Fashionista - Hero

I am apparently back at the cutting edge Fashionista - why you may ask, although now I only respond to por quoi as I pret-a-porter it.

The kids are growing old and as part of this process they deciding whether to strive for an "ista" or an "ology", and "ista" is winning. Where once pink was the colour for at least one of the family, and Disney stores were as "must see" as must see gets, unless Toys R us were having a sale.

Now as teenage hormones kick in with overtones that  fashion takes on a key role in self expression.....well peer group expression.
As if by magic, the colours are multiplied and crossed tartan is back, its as if the "Bay City Rollers" were the true lost prophets.. There is more is more tartan than a Highland Fling could compete with in the school yard.

And I am rolling the clock back, a pendulum that rocks in years.

Never mind the sweat stains, never mind the wear patches, never mind the pot belly, I have tartan in the closet. I am cutting edge.

It time to be cool again.

Call of Duty

Teenager or not,  as an obliging parent I am called upon at the beginning of a school year to listen attentatively, well pretend to listen attentatively, well sit there; whilst a headmaster or a teacher impresses me the importance of doing French homework and they are right and I am wrong. Education, education, edu...wake me up Scotty.

But I am not the only one,as I sit amongst the throng of maternal and paternal do-gooders wearing sensible casual clothes as well as a patience wearing thin.  Then like an alarm clock, a parent's evening erupted to life as a teacher complained that a classroom cupboard was failing, and we all know a failing cupboard is a small step to a failing school.

She probably wanted a donation to fix it, but instead there was a rush of male adulthood to inspect said cupboard, all driven by a desire not to be sitting. The cupboard was not exactly the best thing in flatpack technology and looked as if it should have had a sell by date, since its laminate was so thin a good polish would have converted it into window feature.

The DIY boys gathered around,  fingering screwdrivers that appeared from pockets as if it was the norm, there was even a.... a feeler gauge! Do not ask me to explain. I am all for boy scouts, but a parent evening does not require (normally) a feeler gauge.

The boys were in their element, points were noted, repair strategies debated. Wives and mothers looked on, including the odd sad reflection of sitting manhood......me. But I know, we all knew...

And we all knew that all that was needed was a good roll of duck tape that could have made a hanging door into a silver wrapped ghetto-standard door in a matter of minutes..... and .if my mind runs perhaps to the dark side... probably could have cut short a few subsequent speeches with a threatening stare and finger point to the skin-to-ducktape stickability quality ratio.

A Person calls

The art of telephone message taking is not difficult in modern times given a 98% literate population, but this median probably takes account disproportionately of adults. Teenagers have probably been discounted from all known averages, as part of a known phenomena about the intelligent gene skipping a few teen years. I hope it returns before A levels or Arbitur equivalent.

I am deservedly bath-side of  teenage family ripping it up or chilling it down or whatever new-fangled word means having fun or playing it cool. I am taking in the soapy waters, after mulling a few things in a working day that deservedly were needed to be mulled. I am in my comfort zone, mulling over nothing much..... me , a rubber duck and a favoured CD playing.

A teenager interrupts there is someone on the telephone for me.

"Who is it?" I ask innocently enough methinks.

After due thought, a teenager ponders "A person".

Hoorah, evolution aside, we have successfully determined it was not animal or mineral.

I politely suggest he finds out, takes a message and  I carefully avoid my natural instinct for an argument based on irony and tendency towards sarcasm, for to win an adult battle may mean losing the teenage war.

Hell's bells, temptation wins,  I shout out he may need a pen, he may need a notepad and he may need to put the phone down after pressing the red button.

'Do you think I am stupid?'.

"Who needs to think".

Oops, a teenage war is lost.

Bad Parenting and the wannabe orphans

Bad parenting  is about  perspective. From the perspective of my teenagers I am a bad parent.


I am able to readily list my bad parenting, as I am often reminded, well should I say, I survive threats that when the revolution comes there is  a list, due to this list of misdemeanours I am condemned, I will be the first living parent  of orphans.  So topping the list......


I am associated with child abuse by torture, I have used allegedly torture techniques on the teenagers, such as sleep deprivation, or what I called waking up to go to school. 


I am accused of  forced child labour which I use to call  doing homework.


I am accused of stealing his socks. There is unfortunately little evidence that they are actually my socks, since I have refrained from needlecraft involving sowing "Dad" in the inner sock area, but trust me they are my socks. Much as I may need to get in touch with my inner karma, my foot needs to get in touch with its inner sock. Besides all else I have paid for all socks.


I have apparently caused short-sightedness of vision because I am no longer called "Dad" but like several other acquaintenances, I am now called "mate". Maybe I need to sow "Mate" in my socks to at least get a chance of retrieval.

The Chilled War is in Need of Thawing

My home apparently is now in a state of Chilled War. I may have lost a son and gained  complete control of the remote control, at least when sis is not in a fightin' mood. If he turns up downstairs, this may count as a miracle and I could start a new religion. I am checking his water-to-wine making ability, which might be a damn sight more useful at times of economic crisis, than forty nights in the wilderness of freely deposited clothes and CD boxes.

My son is hibernating, cacooning himself in a room, chilling in Teen-land. When he appears in the flesh, perhaps to take sustenance of, say, a digestive biscuit or two, I have to rush to stop the publication of the missing person ads, apologetic in telling the police it was an "easy mistake to make" and suggest the face on the milk cartons were not a good likeness anyway.

The good news he appears to be still alive, if  the noises that blabber from his room are actually his breaking to broken voice. I am assured by those in the know, his sis', that he is not talking to himself, he is not medically insane and I should  slowdown on my need to double check his room for belts, shoelaces and ties. It is not a sign of madness, I am told, but Playstation internet chatting to mates, real mates he could physically touch if he walked around a block, took a bus ride.

School boys networking after school by technology that comes in camouflaged digital worlds and death is without pain, you get points.

My point is I am now happy, would like to give up the remote control a bit.

Do as I say, not as I do

I was, back in the day, quite good at school, I most of the time did things quite well and I have the odd certificate to prove it. I would like to think I have passed on this zeal to learn  as a gift to the younger generation. A gift so indelibly linked on my 50% of their DNA that I would gladly give up an aunt saying they had paternally  inherited  say, a commonality of a nose, an dual shading of eye colour or the cute dimple on a Pryce chin.

So I, today, I am discouraged, as there are apparently better things to do, on a warm Sunny Saturday than study for say six to eight hours. Exams can damn well wait until the clouds come back apparently. I am reduced to utterances that they~ the kids ~ they ~ the students ~ they should be like me.

Unfortunately intelligence can manifest in many forms. Apparently if I want her to be like me, she confidently tells me she will put on thirty kilos then.

Ooops.

In Tribute to Kevinetta

It may be the weather, it may be a moon-sea-earth trichotomy or something like that, but times are-a-changing.  I may have said something incendiary, inappropriate. I may have put the size tens in the turd-fest called teenager rights of passage....again. This time, it may have involved a call to help involving pulling a trolley to a local supermarket.
As offences go I did not realise I had made a mistake bigger than forgetting her birthday.

She looked upon me as perhaps I may look upon a pile of clothes and contact lenses after night on the tiles. She was mouthing "D'er " before her brain had even a nano-second of her time to send a synapse to a mouth in "snarl-mode-to-go". This girl was so on automatic;  that it made me look manual in a world of  drive-neutral-park gears. She actually bent her knees, she actually slouched her shoulders, her arms elongated like an orangutan about to knuckle-walk the floor. Her body said "D'ER".

I was in the wrong obviously. I was so obviously being stupid. I was fulfilling her every worst teenage nightmare.

I was failing to unreasonably realise:
(a) a trolley was uncool, granny style
(b) a Daddy was uncool, especially her own
(c) local shopping was so uncool, what are large out of town supermarkets good for
(d) walking to a shop was uncool, involving broad daylight
(e) walking anywhere was uncool, yep still involves broad daylight.

I had failed to realise gang-girl-culture-hangout-posse may see her with a Dad, with a trolley, without a car. Serious street cred was in danger of being blown away like a Dylanesque wind.

So her backside was not letting any air enter the backside-couch vacuum.

I demanded, I remonstrated, I would break the vacuum, ....and she remembered like a white knight, winner-takes-all, four-of-a-kind, Famous Five saves the Day again, Ace of Spades trump carding, "Its a knockout " Joker kind of way, she had long forgotten homework to do.
Daddy showed his age and said "D'er", as I moved deliberately through the gears, first ~ why suddenly do you remember homework, second ~ why are you still sitting there then, third ~ make me a cuppa when I get back and fourth is not reached because I am an old driver in a built up area these days.

I was to shop alone.