Thursday, June 23, 2016

Summer o' Snark

Part of Big Kid's sleep away camp experience involved exploring the arts along with nature. He wrote a humorous Dear Abby column one day, which included the line:

So if you’re a farmer (and you might be, if you’re still reading the newspaper)...

Big Kid's brand of snark makes me look as sweet as Pollyanna. I know people think he gets it from me, but he has so far surpassed anything I could hope to achieve in terms of dry wit, that maybe I get it from him.

We were at the beach the other day and a woman sat down next to us with a bunch of middle schoolers and proceeded to have all kinds of raunchy and inappropriate conversations, up to and including how her son was an accident and period talk. Very educational for all. Then they left their trash behind.

As we recounted this story for friends, while trying to delicately imply that she was rough around the edges, Big Kid interrupted to add, "She had a rose gold iPhone," in a way that made everyone understand.

(Sorry, people with rose gold iPhones.)

Snarky little a-hole, but on such a subtle level that it's hard to correct someone for disparaging the paper and rose gold iPhones.

(He reluctantly agrees the mini MacBook is cute in pink, because I made a strong case for it.)

When I picked him up from camp, I asked what he had liked doing and he loudly (in front of his counselors) said: "Everything but journalism! Why would they make us do that? What a waste of time!"

"Big Kid! Journalism is very important! Also, your mom is a writer."

"Are we seriously calling what you do journalism?"

"No, but what I do is probably a step below journalism so let's not go there. Also, I saw that you were making fun of newspapers? I do have a newspaper column..."

"Right, mom, a newspaper. I mean..."

"Newspapers are important. They represent a tangible connection to your community and..."

"Right, farmers and old people need them. I know."

He's not wrong, he's just about to be a teenager. And their brand of not being wrong is difficult.

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