NEW RELEASES
I haven’t heard back about what the teacher thought
Last Friday Sassy had an incident on the playground that necessitated a call from the school nurse. Sassy is a “frequent flier” to the nurse’s office. I guess that’s what you can expect when you have a drama queen. Mostly the nurse wanted to give me a head’s up so when my child got home and related the tale I would have some sane background information.
It seems that Sassy was going down the slide and the next child followed too quickly and landed on her hand. There was no bruising or swelling so the nurse put the obligatory ice pack on it and wrapped it with an Ace bandage to pacify the girl. Sassy seemed fine unless she had an audience, then she fell apart. When asked to retell the facts of the incident, Politically Correct Sassy described the boy as large. Her brother, less inhibited by polite society, described him as “a fatty”.
Over the course of the weekend she carried that arm around like it would fall off at any minute. We bought additional bandages because the first one was quickly covered in spaghetti sauce and chocolate pudding. There was a great deal of whining, as I’m certain you can imagine, about cleaning her room and doing chores. I offered to cut it off with the hedge clippers so that it wouldn’t hurt anymore, but she wasn’t going for it.
Her father and I bandied about taking her to the ER for x-rays but I vetoed it because THERE WAS NO SWELLING OR BRUISING. At all. No matter how many times I tell her the story of The Boy Who Cried Wolf and explain the moral to her she simply doesn’t get it. I told her father that we’d give it another week and if she was still complaining we could take her to the doctor and, if it turned out that her arm was really broken, then we’d have to buy her a corvette. Until then, I wasn’t wasting fifty dollars on needless medical expenses. That’s money I could be using for Starbucks.
Then Sunday night came along. The wounded girl began to concern herself with school the next morning. How could she possibly be expected to participate in any scholastic activities when she was in this much pain. How? Her father told her to have me write a note to the teacher. I rolled my eyes but I did it.
Sassy wasn’t happy with the note. I don’t know why? See what you think – I’ve included the text here.
Dear Sassy’s Teacher,
Sassy Bright was injured on the playground Friday afternoon and her arm is still limp and barely functioning. Please excuse her from any strenuous third grade activities that might cause further injury (ie. shoveling gravel or breaking concrete).
Thank you very much for your patience and understanding in this matter.
Sincerely,
Amylynn Bright
Like “Let’s Make a Deal” only totally not
Sassy made a deal with me. If she could correctly answer three questions of my choosing, then she could stay up and read for another thirty minutes. I was in a wagering kind of mood, so I agreed, especially with the codicil of “my own choosing.” Foolish girl.
Too bad there wasn’t any money at stake.
“Question number one,” I began, “What is Grandma’s middle name?”
“Which Grandma?” she asked.
“Either.”
“Myrtle?” Oh, this is definitely my kid. No one else in the world would have pulled that name out of the air.
I laughed and made the buzzer noise. “Nope. Aleta or Ann would have been acceptable. Question number two…”
“Nothing about family members,” she interrupted.
Fine. I could work with that. “Number two. How many pounds of pressure is in my car tires?”
“Uhhhh, nine?”
Again with the buzzer noise. “Nope. 32 pounds. Number three..”
“OK, nothing about cars or people in the family.”
“I wasn’t aware we could make up new rules as we went along,” I noted.
“Yeah, well I don’t know any of those things,” she informed me.
I wonder how hard it would be to get one of these out of Australia?
“Duh. That’s why I asked them. What do you know about?”
“Animals, I know lots about animals,” she said with confidence.
“Fine. How many feathers on a duckbill platypus?”
“NONE!” she hollered across the expanse of the dark bed.
I laughed. “Very good. Trick question. The score is two for me, one for you.”
“I’m gonna win!” Her voice was high with misguided self-assurance. “I told you I know animal questions.”
“So you say. Are you ready for question four?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What was the Elephant Man’s real name?”
“That’s not an animal question,” she protested. It’s too bad there wasn’t a judge around to hear her case. It’s hard to say who would have won, but I’d like to think it would have been me on the technicality that there was an animal in the question. “That’s like a half an animal question.”
“Quit stalling,” I told her preparing to get out of her bed and give her a final kiss good night. I hummed the Jeopardy theme music.
“I don’t know.” I could hear the pout in her voice.
“Just give me his last name, then.”
Heavy, huffing sigh. “Forget it.”
“Good night. I love you.”
“You are really unfair.”
“Yep.” I kissed her forehead. “You know, ‘Never go up against a Sicilian when death is on the line’.”
“Mooo-ooom! No one ever knows what you’re talking about.”
“Inconceivable!,” I said as I waltzed out of her dark bedroom, “cause I’m really funny.”
“No you’re not. You’re just weird.”
I’m totally fine with that.
Might need an alibi
My boy was nowhere near any golf courses, but honestly this does seem like something he’d do.
From the funny people over at www.criggo.com