Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Last minute back-to-school survival tips for the disengaged.

First, you must locate the filthy, sunburnt little bastards.

If this proves difficult – chalk it up to growth spurts, lack of interest, or newly-sprouted facial hair – grab last year's school photo and head to the nearest golf course, hockey rink, gym, baseball diamond, lido, tennis court, corner store, or the neighbour's basement with the man cave and Surround Sound system you will never be able to afford, despite daily reminders of how inadequate your present TV room is. Look for someone who resembles your child, only taller.

Have a shot of tequila.

Hose them down in the backyard, or if it's really nasty behind the ears, or near the parts you haven't laid eyes on since they were in Buzz Lightyear Pull-Ups, take them to the Rubber Duck Car Wash (with 8 convenient locations in HRM). You may also, at this time, feel a need to reintroduce them to a variety of once-common day-to-day basics like; soap, eating utensils, milk, and peeing indoors.

Have a shot of tequila.

Next, shop around for school supplies. I found a gold mine of stationery surplus under the sofa cushions in our inadequately-equipped TV room: 4 pens, six golf pencils, one eraser, 2 socks, half a ruler, a compass, 4 Sharpies, a pencil sharpener, 3 paper clips, a few Duotangs, and a sandwich. When that million dollar list of 'must haves' arrives home from the teacher, you'll be way ahead of the game.

Have a shot of tequila.

Cut a smallish hole near the toe of last year's sneakers – to try and get few more months out of them, and allow the fetid steam to escape.

More tequila.

Have your child memorize a few young adult book titles, just in case the teacher asks what they've been reading over the summer. "Sports Illustrated while taking a crap" is not the correct answer.

Have a shot of tequila.

Pass them the toenail clippers with the reminder: "No, it is not cool to see how far the toenails, especially the big yellow ones, can fly". Shut the bathroom door. Flying toenail clippings have been known to lodge themselves in peoples' corneas, blinding them for life.

More tequila.

Scrape a Pogo or a Pizza Pop off the wall of the freezer and pack them, with love, in a recyclable poo bag normally reserved for dog shit. Toss in a buck or two for bomb making supplies, er, nutritious snacks.

Make a tequila smoothie for lunch.

Cut off their thumbs. Or, call Rogers, Koodoo, Bell, or Telus and have their little text message machines from Hell disconnected, once and for all. You never know – if not texting while eating, shitting, sleeping, or hanging with the person they are texting – they just might, possibly, maybe, with any luck, learn something other than, how to abbreviate and write "hey".

Make tequila ice cubes for later (multi-tasking).

Pull socks, lunch bag, maggots, report card, gym clothes, unopened library books, sling shot, and suspicious furry thing out of last year's back pack, then douse with gasoline and light it all on fire. Call a cab and head to Walmart. Grab the first, cheap backpack you can get your hands on, and some Oreo Cakesters for the ride home. Go back and grab more Cakesters because you ate them all while in the line-up full of people fatter than you are, buying crap they also cannot afford.

Slice open finger cutting the last lime.

Make a reservation at the local psych unit, or preferably White Point Beach Resort or some other place with room service, where the Principal can't find you – on the off chance the first day back doesn't go so well.

Have a shot of tequila in some warm milk.

Call White Point back, and book a 2-for-1 tee time. Then call an old boyfriend and hang up. (It's the tequila.) Craft a well-written note to the teacher, apologizing in advance for anything your child may blurt out in class, due to an inherited form of acute, verbal diarrhea. Pin it to the luncheon poo bag so they won't forget.

Tuck them in, just before midnight, freshly scrubbed, in something other than a bathing suit and a sleeping bag – and in their own bed – not on the sofa, in a tent, on a boat, or on the floor of the neighbour's man cave covered in chips and root beer. Thank your lucky, fucking stars they survived another summer, and try not to cry because you love them more than life itself and they are growing up so fast – and because they fell asleep in seconds – not one bit nervous about the first day at a new school, wearing old shoes.

Sleep tight.


The fall 2-for-1 golf deal is back on at White Point so let's get the hell out of here!
For reservations call 1.800.565.5068. Or book online at www.whitepoint.com.

The Rubber Duck Car Wash has a great website: www.rubberduckcarwash.com.