I spend hours helping my kindergartener practice writing his name. He will likely have better handwriting than me. I hold my pencil between the wrong fingers. So, my signature is a bit sloppy. However, it looks like calligraphy compared to that of Jack Lew. President Obama is expected to nominate him for Treasury Secretary. If he gets that gig his signature will be on the dollar bill. So, what’s the big deal? You tell me:
Come on Jack! There doesn’t appear to be a letter in that loopy mess. Do you have hands like Mickey Mouse? Send me your address (print it. The postal service won’t deliver to OOOOOOOOO lane.) and I will mail you a few alphabet workbooks.
The crossing guard at my son’s school takes her job seriously. I appreciate her dedication to helping America’s youth cross the street. However, now she has taken it upon herself to be a traffic cop. This morning, I pulled to the side of the street in a designated parking spot in order to walk my son to the door. He is 5-years-old. My 12-year-old wants me to park a mile away while wearing a disguise. Apparently, the crossing guard has a new rule. I didn’t get the automated message. Remember the days when schools sent home letters? Now, I have to listen to a computerized voice mispronouncing our last name.
The new rule seems to be that a parent is only allowed to slow down just enough to shove their kid out of the car. Then, drive away. It took 30 seconds for me to walk him to the door, but it wasn’t fast enough for her. She was waiting beside my minivan to scold me, “This is drop off only!” Perhaps she is trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records? Maybe she needs to get home to watch the 700 Club. I want to make sure my child isn’t kidnapped. “I will continue to walk my son to the door ma’am,” I said. If she was 50 years younger I would have chosen different words.