Follow ups…

Standard

A few weeks back I wrote a blog complaining about the boy’s need for a job. Unfortunately he received an email from our Zoo informing him the job he applied for had been filled. Darn it! Since then, trying to get the boy to fill out job applications around town has been as easy as pulling teeth with tooth floss. The other night I told him, if you do not find a job soon, I’ll find you a job to do around here–like painting our front door and surround”. “Mom, I’m sure we can both agree I’ll do a shitty job…” He said hoping I would back off. “Well then you’ll do it a second, third, forth time until you get it right-but only get paid for the first time,” I explained. “No mom, you don’t get it…” He tried. “No, I get it. That’s not a job you want to do, right? Well guess what? Beggars can’t be choosy,” I insisted. “There are plenty of jobs out there waiting to be filled. Pretty soon you’re going to be competing with the returning college students for those jobs too.  You can’t have the luxury of picking and choosing what type of job you want. You’re 17 with no experience. Therefore, you take a job that’s offered, do your best, get paid”. “Mom I can almost guarantee I won’t like those jobs…” He tried again. “Then I can almost guarantee you will be very unhappy this summer cleaning out the garage, painting the house, washing windows, cleaning the house and weeding the gardens…” I said. 
*****

What do Proms and dog kennels have in common? 

Following the Prom the other night, the boy reminded me of our old sweet dog  Sweet Pea, who on occasion went on “vacation” to a dog kennel. Whenever she returned  from  said visit, she would be exhausted that first day home, presumably from being more on alert than usual as well as very hoarse sounding, primarily from barking too much. 

Sunday morning, following the Prom, the boy complained of being exhausted, presumably from dancing and being more alert than his usual couch potato self on a Saturday night. In addition his voice was deeper than usual and overall very hoarse sounding–basically from talking all night. 

Guess he finally earned his father’s nickname for him (other than smelling like one) that night… “Basset Hound”. 

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