It’s not that he’s a hypochondriac…

...it's just that my twelve year old thinks he might have leprosy.

Ever since he learned of the leper colony in Hawaii in Science class, my son has been randomly peppering our conversations with the word. For example:

(Rocking out to the Gorillaz in our car)
ME: Hahahahahahaahaaahaaaaaaa
HARRY: Hoo, hoo~!
ME: Shockashocka, shocka shocka...So what do you guys want for dinner?
SYDNEY: Pizza!HARRY: Can we go to River Park?
TREVOR: Do you know people could die from leprosy? It's true.
SYDNEY: Pizza!
ME: What?
HARRY: River park! Let's go to Slices.
TREVOR: There was this guy this one time-- this is a true story-- and he got leprosy and his face fell off. It's true.
ME: How did you... where...
TREVOR: In my Science class.

Days later, on the drive to school:

ME: Don't take the bus today guys because Grammy is going to pick you up from school. Okay?
TREVOR: I hope Sydney doesn't get leprosy.
HARRY: Okay...
ME: (incredulous) Why-- why-- how--
TREVOR: She's going to Hawaii with Carey. There's lepers there, mom. It's true. I learned it in my Science class.

Moments ago...

TREVOR: Mom?
ME: Hey baby, you getting ready for bed?
TREVOR: Mom, I know this doesn't have anything to do with anything, but (raising his foot to my eye level, to reveal a dry patch of skin between his toes) I think I have leprosy.
ME: That's not leprosy.
TREVOR: Yeah, but...
ME: If it was leprosy, it would have fallen off. It'd be necrotic-- dead. It would have turned black first.
TREVOR: (Not sure he should believe me)Okaaaayy....
ME: Try putting hydrocortizone on it.

FACT: I don't know for certain what leprosy looks like at onset, but I do know what eczema looks like.

I took a dump

I am a fan of many things in life, and those that know me well, know my love of THROWING OLD CRAP AWAY. There is nothing quite so peaceful, so harmonious, so freakin' FREEING as getting rid of those things that clutter the quiet, shaddowy spaces of my old house.

This weekend, I was introduced to the city dump. A friend had rented a truck and was parting with all things junkish, and asked if I had any contributions to make. My reaction? Tears of joy doesn't cut it. Think the cafe/orgasm scene from When Harry Met Sally.

Memories of the city dump loomed large in my head. Semi-annually my father--whom I credit for my love of purging-- would fill up an entire tow-trailer with tree trimmings; grass; broken toys; old boxes; dead bodies; garden refuse; and junk, junk and more junk. He would then load up my brother and I and haul the whole sorry mess over to the dump, where we-- my brother and I-- would brave the stench and the seagulls and secretly hope to find our treasure in one man's trash.

Somehow it wasn't bravery for my father; like an expert cowhand, he got the work done and made it look easy. And he really didn't give a rip about the treasure-- one man's or otherwise-- it was all trash to him.

The Santa Rosa City Dump was a gigantic pit, but more like a canyon to my seven-year old eyes. My dad would back the trailer up to the edge, and we would unceremoniously fling crap and watch its 30-foot drop. It was beautiful. Freeing. Cathartic.

My Fresno experience offered less in the way of flinging catharsis. It's actually not even a dump, but rather, a transfer station. Years ago, after his first trip to the Fresno transfer station, my father told me: "Trace, it was the damnedest thing. You drive up to this building, unload everything , badeep, badop, badoop. That's it. Some guys come and clear it away."

At the time I couldn't imagine that the lack of a pit and the glorius sight of falling trash would produce the same sense of freedom. In a way I was right: it's different. But the freedom is there.

And so is my old oven, a few bits of broken cabinet and the many pieces of a loft bed.

I think I’m getting a moustache.

On second thought, that was probably something I shouldn't have mentioned.

My son is hilarious.

As is typical with my 12 year old son, I found out this evening that the report I have been asking him about for the last month is not yet complete. Surprise Number One. Worse, however, is Surprise Number Two: Despite his frequent assurances that he was all caught up, and that the personal interview he conducted with his great-grandmother was the bulk of the report, the fact remains that there are eleven more steps to the assignment. Surprise Number Three: It's due tomorrow.

Though I find myself annoyed by his lackadaisical attitude toward his schoolwork, I find that the writing he has done on the project is anything but. Flat out, my son cracks me up.

A snippet from his autobiographical project:

"I also made a new friend that year, named Terrance. He and Colin did not get along. They sat at the same table, and Terrance would throw pencils at Colin’s hand.

Later that year Terrance promised to give me a very old fashioned video game called, “Game ‘n Watch”, if I paid him fifty cents So I paid him. He told me he was going to be able to give it to me at the end of the year. On the second-to-last day of school, he said he had the game, but it exploded.

I believed him."

I hate the United States Postal Service.

Just understand that my hate is completely unfounded. It's not that I have no respect for the people who work there, for what they do, for who they are... let's be honest: I don't care about people. So clearly it's not that at all. I think the institution is fabulous, that it serves an incredibly important purpose and I fully acknowledge that the world would be a horrendously, much more intensely difficult place in which to live without some government-run delivery service. Of this I am certain.

No... my well-rounded, misguided, firmly-placed dislike is based on the mere fact that I frickin' hate all that the United States Postal Service doesn't do for me. Those bastards.

For example: I get a bill that I must pay for with a check, like from my checkbook, and I have to return the bill in a specific envelope with a specific piece of paper attached to said check. I can't imagine what that particular scenario is like, for the most part, because I am an itense online junkie and I pay all my bills online. But let's pretend, for the sake of argument that I must make such a payment to... oh, I donno. Let's say the I.R.S.

So I sign my forms, I date them, I fold them, I place them with much care and dignity in the provided envelope, and I fish through my wallet and lo and behold, I magically find a stamp.

But I am not pleased. No sir. Rather, I am irked because it's the completely wrong amount. In point of fact, my entire, full "booklet" of stamps that I just purchased not one-month ago is of little use to me now, as the postal rates have gone up. That's thing number one I hate about those sons a snitches. Can't they figure out a way to increase the amount on the face of the stamp without making you have to buy a supplement? If we can send a person to the moon, can we not use the powers of telepathy to alter the printed face of a postage stamp?

Gawd.

I graduate from my purse and instead dig through my vast library of crap and locate (AMAZINGLY) a $.45 stamp. Perfect. I am overpaying, I know it. Annoying thing number two. Those stinking yellow commie rats have suckered me, by way of apathy, into spending more than I should. SIX CENTS more.

Whatever.

I want this bill mailed, see, and I want it mailed but good. Call it six cents worth of insurance. So carefully I adhese the ruddy old stamp (because it is so old it has no stickiness) with glue stick followed by clear tape because this is a special non-sticking stamp and now, finally, my bill is all ready to roll.

Only I know me. There is no rolling to be had. And why? Simple.

I hate the Postal Service.

I will carry this stamped envelope with me, day after day, week after week, until it becomes weathered and wrinkly and loses whatever form of dignity that it formerly had. It will slowly sink to the bottom of my bag where it will become make-up stained then eventually fall onto the floor of my car and get trampled underfoot. And then, several months from now, I will find the stupid thing and realize holy mother of GAWD, that's why I have a warrant out for my arrest. With much relief I will pop it into the nearest mailbox, only to be shocked two days later to find it returned to my home, because I taped on the stamp.

It will never get mailed.

I will be prosecuted for tax evasion.

Say what you will, but I would think that the postal service would be at fault here. And with a little reflection, I think you'll come to agree with me.