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Marla Jo Fisher

So my teenage son went to Europe and all he brought me back was this lousy case of the flu.

Well, he also brought me a pack of playing cards he bought in Pompeii, with pornographic images of ancient people doing unmentionable things in silhouette.

I would rather have a scarf.

Two weeks ago, I picked Cheetah Boy up at LAX, returning from a whirlwind 22-day young people’s tour of Europe that started in London and ended up in Greece.

I was impressed not only with how mature he seemed, but also with his deep, George Hamilton-worthy tan.

In fact, he looked disgustingly healthy, especially considering he’d spent the previous night sitting up in the Stockholm Airport, begging me via text to put some money in his account, so he could get some Swedish krona from the ATM and buy something to eat.

When I come back from a trip, I look like a hairball the cat threw up three days ago.

Cheetah Boy looked like he’d just come back from the French Riviera and the Greek Islands, which, actually, was true.

I financed the entire trip, as a sort of bribe for him to stay in school, as well as a high-school graduation present.

In return, I got the flu that he brought home, plus a deck of souvenir playing cards.

“Why did you bring me these?” I asked him when we got home, holding up the pack of obscene playing cards he’d just handed me.

“I bought these for you in Pompeii,” he said, smirking, knowing that I’ve always dreamed of seeing the ancient Roman site buried by the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius.

The backs of the cards showed couples busily engaged in prehistoric pursuits, rendered in that stylized black design you see on ancient Greek and Roman pottery.

Cheetah Boy started laughing, clearly thinking the whole thing was hilarious, and I realized I’m unlikely to ever get a decent gift from him until he gets married, and his wife picks it out.

I handed him back the cards and said, “Gee, thanks.”

Then, he started coughing. And he kept coughing for a week, along with other less savory symptoms of his trip that I’ll spare you, except to say no one got any sleep in our tiny house for the next few nights.

He got so ill that one night I found him lying on the kitchen floor, dramatically demonstrating that he was too sick to get up.

Since he’s a bit of a hypochondriac and none of us had slept for days, I showed my maternal tenderness by shouting at him to cut the histrionics and go back to bed and, amazingly enough, he did.

Then, I started coughing and coughing as well, and I couldn’t shout at myself, because I’d completely lost my voice.

My teens appreciated this, because instead of yelling at them to clean up their messes in the kitchen, all I could do was whisper.

They smiled slyly to themselves, but didn’t let me catch them.

As my son unpacked, he showed me the watch he’d bought in Paris. With my money. And the Mercedes cologne he bought. With my money. At a certain point, I just walked away before he pulled out the Rolex and the tennis bracelet.

He had a great time on the trip, despite that he had to pitch his tent and blow up his air mattress every night, and spend his days tossing on a motorcoach full of other young adults.

But now he’s miffed that he can’t drink, because he became accustomed to having a beer with dinner.

So, sorry, my friend. You’ll have to wait another 18 months, until you’re 21. Or at least until we go to Mexico, where the drinking age is 18.

Just try not to get sick while you’re there.

Contact the writer: 714-796-7994 or mfisher@ocregister.com