Skipping past Writober and Nanoblomo . . ? Shit, I dunno. I'm as bored as you are.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Monthly Newsletter: Month Forty-Nine?
You’re asleep in the next room here at the Hampton Inn & Suites in Valdosta, Georgia. We spent the day (well, four hours of it) at Wild Adventures to celebrate your birthday. Tomorrow, after we wake up, take in the complimentary “hot breakfast,” and repack our belongings, we’re gonna swing by Wild Adventures again for a hopefully longer session of fun before making the 90-minute drive back to Tallahassee. Sunday is the family “party” and the many presents.
You “officially” started preschool two weeks ago, and you’re already asking about kindergarten. Which kind-of worries us, as we’re really torn about the various schooling options that lie before us . . . the overly diverse magnet school (focus on the arts) we’re zone for, the “charter” school that may or may not be run by hippies, or the school your mommy’s office is zoned for (demographically resembling the city as a whole and a solid performer). I feel like a racist worrying about these kinds of issues, but your early homecare had excluded African-American children as a business decision*, and the subsequent preschool years have been overwhelmingly whitebread.
(ASIDE: I really tried, just now, to be fair in the battle of Pepsi vs. Coke as manifested in the third-floor vending area. Of course your mommy was gonna want Diet Coke, so that was a given. But I tried to get Sierra Mist instead of Sprite, and Aquafina over Dasani, and the fucking Pepsi machine would NOT take my dollar bills. The Coke machine sucked those things right in. So we’re drinking their horrible corporate water over Pepsi’s.)
Look, Mia, we really couldn’t ask for a better daughter. Is what I’m trying to say. Sadly, you’re cursed with imperfect parents . . . your mother, who won’t eat ketchup because it’s made from tomatoes but loves barbeque sauce (denying that it’s just spiced-up ketchup), and your father, who until a year ago thought that wasabi was, like guacamole, made from avocados, and just earlier this evening uttered the phrase, “I bet Tallahassee is gettin’ tore up by rain right now.”
Rise above, sweet Mia. Rise above.
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