Huckleberry Mark

Mark called me from school on the day of the Halloween Carnival to ask if I'd put any money in his backpack.

I told him I had not, and he asked how he was supposed to partake in the festivities without any tickets.

"You're a creative boy," I told him. "You'll figure something out!"

And indeed he did. When I picked him up, he was clutching a 2-liter bottle of Diet Dr Pepper, a bag of goodies and he couldn't wait to tell me all about the giant slide he and Kyle rode down five times.

"You got all that without any tickets?" I asked.

He brushed me off. "Yeah, and the third time we went down the slide, we--"

"How'd you get the tickets?" I interrupted.

"From Kyle," he answered. "Kyle had $20 and all he wanted to do was buy soda with it. I talked him into going down the slide instead."

"Very helpful of you," I noted.

"I know," Mark said. "And I got this soda because I'm really good at huckling."

"At what?" I asked. I wasn't sure I'd heard him right, but he repeated, "Huckling--I'm a really good huckler."

I thought maybe he meant hustling, because honestly, that boy can sweet talk candy from a baby--if you have something he wants, give him five minutes, and he'll convince you to hand it over.

But he meant something else. "You know," he said, "I'm good at getting the price down. This soda was supposed to be two tickets, but I got it for one!"

"Oh, you mean haggling," I said.

"Yes, heckling," he replied. "I'm good at heckling people."

"Not heckling, haggling. Heckling is making fun of people."

"Whatever," he said. He was tired of my semantics, and wanted me to be impressed with his prowess at riding the slide and getting free junk food.

And so I was. I listened to his tales from the Halloween Carnival and laughed. Because truth be told, he is a very talented huckler, and you just don't come across that every day.

Hold what?!?

Mark and I were harassing each other yesterday, and his go-to move is always to start singing the Mini-Sirloin Burgers song from the Jack in the Box commercials. (He knows that song gets stuck in my head and drives me insane.)

Only, for some reason, he was pronouncing it wrong. What is sounded like he was saying was "Mini sewerline burgers."

"Sir-loin!" I corrected.

"That's what I said," he corrected back.

"No," I told him. "You said 'sewer-line.' It's SIR-loin."

"Whatever," he said, and kept on singing.

But a minute later, he asked how it was pronounced again. Then he tried it out.

"Sir-loin burger," he said. "But hold the tomato." He giggled.

"That's right," I praised him.

"Or, sir-loin," he said again. "As in, 'Sir, hold my loin.'"

At which point I almost crashed the car.

"What is a loin?" he asked, curious.

"It's a part of the cow where they get the meat," I told him. Then, lest he repeat it again at an inopportune time, I added, "It's also means your privates."

"WHAT?" he shouted from the back seat. He was shocked into silence for a moment, then started snickering and said, "That's not right. That is just sooooo not right! How could you let me say that!"

"I didn't know you were gonna say it!" I exclaimed, just as shocked as he was.

I parked the car and we got out, and he was still shaking his head. "I can't believe I said that!" he told me again, and I just agreed.

If nothing else, it was a good lesson on context. And how dangerous using words out of context can be!

That's an understatement

Back to school is a terrible time for Mark -- because it really means back to school uniforms. For a kid who loves expressing himself through clothes, there could be no fate worse than being forced to dress like everyone else.

I thought he'd eventually realize this is a battle he can't win, and is therefore not worth fighting. It's not the first (or last) time I've been wrong.

Today's clothing battle was over socks. I'm in the camp that firmly believe socks are best when clean; Mark is in the opposing camp. Kathleen recently bought him a new pair of Tony Hawk socks that he loved so much, he wore them three days in a row. Straight. Without washing. And argued indignantly when I ordered them into the hamper. (And cried, "Ewwww, my feet STINK!" when he finally peeled them off.)

He informed me today that he had two different socks on.

"They don't match?" I asked him.

"Nope," he answered. "They never match. In fact, that word isn't even in my vocabulary."

I smiled and agreed. "Well, is 'clean' in your vocabulary?"

"Yes," he answered, though I had my doubts. He glanced over at me, and shook his head, wondering how I dared to ask him such a preposterous question.

"What?" I asked. "I have to check!"

He just shook his head again, and sighed.

"Let's go," I said, and we headed off to school, me and my son with the limited vocabulary.