I threatened my three boys with finishing school.
They looked at me strangely . " What's that?" they asked...
" A place where young boys and girls dress up in suits and ties, dresses and ball gowns, and learn proper etiquette. What fork goes with what course of the meal being served, how to be proper and fancy; how to dance waltzes".
A perfectly even mixture of terror at the thought, and incredulousness, that people actually attend places like that, ensued at our dinner table. I received the "mom" eye, across the sarracha chicken, from my Wonderful Wife.
It became much more pronounced , as I informed my McMonkeys that they would have to attend a cotillion.
Stephen laughed and almost spit out his hot dog. I looked at him strangely, this time, as he told us that he couldn't help laughing. The word sounded funny.
Jacob, of course started laughing, too.
Soon, both corners of the table had red faced kids,feeding off each other's fit of unexplainable and explosive teary-eyed, hiccup filled, hilarity...
I mimicked a pirouette, telling them both that they would both be doing that, with girls.
Notched up a level further, they laughed like only nine and eleven year olds can, as my Wonderful Wife shook her head. " You don't have to encourage them" was all she said...
I don't even know for sure, what a " cotillion" is...
Rewind about two hours, and you would find my lovely bride and I having a spirited financial discussion about whether a new bed for our eldest son is a luxury or a need.
I think a mattress that isn't shorter than he is yet, laying on the floor, sans box spring, bed frame or headboard, is o.k.
She, being somewhat more fancy and refined than me, believes that a properly equipped bed is a requirement for our ever- growing McTeen.
Truth be told, I have absolutely no idea who is correct. I slept on a futon for most of my pre-marital, adult life. That, or the old " coffin rack", in the Navy. The futon was usually still in the upright position, because of my propensity to laziness...
I hated changing it from a bed, to a couch and back, again. It was much easier to leave like a couch.
Not more comfortable. I rolled out of that darned thing, onto my apartments wooden floor, more times than I care to count.
It was much easier, though...
The day after we sold our dresser, and our clothes were folded in laundry baskets, awaiting our kids old dresser to be moved into our room, she aggravatingly said that she could not understand how anyone could live out of baskets.
I never recall purposely using a dresser, most of my adult life.
Two sea- bags I had, remnants from the old Navy days. One I used for a hamper, the other kept my clean clothes.
When all my clothes were dirty, I brought both stinky sea-bags to the laundromat, washing them both, and all their contents.
After drying everything, I did a rough fold, stacked the now clean clothes into piles, and then placed them back in the bags. I wore everything from one bag, temporarily storing the dirty clothes in the corner, until the bag emptied and became a hamper, again.
Repeat for a decade and a half...
We moved furniture around, when I came home from work, the day after selling the other dresser and set up our bigger, more drawered dresser against the wall.
I heard a sigh of relief...
Does my son need a bed with mattresses, box springs, headboard, footboard and frame?
Probably.
Am I in need of finishing school, myself?
Do I need to go to a cotillion ?
It might be easier to just buy the bed...
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