Dammit, people, I am really, really trying to be a grownup. I’m trying to face, head-on, everything that gets thrown my way. So why do I look like the Snuggle Bear?
Let me explain. Today (Monday, although it’ll be Tuesday when you guys read this because, well, I’m not about to start posting two times a day and having you guys call me on it when I can’t keep up the pace) is my 8th grade son’s (Mr. Cool, to most of you) interview with the powers-that-be at the really, really hard-to-get-into high school he’s been working toward being accepted to. (Yeah, yeah, shouldn’t have ended with “to” but WHAT THE HELL.) So he, dad, and I will go to the school, wait for our interviewer, and try not to throw up. We’ll try to come across as the perfect little family unit with the kid that any school would be crazy to turn down AND with the means to pay for this ridiculously expensive school (we’ll cross that bridge when we get there…right?).

I’m dressed appropriately — light khaki slacks with a blue sweater with white tee underneath. The perfect little CHS mom, right?

Except that I look like the Snuggle bear.

This sweater, a nice, extra soft chenille sweater, is coming apart all over my clothes. The damned thing is shedding so badly. My pants, reportedly a stone-khaki color at one time, are blue. The white tee? Ummm, blue. There literally shouldn’t be anything left of this damned sweater by now, it’s so all-over-the-place. This happened once before, but I attributed it to being new and my not having washed it before I wore it. But it’s been washed — it actually almost killed my dryer with the unbelievable amount of lint it created — and it’s still doing it.

I think a comedian asked once if clothes that produce a lot of lint finally disappear, having tossed their very DNA to the wind. I’m putting that query to the test today. I’ve used up several sheets of my sticky lint brush thingie. It’s an all-day thing, because the interview isn’t until this afternoon.

Will the interviewer be able to look beyond this brilliant child’s furball of a mom and see him for what he is? Will they be able to look past the mom that keeps looking down at her boobs (checking for lint on the t-shirt, people) and just missed a couple of important questions? Will they have faith that their school can turn this adolescent into more of an adult than his mom ever was?

I sure hope so. I’m going to find some lunch. Maybe I can leave a milk mustache on my lip to complete the picture.