How to Fix Parenthesis

I took Austin to a dermatologist today. He had something on his elbow that I thought was probably a wart. I didn't want to go get some over-the-counter medicine and treat it myself though for fear that it wasn't in fact a wart and I'd be putting salicylic acid on a spot of skin cancer or something. And if I had even mentioned the possibility there was a wart on Austin's arm, I just know my mom would've told me to put a tomato on it. My dad, the Greek, might have suggested Windex just because he's seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding too many times. But I could just see the doctor reprimanding me, "Well, he'd be just fine if someone hadn't burned a hole through the cancer and made it spread to his entire arm."

Anyway, after filling out some paperwork, we sat in the waiting room where a 50,000 inch TV played infomercial after infomercial about Botox and Microdermabrasion. I briefly glanced at the TV and rolled my eyes. Why do people subject themselves to this? Are wrinkles really that bad? Looking at the "before" pictures, I honestly couldn't see anything wrong with the women that required fixing. I glanced back at the TV as I heard them excitedly assured me that with Botox, I'd still be able to smile, frown, and look surprised. Oh yeah. Sign me up for that. I especially like the part where they let me know I'll be able to make a variety of facial expressions. You know, just in case I was considering the procedure, but that was the one thing holding me back - worrying that I wouldn't be able to convey my feelings of surprise to others. The voice on the TV continued, letting me know that it shouldn't look like I have parenthesis on my face. Parenthesis? I thought they were "laugh lines". I like "laugh lines" better than parenthesis. Laugh lines are like a badge of honor. A medal, or trophy of sorts received for living life well and enjoying it.

I dismissed the infomercials and asked Austin how the meeting with his counselor went today. He told me that he'd signed up to take Japanese next year. That's right. The kid who doesn't want to do any homework is going to learn a foreign language and not just any foreign language, but a language that has a whole 'nother alphabet! An alphabet that looks like chicken scratches to my untrained eye. Very pretty chicken scratches, but still, characters that are completely indiscernible to me. Yeah, sounds like a good plan. "You know, Austin. Japanese is going to be pretty hard to learn. And where are you going to use it? Why didn't you take Spanish or French? I think they'd be much easier to learn and you'd probably have a better opportunity to use them. By the time you get to your third year of Japanese, I have a feeling it's going to be really difficult."

"Oh, I won't get to my third year," he informed me. "I have a better plan. I need 3 years of language, so I'm just going to take Japanese 1, then I'll switch to French 1, then I'll switch to Italian 1. I'll never have to take a hard class."

SIGH "Oh Austin," I lamented, shaking my head. You do realize that once you start to get the hang of the language, you'll be moving on and starting ALL OVER AGAIN, don't you? Not to mention the fact that you won't come close to fluency in any of the languages so it's really not going to do you much good."

Our conversation was interrupted by the receptionist who told us that her son, a senior in high school, was taking German, going to Germany this summer, and hosting a foreign exchange student from Germany this spring. We started talking and somewhere along the way, she mentioned that she had 5 kids and the senior in high school was her youngest.
After my jaw actually hit the floor, I closed my mouth and blurted something classy like, "There is NO way you have 5 kids and the youngest is a senior!"

She insisted that her oldest was 30 and she had a grandchild. She didn't look much older than 30 herself! After picking my jaw up off the floor again, I turned back to the TV and the Botox commercial and gave it my rapt attention, taking notes, even.

So, we were taken back to a room where we met the doctor who looked like a life-sized Barbie doll - tall, thin, blond, flawless skin. I immediately hated her asked her how she was going to treat Austin's arm. She described the treatment plan which included cream, lasers, and duct tape. I think that's what she said anyway. I was too busy trying to figure out if she'd had Botox to really pay attention. After she talked about the treatment, she looked at Austin and asked him, "What are you doing for the acne?" He stared at her blankly. First off, his face really isn't bad. He has a little acne, like most teenagers, now and then. It's certainly nothing that has ever bothered him. He kinda shrugged his shoulders and told her that he sometimes washed his face. OK then. She said she couldn't let him see a dermatologist and not even bring up the subject, so she gave him a bag full of samples of acne medicine.

Then she turned to me and said something like, "This cream plumps up wrinkles too if you want to try it." Then she scrutinized my face and kinda shook her head like I was a lost cause beyond the help of even Botox. My hand immediately flew to my forehead where I quickly brushed my bangs in my face, then I carefully and strategically placed my hand over the lower part of my face to cover my "parenthesis".

The trip ended with with some snazzy blue safety glasses, a laser, and the smell of burning flesh. I can't wait to take him back in 4 weeks.