Being the single mother of a teenager brings endless amounts of entertainment.  Sometimes the entertainment is humor, sometimes it is more like something out of a horror flick, but always completely entertaining any way you slice (or stab) it.   He is a good kid, with enough teenagerness to pay me back for the stupid crap I did to my parents, I mean I really should not get away with some of it.  I too must continue to add to my gray hair collection as my parents did before me or should I say because of me.  But this is not about an addition to the on going melodrama I lovingly titled “Hormones Effin’ Suck” (the musical.)  This is actually a happy little moment that I shall cherish til death.

Now mind you once my bouncing baby boy grew to a 6′2″, 200+ lb gorilla for whom I have to take out small loans to feed, I thought the cuteness of his younger days was long gone.  But I found out that this is not the case at all.  My boy, now 16, was going after his first official job.  He was vying for a highly coveted position at Subway as a Sandwich Artist.  Now he had a lot going for him from the beginning, he knew several of the employees and the managers and they all like the kid, what’s not to like he takes after his wonderful, nurturing, hysterically funny mother….oh wait….that’s me…. hmmmm, they liked him despite the fact that I am his Mother and promised to never hold that against him.

Though the managers were ready to hire him, he had to pass an interview with the owner.  So there was an interview set, and then it was “LET THE CUTENESS….BEGIN!”  First he makes himself all clean shaven, removes his piercings (gauged ears and pierced septum.)  Then he informs me that I am taking him to get a new “nice” shirt to wear for the interview.  We picked out this black little number and he was set.  The best part was that he basically hand wrote a resume of sorts that he restarted 5 times until it was “perfect” and to his liking.  The kid called me later that afternoon super excited and spilling out the events of the interview as though it was necessary that he not draw another breath until I had the blow by blow.

He started the next day, and suddenly I had a hankerin’ for a  Subway sandwich and made my way there for lunch.  My sandwich was perfect, though without oregano, which he later told me he put on half the sandwiches he made before he realized it was NOT the pepper.  I could see he was happy, and yes I cried, just like I did the first day of kindergarten.  I am so proud of the man of my house.  Now all I need is a bumper sticker that says “My Son is a Sandwich Artist”  to proudly display on my car.

Sandwich Art