Dear Diary,
Being 13 sure isn't the great, happy crap my parents think it is. Is it so hard for my boobs to grow or what???? How come everyone else has giant boobs and I've got stupid nothings???? I wear puffy shirts so no one notices, because the boys call the other girls Flatso, which I think is almost as crappy as Fatso, and then they snap their bra straps. Ugh.
Today Mike called and he taught me how to play Mary Had A Little Lamb on my phone, which was cool. I really hope he likes me. But even if he doesn't, high school is going to be so super cool. I can't wait for September!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Well except for the hard classes. I'm scared about Math class. I hope my parents will get me my very own phone line for my birthday. I'd have them put it in my room, just like Elizabeth and Jessica from Sweet Valley High have. Maybe I'll get a Fiat when I'm 16, too!! That would be so cool!!!
I'm saving up my babysitting money this summer so I can buy some new Converse All Stars. My friends call them Chucks, because they're really called Chuck Taylors, but I think a name with Stars in it is cooler, so I call them that instead. You've probably heard me call them that, Diary, so I probably didn't have to write that out. Do you like the new way I dot my letter i's? The hearts take a lot of time to do-- way more than just a dot, but it makes my writing look so sofistocated. sophistacate. cool.
Well, I'd better go.
Love,
Bethie
Despite having kept my diary all these years (trust me, it's as enthralling as you'd think it would be. The above entry is one of the best ones in there. Oh yeah.), I was amazingly out of touch when my nephew, age 13, arrived at our house for a 24-hour tour.
The first shock came when Nephew grunted "Bye" to his parents and loaded up my trunk with his dufflebag. You would think he was staying over for the rest of the summer for the stuff he packed. Mouth agape, I suddenly realized what Husband must wonder every time I go on any sort of vacation with him.
When we finally squeezed the trunk shut and the contents of his bag quit groaning against the inside of my car, I was glad I was trading Kiddo #1 for Nephew #1, for no other reason than she and her carseat left more room for the overflow of Nephew's bags.
When Nephew sat down, I was immediately transported back to roughly 10th grade. I got a stupid smile on my face as I remembered some boyfriend that also wore a similar cologne. Chuckling at the memories of the two of us trying to figure out how to kiss, I said, "Nephew, what cologne are you wearing?" He smirked and said, "A good one."
Ahh yes. 13, I remember you well.
"Right, so which one?"
He replied Abercrombie or Hollister or some other clothing brand, but suffice it to say it was one that was more expensive than the Exclamation! and Lady Stetson I used to wear, by at least 10 fold. Times have changed, but that just means the teens of today have way cooler stuff to spend their endless money on; they're not buying anything different with the money, just much better quality.
We head home and I put the baby down for his nap, leaving Nephew and me to hang out while Husband did yard work. I think, secretly, Husband hoped having strong, athletic Nephew around might allow him another pair of hands to get the mulch done, but I vetoed that quickly once I got out of the air conditioned car into the rainforest temperatures of our little, sea level town. 109F? No thank you.
Down to the nice, cool basement we went in search of video games. I left him to play with the Xbox 360 while I folded the diapers from the dryer and started a load of laundry. When I came down he'd put on the random sports pack game for the Kinect and I watched him run hurdles and play ping pong before my natural desire to beat the tar out of all opponents got the better of me.
I pulled up my avatar while he talked smack about how "old people can't play Kinect" and how "No one can beat me. I'm kinda awesome." and all this other garbage that proves he spends entirely too much time with my smack-talking brother. To be fair, I'd never actually played these games before (I stick to the jungle cat game where you can pet the jaguar and teach your leopard to do tricks), and my frickin' sciatica was killing me, but I could hardly let some 13-year-old punk trash talk me in my own house.
He let me warm up with boxing. I beat the stuffing outta him in 1 round, with a KO. Then I kicked his hiney in two rounds (I went easy on him the second one because I'm an elder and should show kids how to win graciously or whatever), and was kind enough to say, "Floats like a butterfly, stings like a Bee-otch."
He brushed it all off with a "Whatever, Aunt Beth. Whoop-tee-doo. Let's play Ping Pong." After whipping him in record time with my left hand, I switched my paddle to my right one saying, "Listen, that game was too quick. I'm switching to my bad hand so you have a chance to play." He has a really cute smirk when he's agitated. It must be genetic.
Once I'd beaten him in Boxing, Ping Pong, Beach Volleyball and "Summer Games" sports, it occured to me that I was really, quite crippled. I had just spent the last hour and a half: jumping, diving, twisting, and doing various over-the-top victory dances complete with pointing and random taunts including, but not limited to, "I thought you were big man on campus, but I guess you're just a minor-niner." and "Nephew, are you texting your friends to ask them for cheat codes? Cuz you should." and "It's OK you don't have to pretend you can't play just to make an old lady feel better. Oh wait, you ARE playing? Oh. Uh. Sorry." The best part was my adrenaline was racing hard enough that I felt NONE of it; all I felt was the pain-suppressing taste of victory in my mouth.
I discreetly texted my husband to stop doing the mulch and sneak into the house and pinch the sleeping baby so that I would have an excuse to gracefully hobble up the stairs. Once the baby started crying, I, with a humble wave and a British accent said, "You must excuse me, Master Nephew. My triumph must be delayed whilst I change the baby. Ta!" and I slunk up the stairs, sweating and Lamase breathing until I was out of eyeshot. Oh the pain was immediate and thorough.
I walked zombie-like to the baby's room where I could cry loudly and in peace (the baby monitor is just crappy enough that Nephew would simply think the baby was louder than before) and texted hubby to come back in and help me. He snuck me some ibuprophen and water and I checked movie listings on my phone. Within seconds, we'd arranged to take Nephew to see the new Transformers movie with husband while I said I'd stay home with the baby. I put the baby to bed just before the guys left and pretended the breathtaking pain in my hip wasn't actually pulsating down to my feet. Oscar worthy performance, let me tell you.
The second that garage door hit concrete, I poured myself a glass of wine and (more or less) fell into my tub. Just as I was delighting in the jets and epsom salts, when my phone started blowing up with unrelenting text messages from my nephew. One after another whoop! whoop! whoop! from Nephew taunting me, saying my husband had told him everything!
Treasonous Husband! Off With His Head!
(I should say that I only think Nephew was taunting me. His text messages were mostly a bunch of seemingly-random letters with a bunch of weird stuff like semi-colons and half-brackets. Hello? Semi-colon half-bracket? What even is that?)
When the guys got back later that night, I'd Tiger Balmed the majority of my body (which gave me an odd odour AND an odd orangey-glow to my skin), the ibuprophen was running in full force and I was feeling good. I fed the baby and the teenager an 11 o'clock snack (a bottle and a peanut butter sandwich, respectively) and everyone went to bed.
Dear Diary,
Being 33 sure isn't the great, happy crap everyone thinks it is. Is it so hard for my boobs to stay put or what???? How come everyone else has perfect, non-sagging boobs and I've got stupid grapefruit in a pair of nylons???? I wear push up bras with underwire so no one notices, because if I don't my boobs blend in with my stomach, which is entirely unappealing. Ugh.
Today I schooled my nephew in Kinect, and now I can hardly type this diary entry my whole self is so sore. I really hope he had fun because I might be in a full body cast when he gets up in the morning. We'll see.
I have to go and charge my phone. I wore down the battery with the 600 text messages my nephew sent me.
I'm saving up my money this summer so I can buy some new Converse All Stars. My friends call them Chucks, because they're really called Chuck Taylors, but I think a name with Stars in it is cooler, so I call them that instead. You've probably heard me call them that, Diary, so I probably didn't have to write that out.
Well, I'd better go.
Love,
Elizabeth
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