Mom’s a Secret Agent with the FBI

The UPS man delivered a big, black, padlocked Hardigg Storm case Monday evening. It took my thirteen year old about three minutes to guess the combination. This is the same child who can break into our house with his ASB card in the time it takes the rest of us to exit the vehicle–first dibs on the bathroom, you know–the same child who if he can see the target, can hit a bull's-eye, every time.

Does this sound like a reassuring pattern to you? Lock-picking? Sharpshooting?  I did not teach him these things. He has just sort of stumbled across his talents at various times and found them convenient. I keep hoping he'll put some energy into developing his keen ear for music or storytelling, but so far he has no interest.

Granted, he isn't the sort to pick a lock that really matters–he didn't even open the case, just the lock. And presented it to me along with a Cheshire grin. Started speculating with his siblings that the FBI had sent Mom a bomb, maybe. Someone peeked in and noticed a lot of electronic equipment packed in custom cut, high grade foam.

I ducked the speculations as long as I could, but finally made the confession that yes, mother is going to appear on a talk show. Egad. They thought that was funny. Probably because they have never seen a talk show.

Took me all of half an hour last night to set up the equipment, and then another half an hour or so with the producer, on Skype, "setting up the shot". This is techno speak for tearing apart the furnishings of three rooms in your house in order to pretend as though you live in a different house.

Pick up the camera and turn it all the way around, she tells me. Let me see the rest of the room. Apparently she didn't like the blank corner behind me. What she didn't realize is that all of my corners and walls are blank. I don't even have a headboard.  Fortunately my mother-in-law pawned off an insanely large ficus tree on me a few months back, and after strategic branch bunching I was able to fit it through the door into my bedroom, and position it just so. I think I even knocked most of the dust off in the struggle.

If you look closely, and the feed actually works, and they actually get around to talking to me Thursday, you might notice two ceramic pots in the background. Aforementioned son made them with the same scout master that taught him to point a rifle. They like their scouts well-rounded, you see.

Just think, if it weren't for my thirteen year old, I may have never got the Skype kit's lock open–and if I had, it would be just me, the camera and the branches of a ficus tree. How dull. At least you'll get to admire his pottery. It could be the highlight of the show, I don't know. I'm not actually allowed to blog about it, I found out. Or record it, or in any way preserve a transcript of it. So this is it, I suppose. After tomorrow, mums the word. 

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