SAT-urday

My junior took his SAT this morning. The one who secretly waffles between signing up for the military and going to college because he knows I will sit shiva for him if he enlists right out of high school.

The conversation goes something like this:
Me: It's 6:00.
Son: It is?
Me: It's 6:15.
Son: It is?
Me: It's time to get up.
Son: Okay.

(Later, at the breakfast bar/dining table.)

Me: Breakfast is ready. Nothing like a weenie and egg taco to remind you that your poor and Mexican and in need of scholarship money. No pressure.

(Son laughs with mouth full, and we discuss how my grandma thinks I can read her stomach x-ray because I have a college degree.)

Me: We shouldn't be talking about this. We are supposed to be talking about smart, successful Latin Americans. Or genious half-hillbillies or something like that.  All I can think of is Cesar Chavez.

(Son frowns.)

Son: Oh, oh, when you said that, Che Guevara popped into my head.
Me: (In my head) Dear God. 
Me: (Out loud) I should have made a slide show, like Malcolm Gladwell says, you know with Marquez, Baca, Lorca. Only two of those are from the US, but still.
Son: (With mouth full.) Naruedia.
Me: Who?
Son: Nureda. Poet.
Me: (In my head) Dear God.
Me: (Out loud.) Chilean. Are you ready?
Son: Yep. I have my playlist for the ride there loaded.
Me: (In my head.) Dear God.
Me: (Out loud.) Is it classical music.
Son: No, pump up music. You know, Eye of the Tiger and Bon Jovi, stuff like that.
Me: (In my head.) Dear God. (Out loud.) You mean like, Living on a Prayer? Speaking of prayer.(Out loud.) Dear God . . . .