Plenty of Teen Angst, Damn It

Ms. Mini-Demonic thinks she is 17 going on 25. There are some days when I can see that in her; however, there are far more days when I see her as 17 going on 12. She is very comely; nice hourglass shape (which I’ve never had), long thick hair and long legs (also accoutrements that I don’t possess). We resemble each other in the face, but don’t tell that to her, or she will run off screaming hysterically.

Ms. Mini-Demonic has a two-part dream. It’s a dream that reaches far beyond what I would wish for her. The first part of the dream is that she wants to become a psychiatrist. Not a psychologist, but a bona fide head-shrinking doctor. Ms. Mini-D suffers from dyslexia and ADD and her grades in high school haven’t exactly been stellar as a result. She’s having a difficult time getting into college, but did get the nod from three schools so far, two in our state and one in California. There are three other schools in California that she hasn’t heard from yet. Oh, that’s the second part of the dream. Mini-D wants to live in California, SoCal, to be exact.

Mini-D has been dating a very nice boy for almost a year. He seemed like such a nice boy that I hired him to work for us. I paid him $2 an hour more than what he was getting at the grocery store he was working at, and thought he could use the office/customer service experience on his resume. I thought he was a very nice boy until just recently. While I was in San Francisco a few weeks ago, I learned they had broken up. Both were very hush-mouthed about the entire thing.

My first thought was that Mini-D was responsible for the break-up. Sure, she can be happy, upbeat and personable, but she can also be caustic, moody and mean. (I think she takes after me.) The day I came home from the Left Coast, they were in negotiations in our upstairs spare bedroom. I tried to pump her for information, but she didn’t want to divulge. The next day was his birthday, and she treated him to dinner. This was a surprise to us after all the crying that was going on the night before. Mini-D explained that it was a mini-break up, in preparation for her leaving for California this summer.

All has been hunky-dory until a few days ago, when her school had their winter break which doesn’t coincide with his school’s winter break. She spent time with her girlfriends, who she had sadly been neglecting, and her flute, which she had also been sadly neglecting.

The Boyfriend called into work on Wednesday, which wasn’t a big deal. Except my daughter, Ms. Mini-D, came home from her flute lesson begging me to fire him for leaving us in the lurch. I couldn’t understand her vitriol, but stayed out of it. The next day, I received our company cell phone bill. Her number was 866 text messages over her limit, but considering that the time in question was during that break up weekend and 679 of them were from him, I told her I would split the difference. Later that day, she and her friend informed me that the night before he texted her 30 times in an hour, with the same five letter derogatory word. It appears that he flipped out over her winter break re-association with her high school chums.

Thursday, he showed up to work but feigned sickness and left.

This scenario leaves me with many problems.

1. I liked the kid, but I certainly can’t stay on his side if he’s texting my daughter the five-letter derogatory word.

2. I need the kid to work here, to show up daily. Sure, he’s just a part time high school kid, but Mr. Demonic impressed upon him during the interview process that we expected him to do a good job no matter what the relationship was between the two of them. I also had big plans for him, maybe kicking him up to a more full-time position once he entered the local college.

3. This puts an incredible strain on me, because if he doesn’t show up, I must. If he quits, that’s even worse. It will mean training someone else, and that takes time. This also may put a damper on our spring break plans, which was to go back to the Left Coast to check out the potential colleges.

4. On the other hand, I don’t like the stalker-immature-weirdo-flakiness of the entire situation.

Damn. I’m going to have to take an aspirin or two now. Or maybe a margarita.