Montana Makes Me Think of Dental Floss

More specifically, Montana makes me think of Frank Zappa.

So we've been waiting to hear where The Boy will be working this summer. Last Thursday he called to catch us up. What he had turned down already. What he still had on the table. What he really wanted to have on the table but what was not yet even officially on the menu. The question with which he wrestled: should he turn down an invitation to a particular dinner party, thereby risking having to spend the whole summer at home (that would be interesting!) working god-knows-what-kind-of-job to hold out for the possibility the fillet mignon he really craved was about to be served?

I listened to him discuss pros and cons. One part of me was like "You already turned down a principal role? And now you want to turn down something else? You want to risk getting stuck waiting tables all summer? Have you lost your mind?"

The larger part of me was like "What are you worried about? You'll get the offer you want, among others. It's early. Relax, be patient, be confident."

Maybe I said all of that. Or maybe I didn't say any of that. Because WTF do I know? Nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch. Not a damned thing. It's a very frustrating position for a parent. A parent like me, anyway.

Friday night he called again. He got the offer he'd been hoping for: the fillet mignon. Medium rare, just the way he likes it. The Boy's going to spend the summer in Bigfork... Bigfork, Montana.

Proving once again that children expand one's horizons.
We've never seen that part of the country.
Come this fall, we won't be able to say that any more.

I wonder if there are many lesbians in Montana?
I wonder why I wonder.

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