Now I Know My Buffet-B-C’s

by Bill Zam | Posted on: January 1, 2013 11:17 am - in Zamblings

 Next time won’t you dine with me?

In my experience, there are three types of buffets in the United States: a) all-you-can-eat pizza; b) all-you-can-eat Asian food featuring pizza; and c) all-you-can-eat American fare featuring pizza. And if you know me, you know that I have a lot of experience.

Buffets that are not all-you-can-eat are an affront to society and don’t count as a type. This is America! We overdo it. Go hard or go home! Especially when it involves something unhealthy! I’m also not including buffets outside of the U.S., since the only two foreign countries I’ve visited featured buffets entirely populated by obese Americans.

In contrast to the three buffet types, there are many kinds of buffet patron.

Self service

Not appearing at an all-you-can-eat buffet near you: THIS girl!

Let’s examine them together, shall we? Put on your loosest sweatpants, come with me to Golden Old Country Chowstable, and remember to keep your hands and feet away from their mouths. Oh, quick thing, I know you’re 32 years old, but tell the cashier you’re 12. Just do it, trust m—-WELL, HELLO, MARGIE! Two adults, three children. Yes, they sure do grow up and grow mustaches fast, don’t they?

The Stacker

They know it’s a buffet, right? Why do they insist on Dagwood-piling every available item onto one plate, so that a strong wind from a passerby could knock it over? Did they once work as a dishwasher and think using only one plate is a show of solidarity? I know what you may be thinking – too fat to get up more than once. But Stackers tend to be fairly mobile. Acrobatic pride, perhaps. Until they inevitably create a Slip ‘N Slide of food in the main thoroughfare when they drop it.

The Chucky

That plate drop is usually caused by evil children weaving through traffic at top speed like Memorial Day Parade Shriners. I can’t get very far in the article without mentioning the demon-spawn of the buffet, since you can’t get very far at the buffet without encountering them. Every cafeteria has a staff of children on payroll whose job it is to stick their fingers in an orifice and then touch every ladle in the place. They’re not shy about it. In fact, they’re usually screaming (volume level = banshee) for your attention. Every single person in the place can hear and see what they’re doing, except for their parents, who are back at the table telling a friend about their little angels. These kids could never pass a DWI straight-line test. You can clutch your plate with both hands and try to walk silently and quickly past them, but they will STILL troll you by taking an errant step underfoot at the exact moment. True story in my comical history of back injuries: I twisted my back once trying not to crush a kid who ran in front of me with a knife.

The Plagues

These are the parents of the aforementioned Chucky, who is currently swimming in the chocolate fountain like Augustus Gloop. The Plagues must think the strategically placed hand sanitizer stations are security alarm motion sensors, because they never go near them. And you know they couldn’t find the bathroom sink if you dunked their heads in it. Of all attendees, these are the people that may one day force me to swear off buffets.

The Landfill

Closely related to The Plagues, this family makes modern art at their table, creating debris quicker than the server can remove it. The adults manufacture gravy-soaked napkins and pyramids of partially eaten rib bones, while the children labor intensively on opening and liberally distributing the Equal and Sweet’N Low packets.

Jesus, what does it take to get a refill on blood of Christ in this restaurant? Waiter!!!

The Specialist

My parents would call this person The Picky Eater, but I prefer to give credit to those who can wander amongst that much food and stick to their assignment. Take my younger son. [Don’t really take him; he’s our most affordable kid.] You can count on him for two things: pizza and olives. If he could get a strainer from the kitchen and dump the whole olive bucket on his plate, he would. This is not something you can order at a standard restaurant. Ask for “extra olives” at Subway and you’ll get four pieces instead of three. I raised the only kid in the world who was angry when he entered Olive Garden for the first time and discovered that it was not an all-you-can-eat grove of olive trees.

Olivia, Garden. You’re welcome.

The No-Casserole Unturned

The anti-Specialist. This is the guy who hits every tray in the row to make sure he doesn’t miss anything, also known as “me.” Thanks to careful childhood schooling – You will just sit at that kitchen table until you LEARN to like lima beans, young man – I’ve tried everything at the buffet at least once. Since I will eat whatever you put on the table, this makes me a great candidate for “accommodating houseguest.” Also, “diabetes.”

The Team

We came on a bus from out of state! We own the place! We all have the same jacket and the same two chaperones!

The Creature Cantina Exile

Best thing about a buffet? People-watching. Worst thing about a buffet? People-watching while you’re eating. The second worst thing might be encountering the strangest people of Earth (arguably) and training your young child to pretend they’re nothing to be curious about. We once saw a … let’s say a lady? … sitting on two separate chairs simultaneously, with a gnarled cane, a beard and the Guinness Book’s Oldest Pair of Socks jammed into knockoff purple Crocs. A herd of people was fetching her plates, and while I would like to think they were just polite family members, I couldn’t help noticing that she also had Princess Leia on a chain.

Luckily, my kids – the little angels – didn’t say anything, because in addition to being fully trained, Purell-bathing neurotics, they have been taught the most important rule of restaurant etiquette: “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” Haha! Kidding, of course. Our rule is, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, say it quietly at our table where the person cannot hear you. And if possible, wait until the whole family is seated so you don’t have to repeat the joke.” I remember the day I drove this lesson home to my then-four-year-old son, when a rather portly fellow was dining by himself two tables away in a green Justice League shirt. My son said, a little too loudly, “Look, Dad! Fat Lantern!” Never fear, there are heirs to the Zamblings throne.

Now that the trays are being collected and the coffee is on the way, you may be wondering why I spend my time amongst these models of dining society. It’s quite simple, really. I will eat anything; the rest of my family will eat almost nothing. Because of the price and the variety, it’s the cheapest option that can send everybody home happy. If you consider weaving through traffic at 90 mph complaining about the capacity of our digestive systems “happy.” Check, please!

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The Very Worst of Sting & The Police

by Bill Zam | Posted on: December 1, 2012 8:19 pm - in Zamblings

My collection of Police records.

Last month I had some harsh words about the police after getting a speeding ticket. But I’ve moved on from cop-hater to lovable source of family-friendly entertainment. Kind of like Ice Cube! Unlike Mr. Cube, whose songs chronicled the difficulties of being a teenager in South Central L.A., I was raised in tame suburbia.

We wore the same shirts, though.

I wasn’t into NWA, but The Police were once my favorite band. So I don’t have a gangsta rap sheet, but I do have a few police records. Let’s review, using criminally bad Police song puns, shall we?

Citation in a Bottle
 

Growing up in my upper-middle-class town, there were very few violent crimes, unless you count those committed against mailboxes. The most frequent violation issued was the infamous “10-9” ordinance penalizing minors for being in the presence of alcohol. A typical police encounter in my hometown went something like this: “How dare you dump my alcohol out? I’m almost 19! What is your badge number? I’m telling Daddy.” Thankfully I never got so much as a citation. I’ll admit there were times I was under the influence, but never under arrest.

De Do Do Do You Know How Fast You Were Going?

Unfortunately, I was also rarely under the speed limit. All of my actual police records are for moving violations, beginning with a speed trap sting by the infamous Officer Larson. Officer Larson was the kind of super trooper who rehearsed in the mirror, accenting different words while slowly repeating, “Do you know why I pulled you over today, son?” I remember his performance well. You may remember Officer Larson from such episodes as “Zam Gets Ticketed Doing 71 in a 55 Zone” or “Zam Disappoints Parents With Higher Insurance” or even “Passenger’s Parents Pester Perp About Police in Perpetuity.” But my friend’s parents’ teasing is all in good fun, because nobody got hurt. Except Officer Larson, who has now been roasted in this irreverent article, read by millions! [Note: my editor’s last name is Millions. She’s the only one who reads these besides you.]

Driven To Tears

My second speeding ticket was in Woodbridge, Conn., which is known as “The Town Where I Got My Second Speeding Ticket.” I’m sure it’s a nice place, but that’s all I know about it. Just passing through and passing the speed limit, thanks. The officer on duty for this particular offense (56 in a 40 m.p.h. zone) was not quite as memorable, but the resulting court visit was. True story: the judge was more than an hour late, and after my case was processed, I returned to find an expired parking meter and a parking ticket on my windshield.

King of Pain

There were days when somebody else drove, naturally. On one such day I got kicked out of a pool for horseplay, which is not an unusual offense for a kid. The difference is that I was 17. And I was kicked out by the police. And it was a pool of plastic balls. And it was inside a Burger King.

The Other Day of Stopping
After that incident, I laid low for more than 20 years before getting a third ticket this year for traveling 16 miles an hour over the speed limit – the exact same number as my other tickets. Do my cars release some kind of radar pheromone at plus-16? Beginning the very next day, I was mailed several advertisements for legal services. When I say “several,” I mean “more letters than Harry Potter got at 4 Privet Drive inviting him to attend Hogwarts.” These attorneys offered to represent me in court while I stayed in the comfort of my own home. They also said they could get my case dismissed or reduced for a flat fee that was higher than the actual ticket cost. But they claimed that by preventing an insurance hike, their services would be worth it. I didn’t know any of these guys from Adam 12, though, so I ignored the letters in case it was a scam.

(Why Must I Need) A Man With A Suitcase
 

Eventually, I decided to use a lawyer, if only to avoid another parking ticket. I picked the most legitimate-looking guy in the pile, called the office, and with an easy online process, enlisted his services. It seemed legit, and I’m sure I have nothing to worry about. I just have to wait for an email confirmation of the results.

[Ding!] Ah, here it is now!

“Your Traffic Ticket Case has been settled as follows: SPEEDING reduced to 44 in a 35 zone.”

Sweet! That was easy! I wonder if this attorney handles plastic ball pool litigation.

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Not Putting My Foot Down

by Bill Zam | Posted on: November 1, 2012 5:00 pm - in Zamblings

I put the P.D. in podiatry.

Good news! Thanks to my stand-up workstation and plenty of walking, my bad back is feeling better and you don’t have to read about it this month. Bad news! Thanks to my stand-up workstation and plenty of walking, I now have plantar fasciitis.

Wait, where are you going? This will be fun, I promise!

Plantar fasciitis doesn’t sound like what it is. When I first heard the term, in reference to a professional athlete, I thought, “He should have used a condom.” But once I found out it wasn’t a sexually transmitted disease, I thought at the very least that it sounded fatal. It turns out that it’s only heel pain.

“Good afternoon Mr. Achilles, I’m Dr. HELLO!!! Eh hem. I’m only a podiatrist, sir, no need to remove more than your socks. And I gotta tell you, I’m pretty sure what you have is NOT plantar fasciitis. In fact, I’m going to recommend you see a specialist about that arm.”

I know I promised not to talk about my back, but that was three paragraphs ago, so I’m hoping you forgot. It was back pain that first prompted me to visit a podiatrist last year, and not because I thought a podiatrist was a back doctor. (I thought a podiatrist was the guy at the Genius Bar who fixes mp3 players.) But once I found out podiatrist was a foot doctor, I decided to see if my tendency to walk on the outsides of my feet might be creating unnecessary pressure on my spine.

“This is a supination,” my podiatrist said.

“I love America too, doc … but what about my feet?”

She informed me that it was possible there was additional pressure, but that my feet were in great shape [“foot-shaped”, I guess] and she wouldn’t subject me to the expense of custom orthotics. I realize this is sounding obsessive, but orthotics also sounded like an STD, and I was glad not to have them! Plus, I was glad she was honest and didn’t immediately try to overcharge me.

But close to a year later, I found myself standing about 10 hours a day and walking another one or two. I started to have some soreness in my foot, and thought I might be overdoing it. When I woke up the next day, it started to hurt a little more. The following morning, when I hobbled downstairs in so much pain that one of my kids yelled, “Oppa Gangnam Style!” I knew I needed to see the doctor.

My wife wasn’t convinced. Since my health insurance policy doesn’t cover, you know, health issues, she thought I should research home treatment. She didn’t want me to pay out of pocket for what I could learn on my own, especially since I was wearing pants with no pockets.

I work from home.

I walked to my computer (i.e., limped dramatically to my computer for her benefit), went online and clicked on the WebMD® Genital-FreeTM Crash-Test DummySM to determine that I did indeed have plantar fasciitis.

“Mr. Achilles, the arm is looking much better! Oh, sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

My wife still didn’t want me to go to the doctor. I told her I would not make the appointment if she would do her hair and deliver the diagnosis in high heels and a white lab coat.

So off to the doctor I went!

It was my left foot that was giving me the problem. But on the drive over, my right foot contracted a severe case of plantyour footdownhardis. I got a $240 ticket for speeding after my wife had just told me not to waste money unnecessarily. Instead of the regular sound, the police siren went WONK WONK WOOONNNNK. My pleas to the trooper fell on deaf ears.

Wait a minute. Do you even HAVE ears?

“But officer! My foot is ossified!”

The sad part is that the doctor’s office is so close to my house that I would have walked if I didn’t have plantar freakingitis!

So instead of contemplating questions about my heel heal in the waiting room, I was feeling like a heel over my ticket.

When the DPM (Doctor of Podiatric Medicine) arrived, I explained that my high blood pressure was because I met the MPD (Middletown Police Department) on the way over. Her examination revealed that the WebMD dummy’s diagnosis was probably correct. To be sure, she recommended x-rays. Her assistant gave me paper slippers. For a guy with size 12 feet, they were like McDonald’s hash brown bags. I’m assuming they were for sanitary reasons, but since they only fit halfway over my feet, I wondered how sanitary it would be if I slipped on the tile floor and spilled blood all over the nice, clean hallway.

But I remained upright as the assistant supplied the complimentary bulletproof vest. The room was tight, so I had to kick the slippers off – about as gracefully as one removes a scorpion from their toe – and step up onto a metal x-ray stand.

The doctor returned with a tablet – not the kind you swallow for pain, which would come later – but a mobile device to pull up my x-ray results.

“Sorry this is taking so long to load,” she said.

“Your results will be up in a moment.”

“You know what they say about big feet, right? Big x-ray image buffer,” I thought. But I didn’t say it, because I figured having to look at people’s feet all day made this woman’s job creepy enough. I opted for, “Must be taking a while to process all the lead.”

This time, the doctor recommended I get the orthotics. It turns out orthotics are custom-fitted shoe inserts, which is the opposite of STDs. More like birth control. Who wants to have sex with somebody that has custom-fitted shoe inserts? “Hey, baby. Let me slip into something a little more comfortable….” Go ahead; say “orthotics” in your sexiest whisper.

The doctor also suggested I stop wearing Nike sneakers, which she didn’t think were the best option for people with wide feet. Wait, when did my awesome podiatrist become my mother? You’re not wearing Nike’s just because the other kids have them! Here, put these embarrassing things on your feet! At least my mom didn’t charge me $390 when she was done.

“Yes, Mrs. Zam, I promise you that your child will be the coolest kid in school if you buy these shoes from me.” [WINK]

But I know the doctor only had my best interests in mind, and she delivered her advice with great professionalism. She has an excellent bedside manor. (That’s not a misspelling. Thanks to all the orthotics sales, she lives in a huge manor over in West Bedside.)

It actually looks much nicer now that they’ve finished remodeling the toe.

She gave me good medication and great advice, telling me to slow down with both the walking and the driving.

On the way home, cars were lining up behind me. Kids on skateboards were passing me … uphill. I wanted to shout, “I just don’t want to get another speeding ticket! I’m not an old fogey!” But then I remembered I had just purchased orthotics. I drove quietly home, five miles per hour under the speed limit.

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Big League Chew

by Bill Zam | Posted on: October 1, 2012 7:25 am - in Zamblings

Chewing on my baseball history, complete with bursting bubbles.

 

This story is about a piece of gum.

I have a new editor this month, and once she reads the previous sentence, I may be the previous humor columnist. I don’t think they brought her in to revitalize The Chronicle with hard-hitting Hubba Bubba journalism. However, I hope she (and you) will hear me out.

The gum, of the baseball-card-bubble variety, is on the desk in front of me, but not wadded up and stuck to the bottom. It’s not ABC Gum, which you may know stands for “Already Been Chewed.” It’s NBC (Never Been Chewed). But like these acronyms, the gum is from my childhood. Specifically, 1986.

I didn’t always want to be a humor writer. When I was a kid, I was going to be a Major League Baseball player. In my wealth of spare time, I was also going to be a Marvel Comics artist and a fireman.

Thanks, Goose, this could have been the greatest mustache card EVER.

But I digress. I was talking baseball, which was a huge part of my life until 1986.

No, Red Sox fans, it’s not Bill Buckner’s fault. It’s Billy Martin’s.

I’m a Yankee fan, and I realize that telling you that may cause enough Boston people to walk away from this article that it will look like a trade to the Dodgers. I moved from Long Island to Connecticut in the mid-1970s, in the midst of some great Red Sox/Yankees battles, to the midpoint between Boston and New York.

Dave Island.

While Carlton Fisk and Lou Piniella were brawling on the field, my schoolmates and I were brawling at the bus stop over which team was better. We were also starting to play Little League and collect baseball cards.

I collected cards throughout my Little League career. But in 1986, everything changed thanks to Billy Martin. Not the Billy Martin, the legendary hot-tempered player and manager. Billy Martin, the local coach who cut me from the freshman baseball team that year.

Yeah, not THIS Billy Martin either.

I not only stopped playing organized baseball; I stopped collecting cards and I stopped watching baseball. I switched to basketball.

But I digress; this story is supposed to be about baseball. Or gum, I forget now.

In college, baseball came back to me. I played intramural softball, I played baseball video games, and I played John Kruk one Halloween, wearing a wig under my cap and a pillow under my shirt (in the days when I needed a pillow to look fat). I even found myself watching baseball again.

I can’t find any pictures of me from that Halloween, but this should give you the idea.

My TV-on-again, TV-off-again relationship with baseball continued for decades. In the fall of 1994, I stopped watching baseball again, along with everybody, thanks to the strike that eventually led to the cancellation of the World Series. Also thanks to that strike, the fall of 1994 found me turning my attention to a girl. I was still with her by the time the strike ended in 1995, when I discovered that she had never seen a Major League Baseball game.

The Yankees came back with a vengeance. A vengeance, and a new shortstop named Derek Jeter.

Baseball Avengeance.

So not only did I start watching baseball again; so did the girl. Together, we watched the Yankees win the World Series, which they hadn’t done since I was diving around Little League fields pretending to be Graig Nettles. Inspired, I started diving around adult softball league fields pretending to be Graig Nettles.

Like Fleer pretending Graig’s name was Craig.

Soon, we were married with children. [Me and the girl, not me and Nettles. He already had several rings.]

Two Kidds.

Life got even busier, and you can probably guess that I stopped watching baseball for a few years, except when my kids were playing it. Now that they’re a little older, sometimes they watch with me. Sometimes I sneak away by myself for a few innings.

For today’s game, I had company. I pulled out some “friends” that had been in attics and crawlspaces for 20 years. [Stop dialing 9-1-1, this is an analogy.] I dusted off my plastic bins full of baseball cards and sat down on the couch with Nettles, Piniella, and an infinite supply of Jamie Quirk, the journeyman catcher whose card seemed to be in every Topps wax pack I ever opened.

If I had worked on my Marvel Comics skills, I could have easily turned all my Quirk cards into Nettles cards.

At the bottom of a bin, I found one pack still sealed, as if I had just laid it down on the counter of Morton’s Pharmacy next to a Reggie bar. When I picked it up, the baseball gods opened it for me. The adhesive had dried away and the cards peeked out of the slightly open wrapper.

Baseball gods.

I held the open pack up to my nose and inhaled it like Afrin. It still had that distinctive bubble gum powder fragrance, but it also smelled like green grass and hot dog vendors and glove oil and Wiffle ball games in the driveway with the lawn-chair-strike-zone and the garage door halfway up so we wouldn’t break the glass panes and the hot tar underneath the tires of the ice cream truck where I used to buy baseball cards with my Bomb Pop money.

Pops hit 475 bombs.

There were no priceless rookie cards in the pack, but I did get one Yankee (yes!) and this lonely, ½ inch by 2-inch piece of bubble gum that sits on the desk before me.

In looking back on my storied baseball career – and the tale that you’re reading now is the only story about it – I realize that I digress, not only in words, but also in life. I don’t tend to focus on one thing too long. 

Two long.

But the one constant through all the years, (Ray), has been baseball. Work stoppages couldn’t kill my love of the game, nor could steroid users, injuries or family responsibility. And neither could a list posted in a locker room that didn’t go alphabetically to Z.

Quit rubbing it in, Richie.

Sometimes we don’t realize our childhood dreams. Instead of a Major League Baseball player, I ended up becoming a minor league “card.” To paraphrase Mr. Nettles, my baseball aspirations went “from Cy Young to sayonara.” But I’m old enough now not to blame Other Billy Martin. Life, like Topps wax packs, is full of quirks.

Who would have thought that one little piece of gum could bring back memories so vivid I could almost taste them? Of course, I wouldn’t dare taste the gum. That would be stupid. I mean, the gum was never all that good in the first place, and this particular piece is two decades old.

Ah, what the hell! You can start dialing 9-1-1 again. I’m chewing the gum. When the ambulance arrives, I’ll either be dead … or watching baseball.

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Supplies Party

by Bill Zam | Posted on: September 1, 2012 8:12 am - in Zamblings

What I did on my last day of summer vacation.

PENCIL. PEN. PAPER. ERASER. NOTEBOOK.

If you think this is a list of school supplies, then you must not have children.

Let’s try again:

TWO PACKS OF TICONDEROGA YELLOW #2 PENCILS. RED, BLUE AND BLACK NON-REFILLABLE BALLPOINT PENS WITH CAPS (5 EACH). WIDE-RULED THREE-HOLE PUNCH FILLER PAPER WITH NO PERFORATIONS ON THE LEFT MARGIN (3 PACKS OF 100). PENCIL ERASERS (12) AND ONE LARGE HAND-HELD ERASER. THREE 1” BINDER NOTEBOOKS WITH INSIDE POCKETS AND FRONT PLASTIC SLEEVE.

Look familiar? Then you know it’s that time of year again, Mom and Dad. Time to be baffled by a list that fits on one page of a composition book but is outlandishly vague in some areas and cripplingly specific in others. Time for frazzled faces, bloodshot eyes and claw marks on your hands from fighting other parents for the last MEAD® PRIMARY JOURNAL EARLY CREATIVE STORY TABLET. Time for school supplies shopping.

Decomposition book.

I have two kids, and the oldest is in 8th grade. After all these years I thought the process would get easier. By now I should have it down to a science, on an ELMER’S® 36” X 48” TRI-FOLD DISPLAY BOARD clearly delineating my Hypothesis, Supplies, Procedure, Results and Conclusion, all splattered with lava from the volcanoes the other parents made while their kids loitered in the kitchen eating baking soda.

And you’re SURE you made this without your parents’ help, Tyler?

But I don’t have it down. Each new teacher has her own agenda. The only guarantee is that the list will be in COMIC SANS font.

COMIC SANZ

Other than that, I’m never prepared for what the next teacher is going to throw at me.

Ow! Not the FISKARS® CHILDREN’S SAFETY SCISSORS! I was speaking figuratively! I know they’re BLUNT-TIP, but if those had penetrated the skin I wouldn’t be able to clean up the blood, because thanks to your lists, Wal-Mart is completely out of KLEENEX®!

There is, however, plenty of extra tissue.

It doesn’t matter. I’m going to Target now to rub elbows and TRAPPER KEEPERS with the beautiful people. Once I get 90 percent of the cheap stuff out of the way, it’s off to the office supply stores for the harder-to-find items.

“Welcome to Staples! GLITTER PENS? Yeah, we’ve got that. CLEAR RULER WITH INCHES AND CENTIMETERS? Yeah, we’ve got that. Wait, what? TEARS OF A MERMAID? We don’t got that. Try Office Depot.”

It can get expensive, too. Once you add up and multiply the supplies by the number of kids you have, it comes to … well, let’s see, two kids, three of these, six of these minus 20 percent … man, I’m going to need a calculator to figure out if we have enough money. What? I’m going to need the TEXAS INSTRUMENTS TI-84 PLUS SILVER EDITION CALCULATOR?! Do you have layaway? There’s a reason it sounds like a Skynet model number from The Terminator, which coincidentally was released in ‘84. The TI-84 costs about the same as the Schwarzenegger film’s budget, and it’s so powerful that it’s only a matter of time before calculators become self-aware and come back from the future to kill us all. I just hope it’s not today. I’m not going to be any good at the fleeing after throwing my back out putting this thing in the cart.

Ah, here’s an easy one! COLORED FOLDERS (5). I’ll cross it off. On second thought, pass the BIC® WITE-OUT CORRECTION FLUID. It’s actually FIVE PLASTIC COLORED FOLDERS, ONE BLUE, ONE RED, ONE GREEN, ONE PURPLE, ONE YELLOW, WITH METAL PRONGS. There are only 12 folders left in this store and they’re all black from the frenzied footprints of stampeding parents.

Manila folders.

After you get through all of the minutia, you have to take advantage of the loopholes. TWO PACKS OF CRAYOLA CRAYONS. OK, you made sure I didn’t buy JIM’S ALMOST-WAX CRAYONETTES, but you didn’t say how many Crayola crayons in each pack. I win this round! [SNAP, PLUNK, PLUNK.] Here you go! Two of the GALLON-SIZED ZIPLOC BAGS you ordered, each with half a Burnt Sienna in it.

My guess is that it doesn’t matter how well we count or follow the list, however. After the school door closes and my children are out of sight, I imagine all the supplies, carefully labeled with my sons’ names, are wantonly hurled onto a conveyor belt that dumps off into a massive, bubbling cauldron full of chalk, crayon wax and the occasional kid whose backpack strap got caught in the gears. Of course, there’s a cackling lunch lady in a hairnet stirring the pot and yelling things like, “Faster, you dogs! More paste!”

In reality, it doesn’t matter how they divvy things up. I always send my kids in with more than the school requested. I know the teachers are just trying to run a smooth ship by encouraging consistency across wildly diverse groups of students. And I won’t go on a political rant about underfunded education budgets, but last year’s Dr. Seuss books were The Cat With No Hat and One Fish, Red Fish.

So teachers, please forgive my sarcasm. I’ll gladly continue to exchange an annual day of suffering for your tireless efforts to send my kids home smarter each year. Parents, give generously to your children’s schools, and please, don’t forget the LYSOL® WIPES unless you want to start next year’s shopping trip by asking the Wal-Mart greeter where to find the MEAD® INFLUENZA SHOTS.

 

Personally, I’m going to try to finish my scavenger hunt for the Holy Grail of school supplies to complete my list. That’s not a metaphor. Here it on the list: “HOLY GRAILS (2).” I knew I shoulda bought the three-pack last year.

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