Fuckleupagus is back

Things had been going well for Susan's son.
She kept him under the microscope by maintaining weekly contact with the bulk of his teachers (the reader will forgive her for being unconcerned with gym or Family Consumer Science), monitoring his assignments and eventually re-thinking her disciplinary strategy.
She gave him a few short term goals so that he could win back one of his precious electronics and as soon as he did all available attention was diverted away from his schoolwork.

Susan does a pretty good job keeping on top of all the grown up things she has to do, but she's not above getting sidetracked. It's the byproduct of a life filled with trying to do too many things at once. It doesn't help that advancing decrepitude has taken it's toll on her memory, like when she sticks her head in the fridge & has no recollection of what she's looking for or can't remember words like regulation and garbage can.

Middle School Progress Reports were mailed out last week.

Some of the son's grades were impressive, as is expected, but a smaller amount made Susan want to throw up.
She immediately reinstated his Fuckleupagus status, stripped him of every available liberty, even ones he never had then started with the threats. When Susan was finished jumping up & down and screaming her head hurt, she had a twitch and needed a big glass of orange juice. With vodka.