June 15, 2011
Today's exam: Math.
Confidence level: low.
Math is our genetic nemesis. . .at least for the women in our family.
My brother.
My son.
No problems when it came to quadratic equations, trigonometry, plotting slopes, and the always dreaded algebra.
Just as an aside, letters belong in books, stories, poems, plays. . . .
NOT equations.
I failed math in grade 10, putting me a year behind mathwise for the remainder of my highschool career.
Meaning I spent my grade 12 year learning grade 11 math so I could graduate.
Didn't matter how well I did in anything else.
Math was a must.
The hurdle that dogged me all the way into graduate school.
Em is in the same boat.
So this morning will be all about facing the math demons and conquering them.
Because I know she doesn't want to go to summer school.
All she needs is a 57% on her exam to pass.
I know she can do this.
She has risen from the depths of mathematical hell in the past.
She can do it again.
Plus, I promised we'd go to a movie this afternoon to celebrate slaying the evil math demon.
X-Men First Class or Super 8.
Doesn't matter to me so long as it's a movie.
And she passes her math exam.
After her exam yesterday, Em asked if she could go to McDonalds.
She was driving.
What was I going to do?
But first we called Keith to see if he wanted anything.
Because Em coming home happily carrying her aromatic, salt filled, lucious McDonalds with none for Keith was not going to ensure a happy home.
Of course he was more than up for some artery clogging hamburgers.
In the drivethru line up, just managing not to hit the two cigarette smoking McDonald employees ambling, and I do mean ambling through the parking lot, Em successfully maneuvers the car in line with the sadistic drivethru speaker.
Where they yell.
Not speak.
Yell.
Em starts her order with Keith's request.
Two double cheeseburgers, a large fr. . . . .
. . .and she was cut off by the sadistic speaker box.
Cut off.
Her lips tightly purse.
Her jaw tightens.
And then the anonymous always-sounds-the-same-static-y- voice comes back at her.
IT'S NOT 11.00. WE'RE STILL SERVING BREAKFAST.
Well.
Em sits for just a second, and then puts her foot less-than-delicately on the gas pedal and storms out of the line up in as much vehemence and indignation as a not-fully-class 5- licenced-driver-who-has-to-have-her-mother-with-her-when-she-drives as she could muster.
And went, instead, to Wendy's.
I am so stiff and sore this morning.
Overindulged myself yesterday with weeding, shoveling, putting in new gardens. . .
Balance.
The elusive balance.
Perhaps part of the reason for my vigorous attention to the gardens was my inability to pay attention anywhere else.
I went to work.
Sat in my office.
And could not focus on a thing.
Nothing.
Fidgety.
Flighty.
I felt like some oversized, overweight, clumsy honey bee gracelessly hauling herself from flower to flower to flower.
Except I was moving from project to project to project hoping that something would sink into the the sludge that was my brain and take hold.
Nothing.
And it remained like this for the entire day until I could take it no longer and came home to take out my frustrations on the gardens.
Coupled with a sighing and impatient Stephen sitting in my office with the unspoken question looming over us:
Are you ready to go, YET?
Which is why he should have been in his own office.
And did nothing for my waning abilities to concentrate.
Frankie has started a new "thing."
As soon as I sit down to have my coffee and write my blog, he comes into the office, throws himself on the floor. . . .
. . . and I really mean throws.
He does the same thing on the bed.
No laying down quietly and gently.
It's as if he just lets his muscles go and lands where ever.
Always a big sigh for his finale.
I am starting to see some similarities between Stephen and Frankie. . . .
He'll stay on the floor for a few minutes.
Staring at me.
And then he starts whining.
Soft, almost imperceptible whines, tuned only to the frequency of the coffee-needing, blogging-happily mother.
And when I don't respond, he whines louder.
And when I still don't respond, he hauls himself up in a manner that suggests back-breaking servitude, comes over to me, and sits to the side of me, whining louder and staring harder.
At which time I know I have about two minutes to get him outside for his post-breakfast activities.
I don't exactly know when the sound of computer keys became a trigger for the releasing of the poop.
It is supposed to sunny and 23 degrees Celsius today.
Right now it's cloudy and 10 degrees.
The sun had better come out.
Or people are going to have to start recycling their underwear.
Laundry desperately needs to be done.
If you see the waistband of a pink thong peeking from the tops of Pookie's shorts, you'll know why.
Title Lyric: The Math by Hilary Duff
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