When I was a kid in school and for one reason or another had to stay home my Mom used to have to write an ” excuse ” so that I could get back into class.

I don’t what it’s like now days with the texting and e-mail, but back then if you forgot your note you had to sit in the office  and wait for the secretary to call home and get the excuse over the phone PLUS a promise to bring the written note the next day.

I wasn’t absent often, but I often forgot or lost my note because

well

because I thought my Mom wrote the most lame excuses ever.

Please excuse Anita Marie, she had a cold

( face palm! )

I would have written:

Please excuse Anita Marie, the exorcism didn’t take- we had to do it over.

I know some kids were mortified by parents who wore funny clothes or sang stupid songs or drove uncool cars, but those notes written by my Mom?

Gads.

So the upshot was I spent time in the Office waiting for someone to get a hold of my Mom- which was no small thing because in those days she worked in a processing plant and someone would have to find her and then give her the message and then they had to pull her off the line and she had to get to a phone and call the school back.

I remember thinking as I watched the secretary’s face how glad that I wasn’t on the phone listening to whatever it was my Mom was saying right then. My Mom didn’t yell or swear. But she chose her words well- which was a shame because it was that particular way she had of communicating that resulted in her awful boring notes that I was expected to hand over on her behalf.

” She was mad, wasn’t she? ” I asked sympathetically.

” Yes. She Was. Very.”

I sat there, usually next to some kid or kids waiting to see the Principal.

Those kids fascinated me. They were real trouble makers and one of my favorite trouble makers who always seemed to be there, I guess now that he had a standing appointment or something like that-  He was about 11 years old and he smoked. Buddy wasn’t stealing his unfiltered smokes from his Dad- he stole them from his Mom and she had a tatoo.

This was in ’74 and it was the suburbs so Buddy’s Mom was very unique.

” What’d you do this time?” I asked.

Buddy would fill me in and then he said, ” Fed your note to your dog again?”

” Yeah.”

” Anita? “

” What.”

” Your excuses are lame.”

 

 

 

If you have kids…or if you have to spend any amount of time around them, then you know that nothing can chill the blood faster than hearing your kid respond to the question, ” what are you doing ” with the reply 

” Nothing. ” 

You just know that when you open the door or walk into the room or turn around and look down it’s not going to be good. 

Personally, I could never figure out using ” nothing ” as an excuse- at the most it’ll buy you a few seconds, I mean if you are going to run it probably more than enough time to make a get away. 

Myself, when I was interrupted mid-stunt by my Mom or Grandmother and they asked me what was I doing- I never said ” Nothing.” 

I’d say ” Guess. ” 

And then I would hear, ” don’t give me any lip, answer me.” 

Then I’d hear the footsteps headed up the stairs to my room and then I’d yell down, ” No really- just guess!” 

And then when the door would open and my Mom would stand there  and look at me like- well, all these years later I still can’t describe that look. 

” It would have been better if you had guessed first” I said with as much wisdom as a nine year old who could muster. 

Once and only once  my Grandma would ask me why it would have been better  if she had taken that guess and I told her ” because it makes it funnier.” 

” Do you think worrying people like that is funny?” 

I didn’t answer, I’d just look up at the ceiling and shook my head. 

” What are you looking at?” 

” Guess. ” I told her. 

” Do  you know what happens to smart aleck kids like you?” she asked. 

” Want me to guess?” 

I remember falling on the refinished floor in this fit of hysterical laughter and when Grandma restricted me for the next three days for smarting off I spent those three days in my room drawing on the newly  re-finished hardwood floor under my bed with my Dad’s model airplane paint. 

They found my artwork about a week later. 

 No one asked me why I had done that- they just carpeted the floor and locked up the model paint and instead of asking me what I was doing my parents and Grandparents took to telling me, ” I have eyes on the back of my head, so don’t even think about pulling anything.” 

 But of course I kept right on pulling things- in fact I out did myself for awhile because guess what- they did not have eyes on the backs of their heads.

I checked. 

Guess you weren’t surprised to hear I did that, were you?