I have a talent, it seems, for filling up the little spaces in conversation with all the words you never say in polite company.
When Eli was a 3rd grader, his school district went all “scorched-earth” on the subject of unhealthy foods. We found out about it on Back-to-School night—you know, the night you rush home after work, try and grab a quick snack so you don’t kill somebody or pass out from low blood sugar, then drive way too fast to your kid’s school so you can origami yourself into kid-sized desks and listen to the teacher talk about all the wonderful, things they’ve got planned for the new school year. That one.
I missed my snack that year, but made it to the classroom just in time to find a seat and then bring my attention dutifully to the front of the class, whereupon we were entertained by a particularly awful PowerPoint presentation that dragged on for the better part of an aeon. After the lights came up, the teacher held her finger up to get our attention, and then launched into the district’s new “Healthy Foods Policy” speech.
No more Jamba Juice smoothies to buy after school gets out, unless they contain protein powder. No more Popsicle Fridays, when the kids could celebrate the end of another week and get a sweet, icy treat for mere pocket change. Bake sales were now frowned upon and as of this new school year, it would be strictly forbidden for kids to bring cupcakes for the class in celebration of their birthdays. Healthy snacks only. Carrot sticks without ranch dressing were mentioned. Ants on a Log. Then the teacher smiled and said, “I’m sure you can come up with some wonderful alternatives.” And then the classroom was all abuzz with parents talking amongst ourselves.
The mom in the seat in front of me turned around and said, “Can you believe this crap?”
“No,” I said, “This sucks. I mean really—taking away most of the Jamba Juices? Really?”
“I know,” she said, “And what’s up with the bake sales? What are we supposed to do now? Wash cars? And birthday cupcakes? That’s like a sacred tradition. The kids are gonna be so disappointed.”
“Yeah,” I said, “well the school district can just kiss my ass on those cupcakes—“at which point the entire room had gone mostly silent—one of those natural lulls in conversation that happens from time to time. 30 heads swiveled around to see who the Bad Mom was and the teacher gave me a look that said if I were in her class, I’d be spending a lot of time cooling my heels in the Principal’s office.
The next day, when I picked Eli up from school, all his friends wanted to know did I really say, “kiss my ass,” in front of the whole classroom and the teacher and everything? “Well…uh…yes,” I said, watching their eyes light up with the forbidden coolness of it all. “Yes, um… I did say that and the thing is, you ahhhh….shouldn’t use that kind of language. You can usually find some other word that would work just as well…” They’re all nodding and grinning at me. Doesn’t matter what I say, the damage’s been done. Eli’s mom has permanent street cred amongst the third grade set, because she cussed in front of the teacher. Also, because she always carries a cool, tanto blade knife the back pocket of her jeans. “Look,” I say, crouching down to get eye-to-eye with the boys, trying to salvage the situation, “The important thing you need to know is when to use bad words. In the classroom? Pretty much never. Ok?” They all nod heads, like we’ve just made a solemn pact.
Yesterday, Eli came back from servicing some winches on the sailboat 2 Pieces of 8. Not only did they compensate him well and give him a glowing reference, they also threw in an old VHF they didn’t need anymore, because they’d upgraded their system.
We’ve been VHF-less for a while, now. The radio that came with our boat was horrible. We replaced it with one that we’d scavenged out of the trash bin treasure chest at Nelson’s Boatyard. Used that sucker all the way down the coast, from San Francisco to Puerto Vallarta, then it went belly-up. Pretty sure there’s no warranty deal, like Gill’s, if you got the radio by picking through the trash.
Took all of 6 minutes to hook the new radio up and when Steve called out for a radio check, Paradise Marina, which is miles away, was the first to come back with a, “Loud and clear.” Bunch of other people in La Cruz confirmed and I’m pretty sure that during the time Steve had the transmitter button keyed on, I’m in the background jumping up and down, saying, “Fucking A–this is awesome!”
Yep. Really gotta watch those little conversational lulls.
