Sandy Slaga

My son turns eighteen tomorrow.

Over the past few weeks he has been prepping me for surgery. Apparently he will be performing this procedure, which will involve the severing of someone’s apron strings.

I’m not aware of anyone whose apron strings need severing. Nipped and tucked, perhaps, but not severing.

But I digress.

Several weeks ago, the still-seventeen year old informed me of two events in which he will be participating following the eighteenth anniversary of his birth. My presence is neither required nor requested.

The first event, I was told, would be the purchase and smoking of a cigar. From Rudy’s Cigar Shop. A real cigar. A man’s cigar. As opposed to a woman’s cigar?

I can handle that. I’m not thrilled with my son intentionally ingesting toxins and ash, but I can deal with it.

The second event, my son announced, would involve his also-turning-eighteen-this-week friend. Something about a road trip. And a strip club.

And my son. My son. Fruit of my womb. DNA of my DNA.

After my eyes resumed position in their sockets and the mysterious screeching faded, I advised my son that such a road trip would proceed only after certain other events occurred.

Events involving my dead body, below zero temperatures, hell, pigs and flight.

Now I like to think I’d make a pretty damn effective dead body, but there are some things that sons are going to do just because they can.

Strip clubs are like peeing al fresco.

I’ve done the guilt. Not going there. Not for this. I’m saving it for greater where-was-his-mother-when-he-was-doing-that issues.

He peed al fresco.

And he’ll find his way, eventually, to that damn strip club.

Because he can.

This entry was posted on Monday, September 25th, 2006 at 9:31 am and is filed under Daily Klatsch, Teenagers. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.