Oh, where to begin. Alex. Alex has been kind enough to inform us that he is in "The Puberty." Frankly, I appreciate the heads up because if I'm in the path of a tidal wave, I tend to like to see it coming. Plus, we already live with one person who's mood swings rival the Incredible Hulk's, so it's awfully nice that he let us know in advance that he's about to join the Big Leagues of bat-shit crazy.
Alex is completely mesmerized with the idea of going through puberty. He's seriously discussed his disappointments (more than once) in not having braces or crutches, glasses or hearing aides; Puberty is an oddity that he won't be cheated out of. And he's stoked.
We decided to support Alex's new self-appointed phase by buying him his very own deodorant which quickly became a most prized possession. The first time he put it on, we cheered him on like he was taking his first steps and he beamed in pride. He's oddly mesmerized by the little stick and he's been known to declare, Well, I think I'll go put on my deodorant now, and then come back giving us the play-by-play and asking us to smell him for good measure.There are excited displays of invisible hair on still baby-soft skin that he's sure he'll need to shave soon,and proclamations that his Adam's apple has grown slightly bigger overnight, and he's right..... all-too-soon this beautiful boyish wonder will morph into the next phase of things and it breaks my heart a little.I delight in the boyhood of this eccentric little soul and I'm suddenly very grateful that these things happen incrementally.
For now, Alex still scolds Tim when he catches him sitting slack-jawed and unresponsive during Victoria's Secret commercials. OK. So we're not in the big leagues quite yet.
Ahhh, Halloween; the season for spooks, scares, and things that go bump in the night. Staying true to the spirit of the season, Sydney declared that it was high time that she experience Frighttown, touted as one of the Northwest's premier haunted attractions. She also declared it to be the perfect mother-daughter activity. Sometimes I wonder where she gets these strange ideas?
When I think of haunted houses, I immediately flash back to my very first haunted house experience. It's an awkward tale, really. The 'haunted house' was put on by our church and erected on the stage/gym of the school associated with it. In my naivety, I decided I needed to explore this whole haunted house phenomena and skipped right up into the line of doom. As I remember it, I was only there for a few sorry minutes when a vampire came out of holy friggin' nowhere and, suddenly recognizing the score, I decided I was having exactly none of it. In a split second, I turned from a sweet, costumed princess to pure wild-eyed adrenaline, and proceeded to bust straight throughthe cardboardwallsof the haunted house just like in the cartoons and then blindly dove headfirst through the heavy curtain separating the haunted house from the gym....subsequently pummeling a man who with microphone in hand, was talking to the attentive crowd about God and what-not. (Couldn't make this up if I tried.)
Looking back, I'm not sure who was more traumatized after that experience: me, the stunned presenter, who I'm relatively sure didn't expect to be attacked at a church function by a princess-turned-wildcat in front of part of his congregation, or my poor mother who had to claim me after the whole scene.
So, flash-forward thirty years and you understand how nothing but pure, blind love and devotion could've gotten me into a haunted house of this magnitude as I found myself reluctantly agreeing to Sydney's grand plan. We stood in line for an hour and a half, and when we finally got to the doors, there was not one haunted house to live through. There were three. Three separate attractions and three separate opportunities to pee myself. I admit that I stood there sulking like a moody teenager in a cloud of four letter words for the rest of the wait.
Frighttown boasts that they've created a nightmare scene for every psyche and they aren't messin' around. I imagine we would've found the finer details impressive if we weren't too busy screaming our faces off, running through nightmare after nightmare and trying not to be left behind. (I lost count of the times Sydney whispered, Mom...let go of the stranger...., as I clutched the back of the shirt of the person in front of me.) I'll hand it to the makers of Frighttown, by the end of the first haunted house, my legs were jello, my nerves were shot, and I was pretty sure I was deaf in my left ear from Sydney's blood-curdling screams. I would've paid Sydney in that moment to let us call it a day, but she wasn't having it.I have no idea how she got me into that second line. I haven't smoked a cigarette in over 15 years, but by the end of the night, I swear to God, if someone had handed me one, it's entirely possible that I would've laid right there in the middle of the floor and silently smoked away. How it didn't end up looking like this, I will never know....
....but we made it. And, yes. I'm betting we'll go again next year.
Over the last three weeks Sydney started high school, Alex started 5th grade, I started working full time, my parents came from Wyoming for several days, our friends came for a whirlwind visit from Seattle, and we've been harvesting and canning the crap out of our unbelievably lush garden and the 120 lbs of peaches we collected from a nearby orchard.
I did the dead-and-drooling-sleep thing until noon over the weekend. Such a beautiful thing.
Ooooooh, fancy! Alex and Tim ended up being extras in a commercial for the video game Fifa Soccer 13. Alex is easy to spot (left side, tan shorts) while finding Tim is a little like playing 'Where's Waldo,' but he's there if you look reeeeeallll close. As a side note, when they freeze the action at 33 seconds, the look on Alex's face cracks me up every time.
When asked what was his favorite part of being in a commercial, Alex announced that it was "pretty cool to meet Timber Joey" (the Timber's mascot) which is somewhat hilarious given the fact that he was hanging out with two well known soccer players all day long.
So, without further ado, I present the men of my house in: Fifa Soccer 13.
One of my friends has a blog in which she cleverly calls her home and the things that go on there the 'Ten Cent Farm.' If I had to come up with a similar antidote for the world to which I inhabit, I'm afraid that I would be forced to call it something much less charming but none-the-less accurate to my experience. Something more along the lines of say....'Life in the Clown Car.' Case in point:
One thing that I take very seriously in that strange thing called 'marriage,' is to make sure that I annoy Tim as much as humanly possible. I'm pretty sure it was written in bold print in our marriage vows to harass and agitate whenever the opportunity presents itself. So it was in that spirit to which I decided that after getting up to go to the bathroom at 4am, it was my wifely duty to steamroll him as he slumbered instead of quietly and softly sliding back to my side of the bed. And here's where the clown car analogy comes in:
Jumping in the air for full effect (and miscalculating where I was jumping in the dark), I smacked my head squarely into a shelf, which dropped me like a rock. Said shelf was holding a full mug of tea and Tim, who had been serenely snoring away was suddenly being full on water-boarded. He may be the only man on the planet to almost drown while sound asleep in his bedroom.
After the bewilderment and scolding (and cackling) had subsided, the exchange went a little like this:
Tim: I'm pretty sure stuff like this doesn't happen to other couples....
Me: Really? Why do you think that?
Tim: Because I'm pretty sure we're morons.
It's hard to believe, but high school is looming.....and this, THIS, my friends, is who we're releasing into the hallways alongside the swarms of cunning and obnoxious teenage male hormones.
Orientation was today and, to the administration's credit, the whole production was impressively efficient. She got her school ID at one table, her schedule at another, and books at still another. With so many tables, I was initially hopeful and then terribly dismayed to discover that although I could walk right up and even rent her PE uniform, there wasn't a single table for parents to rent a good reliable taser for the year. You know, teenage boy deterrent. Hell, looking around at all of those boys' faces, I would've joined the PTA on the spot had membership come with a big 'ole can of bear spray. Clearly, school administrators are overlooking the seriously untapped revenue stream available from the hand-wringing parents of newly-minted freshman girls.
We walked toward the door after orientation, Sydney open-faced and starry-eyed, me stone-faced like dead man walking. Tim paused for a moment, looked around, and made reference to Lord of the Flies.
Over the past couple of weeks, I have been waking up to Tim's shrill interpretation of a sick cat meeting a moaning banshee, the result of his back seizing up like puckered lips on a sour lemon. Like clockwork, I hear something that stirs me from early morning dreams and in my grogginess I open my eyes and there he is. On the floor. On all fours. Peering over the bed at me while moaning and swearing like that girl from the Exorcist. It's a disturbing and slightly comical mess all wrapped up into one cussing heap on the floor. If he were an animal, we'd have to seriously consider putting him out of his misery.
Apparently, the Universe doesn't mind kicking the newest member of the old guy club while he's down because during the same time period, Tim has been asked via mail (twice!) to consider relocating to Rose Villa....Portland's newest old folks home. (Which has resulted in him being bestowed with the new nickname, Old Man Larson.)
All mail for Tim should be directed here.
Strangely, the first time he was invited, the invitation 'mysteriously' disappeared and I was told, in no uncertain terms, that if I repeated this to anyone, he would have no choice but to retaliate. I half expect a counter-blog to pop up defending his virility and describing the torment of living with a wife who possesses a wild imagination and a knack for spinning tall tales about her ever-loving husband.
Of course, he'll most likely will be writing from the floor, on all fours, from his lovely new room at Rose Villa.*
