Teenager Scribbler

Parents!!! One word to get a teenager into an instant mood (Old, torn, worn out, smelly shoes for guessin’ the kinda mood). They’re like walkin’, talkin’ ‘Tell Me Why’ books. Where’re you goin’? What do you need money for? Why’re you late? Where were you? The what, the when, the where, the who, the how….phew. And they say raisin’ up kids is difficult? Questions which basically have no answers or extremely obvious ones are what I get shot at. ‘Did you get your broken coolers fixed?’(Well Ma, would it still be lyin’ there in pieces if I had?) ‘Do you need any money?’(Are you really gonna fill me up if I said yes? Why ask ‘em in the first place if you’re not gonna give any? You don’t ask teenagers if they need money. Of course they need money. Why wouldn’t they?) Typical money conversations (which are probably only ones which take place between me and my folks) at my place go somewhat like this:

‘Ma, I need money’

‘How much?’ (Like she’s really gonna give it all to me)

‘How much you got?’

(Yes, I can be a blood-sucker at times, but c’mon, I’m their only son. They don’t have to spend money on anyone else. Pretty fair trade-off here you see? I ain’t that bad as you think. Besides, I’ll take real good care o’ them when I land myself in a job, which is gonna keep me confined to an 8 x 10 cubicle, frantically runnin’ my fingers on a cushioned key-board, on which the cushion is of obviously no use, and squeeze the juice outta me for no less than 14 hours a day and make the somewhat high salary seem like the tip that you’d give a waiter. Why am I wishin’ for such a paradisiacal job you think? I’m an Engineer. If I’m gonna wish for more I’d better be sure I’m rubbin’ Aladdin’s lamp. But all that I get to rub after I graduate, is a cushioned-chair look-alike which would analytically make you come to the conclusion that saddles are equivalent to heaven.)

‘What happened to the 100 bucks I gave you yesterday?’

(Wham. Only mothers can do that. Answer a question with a question that’ll knock you outta your senses. Now I’m really used to it (well….sorta), so I play it cool, although I’m wettin’ myself on the inside. What possible explanation could someone give for a question like that? (I’d bet a million bucks that it’ll baffle a Chartered Accountant.) Even that 100 bucks would’ve forgotten that it was with me (for like 5 whole minutes) the day before. And even if I did remember I can’t tell her the truth. Not that I took a gurl out or somethin’. (Yeah right. A 100 bucks in my pocket and I’m talkin’ about takin’ out a gurl?? Man, my Mom’s question really must have knocked my senses out. It takes at least two grand to take a gurl out these days. With these smelly restaurants and fast-food joints gettin’ new air-fresheners, confined spaces, and most importantly, a Newly Improved Menu Card, ‘impossible’ is the next word that comes to the mind of guys like me before takin’ out a gurl. And moreover, I’ve seen some guys unlike me takin’ chicks to such places. If you ask me I’d describe their condition in one word- Pathetic (with a capital ). But who asks me? I’m just another single guy tryin’ to get a life non-single ones may envy on. Why? You ask? I’ll tell you why. Remember those guys unlike me who took chicks to the restaurants? Well, their dates first test their patience (and the poor guy appointed as a waiter) by gaining a thorough knowledge of every item on the God-damned menu, due to which after some while, the waiter starts wonderin’ if he should be promoted as the Chief Chef. Then, the young lady, advances to give out an order which our poor waiter who’s already wonderin’ about his promotion, stops in the middle of it and starts calculating if he could’ve done away with a copy of the menu personally delivered to the Chef instead of findin’ a note-book large enough to jot down The Order, which if he was bright enough could’ve sold it to a publisher who foxes house-wives into buyin’ a low-cost compilation of continental delicacies. Hold on now. I’m not finished with the dates yet. Amidst all this, the guy keeps oglin’ into the chicks’ eyes as if he’d been hypnotized by a witch. (Well, the hypnotized part is certainly true, and hell, so is the witch part (What else would you call a woman with two inches of paint on her eyes, three inches on her cheeks, three and a half on her lips, nails the size of drum-sticks, and her hair havin’ a striking resemblance to a Tailor bird’s nest?)). So, as our poor and confused waiter arrives with all the stuff ordered (that he could get in one trip), frantically tryin’ to catch his breath in between, these two hold hands on the table, pretendin’ to be lost in each other, not givin’ the poor guy a chance to set the stuff down. Suddenly, the Cruella De Vil shrieks on seein’ the food set down by Mr. Poor-and-confused. Reason? She was on a diet and she forgot that while orderin’…..which perfectly explains why she ordered food enough to feed half o’ Somalia (The rest o’ the half lost their appetite on catchin’ a glimpse of our damsel). The afore mentioned pathetic guy then proceeds to feed her with his own hands, holdin’ a spoon of course (Why would anyone put food in an alligator’s mouth bare-handed?). She then advances as close to the spoon as possible, opens her mouth, and denies eatin’ (What suspense? Did you see that comin’? I’d bet Alfred Hitchcock wouldn’t have). After stuffin’ a coupla spoons, she puts up her hands in exhaustion to say she can’t eat a morsel more (Although, I’m pretty sure she can eat twice the items a ten-fold menu could hold). Our protagonist then gets up and tries to talk her into watchin’ a movie or whatever, as though he doesn’t care about all the money he wasted on the food (He doesn’t have a choice but to put up a carefree front. He can’t yell at her for orderin’ all that. Neither can he hog all of ‘em down with a gurl watchin’ him. Checkmate pal!!! Either lose your money or lose more o’ your money). Oh and if some o’ you new readers’re curious as to which movie they went to, finish your homework in the previous blog.) The point is I can’t tell her what I did with the money. Period.

I’m a genius!! All these thoughts run through me in micro-miniscule seconds, while I’m simultaneously workin’ up an answer for The question. Man!! My brain-cells must be overflowin’. No wonder they call me The Retardo Man!! Ahem….ahem….A’ rite I’ll stop.)

‘I spent it’.

(I know you’re all goin’ like “That’s it? That’s the bright answer? You made me read all that in the brackets just to hear this stupid one? I’m bringin’ my baseball bat now you bozo.” Hold it right there fellas. I haven’t finished yet.)

‘How’d you spend all that money? What’d you do with it? I gave you a fifty the day before too.’

(She says this as she puts the money on the table.)

‘Ma, where’s my socks? Why’re they never there where I put ‘em? Every single day I’ve to search for ‘em.’

(Bingo!! Perfect timing!!! She forgets all ‘bout the 100 bucks and goes sock-hunting. I did it again!! Now all those who’re gonna try this at home consult trained professionals first. The conversation must begin strictly at places where her purse is at an arm’s length and, most importantly, when she’s busy. For more details, contact me with a description of your Mom and the kinda job she does. Warning! Do not try this if your Mom’s a house-wife and your Dad’s already left for work.)

Well, such is how my day is made. I’m off now. (What? You expect me to write more with such hard-earned cash in my pocket? Hell, I’m outta here. Besides, some o’ you evil ones‘ve been complainin’ my blog’s too long. So right now, I’d better leave. Up, up, and awaaaaaayyyyy!!!).