Why My Kid Is No Longer Officially Enrolled in an Oregon School

A few weeks ago D was complaining that she didn't feel well. She was tired. Nauseous. I chalked it up to extra dance lessons and bad diet. She, in her ultimate teen wisdom, Web MD'd her symptoms and concluded that she had mono. I laughed at her and told her she didn't have mono, she just needed to sleep more and eat better. Her father (who is often a hypochondriac) took her to the doctor. The results? The darn kid had mono. There goes my credibility. Except you know what the treatment for mono is? Rest and a better diet. So there. I was still right.

Since she's been so drained of energy and always feeling like she's about to puke, she's been home from school for the last three weeks. After missing intermittent days before and after her diagnosis. I actually had to start homeschooling her. What a joyous day that was. I still hate math and I'm still not any better at it than I was 25 years ago. But I am excellent at writing position papers.

Last week I got a call from the attendance office at the school. They were kind enough to let me know that my child has been unenrolled in the school. Something about how she's been absent for more than ten consecutive days and the school district doesn't want to pay for her so it's just a technicality and she needs to stop in the office and say hi when she returns to get reenrolled.

When looking up mono, we found out that once you have it, you have it forever and you just become a carrier of it but you don't have symptoms again. So let this be a warning to any gross boys out there who think they want to kiss my kid.

Also? She can never use my chapstick or lip gloss again. Ha ha.

Ballerinas and Taxidermists

This weekend D and I went to Portland for a little culture and arts-viewing, aka The Ballet. She chose Giselle because her ballet school performed it last summer and she wanted to see it performed by professionals, Oregon Ballet Theatre to be exact. It was beautiful and the sets and costumes (from Florence, Italy) were absolutely incredible and she almost cried numerous times because she's been out of ballet for a while due to her super-fun illness. It was packed because I don't pay attention to actual dates and hadn't realized I got tickets for opening night. But it was really, truly wonderful and if you have a chance to go, you should. (Just make sure you really remember to turn your cell phone off or some redneck loud-clapper will make snotty comments while continuing to talk throughout the entire performance. Don't ask me how I know this.)

I saw my friend Mel who I hadn't seen since she moved to Portlandia. She lives on a houseboat so we had a little adventure. I was hoping we'd be rocked to sleep, but it stood still like a real house. Although it is not a house I could ever be drunk in because the walkway to the house is very slippery and the stairs are open on one side and the loft has no protective wall or railing and the washing machine is in the garage, which on a river means it is on water. I didn't even dare to test this theory. We met her new Rottweiler puppy who I almost stole until she chewed the heel on my pretty shoe. I knew then that she wasn't a member of our family; my dogs have always known better.

Our biggest adventure was the store she told us about with stuffed animals. As in taxidermied animals. I was beyond excited to go there. Ever since seeing Dinner for Schmucks I have been obsessed with the idea of having my own little mouse diorama. D and I discussed getting one for each of us and naming them Harry and Sally or Thelma and Louise or Milo and Otis, depending on what their sexes were. I was literally squealing with excitement in the car on the way to the shop.

We walked in and the first things I saw were educational books and gross little piles of dirt wrapped in foil that turned out to be excrement from owls and other meat-eating birds with little skeletons and shit. Really, it was shit. And so booooring. And then I saw them. Little taxidermied mice. White ones and brown ones. There was a little circus ringleader complete with top hat. There was a punk rocker with a purple mohawk. There was a tiny Pope mouse. They even had a tiny flying angel mouse with white wings!!! In the middle of doing my little happy dance, I saw the price tags. $90. $110. What? Are you kidding me? A hundred bucks for a fucking dead animal??? I was crestfallen. Heartbroken. One does not have the luxury of spending $100 on a dead animal when one is living on unemployment. Oh, the sadness.

I tried to pacify myself with other delights. A beautiful butterfly? Too pedestrian. A tiny turtle enclosed in an acrylic case? Not furry enough. A taxidermied flying bat? Nope. Still too much moolah. How about a little alligator head? Where on earth would I put that thing? I left with nothing; D got a peacock feather. Yippee skippee.

I bought popcorn and candy and chocolate for the ride home to console myself. My obsession continues....