The status is static, General.
Every time people ask me, “So what’s going on with you?” my answer is, “Nothing.” Because there is nothing to speak of. Look:
I like my house very much but don’t get to spend enough time in it (just like everyone else in Suburban America).
I’m either writing or revising words, but have no new publications or readings to report.
The kids haven’t flunked out of school yet. Josh is doing okay. Rory is doing okay. Dallas is learning to play a musical instrument. Some parents don’t like the sound of children playing musical instruments. I like it, though. I make Dallas sit on my bed and serenade me with tuba solos while I clip coupons or pay bills. He can play a D, an F, and an E Sharp. He should be able to play a C, but the valve on his home-use tuba is rusted stiff. So he practices his three notes, over and over. Then I say, “Play a song now,” and he goes into Radiohead-esque scales of his own devising. Sometimes I hum along. It’s nice.
Oh, wait – something did happen. Little girls invaded my house.
Last night, after cleaning up the dinner dishes and yelling at the kids one last time for breaking the laundry-room door, I was getting ready to go to the grocery store for some desperately needed lunch supplies, when the doorbell rang.
It was two little girls. They were sisters. Before I knew what was happening, they invited themselves into my house. “You have a beautiful house,” one said dutifully as she ushered herself in. She was Paris, I knew. (Though that’s not her real name, of course.) I had a vague notion that my youngest son had arranged a play date with Paris that evening, and assumed her mother had simply sent the sister along, as well. I asked the sister for her name. She said it was Nicole, then politely asked for my name. I said it was “Miss Zuh-pay-duh.” I rolled with their sudden appearance, figuring it was a suburban thing. The sisters frolicked with my sons and our video game systems for a while. I pretended to work on my writing and eavesdropped with great interest.
Dallas, eleven-soon-to-be-twelve and normally so quiet around adults and other boys, seems to enjoy talking to girls. Last year, he had three girls who would call our house and jabber at him for hours on end while he said, “Uh huh. Yeah. Yeah, I know, he’s stupid.”
Last night, he ushered the older girl into the office and showed her games he thought she would like. She wanted to talk. The others joined them as Dallas launched into a comedy routine, mimicking people at school and ad-libbing sardonic scenarios. The girls laughed and laughed. “I don’t even know what I’m saying,” Dallas said. “I’m just making it up.”
Eventually, the talk turned to someone at school whose dad wore a particular kind of turban. One of the girls described it as “weird!” I called out to them, “My dad wears a turban like that, y’all.” There was silence, then someone muttered, “Sorry.”
I said, “No, just kidding. I just said that so y’all would think about stuff before you say it.”
Silence again, but I could hear the eye-rolls under it.
“Right now, you guys,” I continued, “That kid is at his house with his friends, talking about you guys. He’s saying, ‘Their dads don’t even wear turbans! Weird!'”
More eye rolls. I went back to my own business.
A quarter til eight, I started thinking it might be time to hustle the little girls out of the house. I stood up to do so and the doorbell rang. It was the little girls’ mom, who I’ve met once. She wasn’t happy.
“Are Paris and Nicole here?” she asked. I said they were. She said, “They are so grounded!” I said, “I’m sorry.”
It turned out that Paris had promised to be home before dark, and it was now after dark. Nicole hadn’t even asked permission to visit us – she’d just followed Paris, and her parents had assumed she was in her room the whole time. Their mother hadn’t even been sure which house we lived it, and had gone door to door, searching. “I told you it was the one with the silver car!” Paris whined.
“Can I come over again tomorrow?” Paris asked me. I saw that she had taken off her shoes and they weren’t yet back on.
“Uh…” I said. I really wanted to go to the grocery store some evening soon.
“You are grounded!” their mother reminded them.
“Aw!” said Paris. As quickly as they’d appeared, the girls disappeared.
“Let’s hurry and go to the grocery store,” I told Rory.
On the way, his nine-year-old self said, “At least we got to have fun for a little while. I hope they come over tomorrow. We should invite more people over. Can we have a party?”
“Uh…” I said.
I really wanted to play World of Warcraft some evening this week. But maybe little kids will take over my house and I’ll never play again. Maybe they’ll bring over skateboards and puppies and kegs and DJs. I’m kind of scared. Then again, maybe I can teach them to be kind to others and to write villanelles.
Maybe I can build a little kid army and take over the world.
Just kidding.
Okay, I’m grounded. Gotta go.
