90 pounds of Honeycrisp apples + Red Sox vs. Yankees game = great Saturday afternoon of making applesauce and watching the Sox beat up on the Yanks, right?

So far, very very wrong. It’s bottom of the 2nd inning and the Yankees are up 6-0.

At least the applesauce is delish!

Flash has been driving quite nearly every day, most times to school in the morning. Our morning route begins in the dark and involves four-lane, one-way roads and over the past month has included some rainy and foggy mornings. As his experience behind the wheel increases, my confidence has been similarly rising, allowing me to actually take in a bit of the scenery from the passenger seat from time to time.

This morning, heading out to the orchard, I put Flash behind the wheel for additional experience. Aware that I would not get to relish the drive as I often did, needing to keep my attention on Flash and the nuances of this lengthier drive, I was getting situated in the passenger seat as he performed the all-too familiar maneuver of getting us out of the driveway.

Or not-familiar-enough, as it would seem.

Having reminded the boy on many a dark morning that Flash needed to steer clear of the mailbox, on a bright, sunshine-filled Saturday morning, he took the opposite approach and backed the car into the telephone pole on the other side of the drive.

Flash + Curbie = Crashie as it turns out.

The damage is minimal, the plastic covering over the taillight will need to be replaced, but the taillight itself is intact and the bumper is only scuffed, not dented. The boy was deeply apologetic. We switched seats and I drove to the orchard. He drove the return trip, making as many cracks about the incident as I did.

At one point, he commented on the fact that winter is fast approaching and he wondered what it will be like to drive in the snow. I reminded him I was already losing sleep and gaining grey hair over sunny Saturdays in the driveway! Lord help us over the next several months. I thought it was only curbs we needed to look out for. Now we have to keep away from telephone poles to boot!

WG cooked dinner for us tonight. It was a wonderful treat to go to his house and enjoy a nice meal together. While Flash and I were there, we noticed this bag of Hershey’s kisses on the counter. The packaging was a little different than other’s I’ve seen, so I took a closer look.

“Aerated chocolate” the bag read.

Aerated chocolate?!?! What?!?! I had to ask. WG explained that it’s a regular milk chocolate kiss with holes in it. “For air” he said, as if that was perfectly normal.

“For air.” I said. “Air? Because air makes chocolate taste better?”

“Actually, I think it does,” he said. He talked about some candy bar from “back in the day” that used to have similar holes in it that was one of his faves.

Air. I just didn’t get it. So I sampled one. I kept thinking it would be like a crunch bar with rice krispies in it or something, but no, it was actually just little air holes.

We were discussing this on the ride home later and I told Flash that I think this is the new Hershey scam. “They are getting away with putting less product in each bag by putting holes in the chocolate!! This is a rip-off!!”

Flash assured me that the bags are packaged by weight, but I’m sure there’s some loop-hole. It’s like buying a quarter-pound burger, it’s all pre-cooked weight. This chocolate is pre-drilled weight!

Aerated chocolate. Ha!! I think they are just blowing smoke up our…well…aerated arses!

I realized today that not much has changed in the past twenty years of my life. It used to be I’d be out all night on the weekends, come home, take some aspirin with a big glass of water, put my smoke-infested clothes in the wash and I might even have headed back out at the call of a friend. I’d spend Sunday recooperating from a night out.

Now? I’ve been out all day, which means I’ve come inside, taken aspirin to help the joint pain in my hand (from digging up potatoes), allergy medicine with a big glass of water (weeding the strawberry patch), put my dirt and spray paint-covered clothes (shutters) in the wash and I will head back out in an hour to pick up my teenager from band competition. I’ll sleep late tomorrow recooperating from a day of outdoor chores today.

Forty? Bah. Same ol’ same ol’.

George has a new hobby. Scaring people. He likes to dress in camo (including branches sticking out of his pockets) and jump out at you from behind a bush when you visit his house. He likes to hide in pantry closet and scare his grandparents into early graves. Great new hobby of his, this George.

Last night I stayed at school with a teacher friend, both of us preferring to face the dark, empty parking lot together at the end of the evening. I organized and cleaned and asked her a million questions. She commented at one point that there were kids outside in the parking lot, in the pitch dark. “I think they are on bikes or something,” she said. “That’s why I hate being here alone. It’s creepy that they can see in the windows but I can’t see out.”

I agreed whole-heartedly, sharing about a time last year when I stayed late and completely freaked myself out walking out to my lone vehicle later that night.

I returned to my classroom and was sorting through papers on the counter in front of the wall of windows when all of a sudden George’s face appeared right up against the outside glass. “Hey Aunt Fred!” he laughed.

He.scared.the.crap.out.of.me.

Birdy was out there, too, although just trying to get my attention, not trying to make me pee my pants and die of a heart-attack. I went around to the front of the building and let in Jules and Bear and the kids. They had been out for dinner and knew I was at school so they swung by to say hello and wreak havoc on my now-clean and organized classroom. George couldn’t stop giggling about scaring me. I made him apologize to my friend for creeping her out as well. He still giggled.

Even when he left, after Birdy had hugged me several times promising her love for me (I assured her I didn’t doubt her concern for me, but that George…) George hollered back down the hall just before exiting the building to giggle and say he loved me.

I immediately began to plot revenge. I’ve had a few ideas, but I’m going to wait for that lightbulb moment that says I’ve got the most epic plan ever.

All I can say is, George, paybacks are h-e-double hockey sticks. Look out.

When navigating your way through the teenage years as a single mom with a son, do NOT read the book, Columbine. Flash picked it up out of curiosity at the dollar store (what better way to spend a buck?) and after he finished, I gave it a read.

Yeah. Bad idea.

As if I wasn’t terrified enough about not getting this push-pull, be-involved-but-not-overly-involved, how many questions are enough but not too many, do I really know my kid relationship just right already. Then you pick up a book about two boys who plotted to blow up their high school and successfully killed 13 before killing themselves, and you find out how many similarities your own child has with the lead killer.

As I would read before bed each night, I would holler down to Flash, “Hey, you’re not making pipe bombs in the basement, are you?” to try to laugh off how disturbing this book was.

“Nah. I’ve been making them in my closet.” He’d reply.

“And the napalm?”

“I’m having the same problems that Eric had, but I think I have it mostly figured out now.”

Ah, yes. The comforting banter of a teenager.

It’s all funny until you realize the killer had similar conversations, dropping hints and flat out telling details of his plan but no one took him seriously.

Pardon me, but I think I’m going to go search Flash’s closet. Anyone know what napalm looks like?

I should have known how the evening would go even before we arrived. When asked what he wanted to do for his birthday dinner, WG replied, “Are there other Italian restaurants around other than Olive Garden? I could really go for chicken parmesan, but I’d like to go someplace other than Olive Garden. There must be other choices other than Olive Garden.” I started to assure him that there were many other options when he interrupted me to say, “Oh, but I really do like the salads at Olive Garden. Let’s go to Olive Garden.”

To clarify, I said, “So you want to go to an Italian restaurant in town that is not Olive Garden but is Olive Garden?!” I should have known he wouldn’t even order chicken parm once he got there either.

Jules and Fam surprised WG by joining us for dinner at the Olive Garden that wasn’t but was actually Olive Garden. I’m still not sure if the look on WG’s face was excitement or dread. If nothing else, maybe he’ll learn from this experience and bring his own family for the next celebration. For your entertainment, I’ve included some excerpts from the conversation.

Discussing a factory job Jules and I both had in college, Bear reminded her that she at least worked in air conditioning. I reminded everyone that she was a table top stripper. “Mom was a stripper?!” George asked. His mother tried to explain that it was a printing term, but Birdy and Flash were laughing too hard to hear the legitimate explanation.

We learned from Birdy that girls can actually just call “dibs” on a boy. I didn’t realize. This might have changed my dating life dramatically. (WG said I could dib him if I wanted to. Whew.)

George, reading off the kids’ menu, “What is the Indian name for Naples?” (His fifth grade teacher would be so proud.)

Despite getting Indian confused with Italian, several of us at the table scored decently on George’s menu quiz. Except for Jules (and WG who believed that Mt. Vesuvius is a city) but we all know that strippers just aren’t that smart.

We helped George fill in the mad-lib on the menu as well. He went around the table asking us each for a different part of speech for the story. Flash needed to come up with an activity. He was futzing around with his straw and bits of napkin while he pondered the question, so when he finally declared that he just didn’t have any ideas, George filled in the blank with “pee shooter”. We tried to correct his spelling to make the activity a bit more pleasant, but George was too delighted with the idea of a urine shooter.

When the bill arrived, George asked why his dad was paying it and not his mom. Bear explained that strippers just don’t make that much money solidifying the odds that George will in fact explain to his teacher and class in the very near future that his mom, an active member of her small town community, is actually a stripper.

The fact that WG was so delighted to have my family join us for dinner further worries me. Who would endure conversations such as these, in public no less, and feel grateful for the opportunity?!

A crazy 40 year old man, I suppose. Happy Birthday, Part I, WG!

You wanted to know about MY first day? Oh fine.

Let’s see, first grade = color, cut, glue.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Yeah, many hours were spent after school was out today developing plans that do not involve crayons, scissors or glue. I’d be happy if they were just abolished.

And for the record,

SHOES ARE AN ABOMINATION TO SOCIETY. They are, perhaps, the worst part of all about going back to school.

177 school days to go.

I can do this.

I think.