom-pom antennae.  These things should be impossible to keep perfectly dust-free....and yet they were perfectly dust-free.  Amazing!

Right when I was starting to wish she would hurry up already because it's chilly in here, dammit!  I heard the radio start playing Rick James' "Superfreak" and then all I could do was pray that she would at least not come back until the song was over because I couldn't guarantee that I would be able to refrain from laughing my ass off.  This is a delicate procedure requiring steady hands and a patient without the maturity of a 12 year old.  Since she wasn't going to get the latter I could at least try to help with the former.

My prayers were answered and just as the song was ending the nurse knocked on the door and asked to come in.  Once she got to work it turned out that my fears about the music distracting me were baseless since she kept up a steady stream of small talk, which I'm not entirely sure was better.  I hate small talk in general.  I am terrible at it.  It just provides me with an opportunity to say stupid things to a complete stranger.  It's even worse if I feel awkward or nervous as one is likely to feel when one's feet are in the stirrups.

We talked about mundane stuff like shoes and kids and then she told me to cough because I would "feel a pinch" which turned out to be a total lie because I didn't cough so much as have the wind forced out of me involuntarily.


"Are you okay?"

"That was slightly more than a pinch!"

"Was it?  I'm sorry.  Well, I guess we're not friends anymore."

When she was finished she went to great lengths to reassure me that everything went well.

"That went in sooooo easy!  Just right in there with no problems at all.  The opening was nice and wide."

Um....thank you?  It's nice to know I have such a huge cervical opening?

Aw, who am I kidding?  I bet she says that to all the girls.

As for the contents of the giant box?  Nothing but a small consumer information pamphlet.  Not even a lousy coupon book.  What a let down.

Friday, 7 March 2014

Baby's First Forgery

A couple of nights ago after I got home from work, my husband called me from his job to tell me he got a message from Frick's science teacher.  He was confused as to why she would be calling him.  The school knows to contact me first as I am the parent that handles the school stuff.  The only time they call him is usually because they tried me first and I wasn't available.

He told me she was wondering about an overdue science assignment that one of us had apparently signed a note acknowledging that we knew it was overdue about a week ago.  It was still not handed in and she was wondering what was going on.  He wasn't clear on any more details than that because his work voice mail sounded like crap.

I have to admit that for a second this information worried me.  Not because there was an overdue project unaccounted for, but because I couldn't remember anything about signing a note and for one second, one teeny-tiny second, I began to wonder if it were possible that I could have signed something without realizing what it was.

This didn't sound like something I would do.  Usually when Frick hands me something from the school to sign I scrutinize it carefully to find out a) whether or not I am agreeing to something I shouldn't, like I would when signing any document, and b) what kind of trouble/problems with schoolwork Frick might have caused/experienced so that I can get into problem solving mode.

I will admit that during that teeny-tiny second of doubt I didn't want to admit that it was possible that Frick had somehow managed to take advantage of a moment of distraction to get the better of me.  Just as I was mentally preparing myself to have to admit I probably dropped the ball somewhere my Mommy-senses kicked in.

Maybe the reason I didn't remember signing anything is because I'm not the parent who signed it.  That would definitely explain why the teacher called my husband instead of me.  I asked him if he signed anything recently and he told me he has never signed anything from the school ever because that's kind of my jurisdiction.  This is when we figured out that the most reasonable explanation was that Frick had forged his signature.

We confronted Frick about all this and he caved and readily admitted to the forgery.  Later on my husband admitted to being reluctantly proud of Frick.  After all, haven't we all tried forging our parent's signature at one point or the other?  Even I have memories of painstakingly copying my parents' loopy scrawls and flourishes so that not even Sherlock Holmes would know the difference, and I was a model student.  Oh, the nostalgia!

He told me it was a shame Frick hadn't taken advantage of the forgery to hand in his assignment, otherwise we might never have found out.  I laughed and then smacked him on the arm and told him to shut up.

The next day, as per our request, Frick's teacher sent home a photocopy of the forged signature.  When Frick handed it over he was probably baffled by the fact that I started giggling.

This forgery was terrible.  Calling it a 'forgery" is a misnomer and an insult to all other forgeries.

First of all the signature was in printing, not cursive.  The writing was so obviously Frick's that is was clear he hadn't even bothered trying to disguise it.  And he hadn't even included the entire last name.  I wish so hard I could show you guys a picture of it but it has my husband's real name.  Imagine something along the lines of an extremely childish scrawl reading "Daddy R".

When I tried to imagine my husband signing cheques to pay our bills with a childishly printed "Daddy R" my giggles turned into guffaws.  Frick wanted to know what was so funny.  Wiping the tears out of my eyes I told him, "Honey, I love you but I think you just ought to stick to being honest because you really do suck at being devious. (Snert.)"

"Does this mean I'm not in trouble anymore?"  he asked, hopefully.

"Oh God, no.  You are so totally grounded, Darling Boy."

I think it is a testimony to the compassion and understanding of Frick's science teacher that she initially accepted this signature, despite some pretty serious suspicions.  She clearly considered the possibility that my husband never mastered cursive, or perhaps suffered some kind of injury that made handwriting difficult for him.

It's nice to know my kid has such great teachers.