science.
Things add up. Things make sense.
I can't make sense of this at all.
Grandma thinks there's nothing I'm not good at.
But the truth is, if it isn't in a textbook, I'm not good at it.
This is depressing. But my sister doesn't notice my mood when I let myself into her house and make my presence known.
"Uncle Reed's here!" she yells upstairs, then turns to me and begins talking in that mile-a-minute speech pattern used by
working moms everywhere. "German chocolate cake in the fridge, leftover veggie pizza, no Coke, make sure they take their multivitamins
and brush their teeth and no video games past eight o'clock—gets them too wound up—if you decide to watch The Lion King be prepared to discuss the death scene afterward, I recommend Aladdin instead, make sure their milk is warmed, you might have to stay in the room with Neil till he falls asleep, Rachel and Danny
too, Joely likes to dance to 'Rainbow Connection' before getting into bed. . . ."
My nieces and nephews hurl themselves down the stairs, pile on top of me, and pull me down to the carpet. There are four of
them—two girls, two boys—all under the age of eight.
"I lost a tooth!"
"My new dolly poops!"
"I made it to Level Eight today!"
"Can I have three pieces of cake, and three slices of pizza, and three glasses of milk?"
You gotta say one thing about kids. They sure give you a lot of attention.
Christine smiles as she watches them climb all over me.
"They're crazy about you," she says.
"Well, see, I bribe them," I answer. "I have Tootsie Rolls in my pockets."
Christine's husband, Roger, appears beside her, slipping his arm around her waist and looking pleased with himself. It occurs
to me that Roger was once my sister's boyfriend, that the two of them dated before getting married. But they've been married
since I was seven, so I've never thought of the guy as anything but a husband and provider.
"What's good, yo?" Roger asks.
Talk about wack. Adults using slang to look cool. I could reply, "We straight, dawg, jus' chillin'." But that would make me
sound as stupid as him.
"Where are you two lovebirds going?" I ask. I mean this as a joke, but Christine giggles, and for some reason, this depresses
me even more.
"Dinner and dancing," she says.
'And more," Roger teases.
Ick. Gross. Puh-leez.
I do not want to think about this. Besides, isn't there something terribly wrong with this picture? Shouldn't my mother-of-four sister
be sitting home in crusty sweatpants, inhaling microwavable pizza, and watching Disney movies with her brood? Shouldn't her
seventeen-year-old stud of a brother be out on a hot date?
Lonnie's got a hot date—he's probably swapping spit with her in my backseat right now—my grandmother's got a hot date, Ronnie's
probably out with Jonathan, even my parents said they were going out tonight.
I'm the only guy in the Garden State stuck at home on a Saturday night with a bunch of overexcited, sticky-fingered rugrats.
I remind myself next weekend will be different. Next weekend my life will change.
Take that, Roger.
. . .
We sing songs, eat German chocolate cake, make kettle corn, watch Aladdin, play video games, and watch cartoons. They're finally all asleep by ten o'clock.
I'm exhausted. And yet, now that it's quiet and I've got the place to myself, I feel worse than I did before.
I make myself a mug of Dutch hot chocolate and open my laptop on the coffee table in the living room. There's some old black-and-white
movie playing on TCM. Casablanca, I think, with Humphrey Bogart.
I write an e-mail to Ronnie and Lonnie. I describe my history-in-the-making events in the library. Then I bombard them with
questions.
wut does it mean?
BOTH ur asking-out questions worked!
need answers!
need info!
need nu tip list!
how to go on a date.
hurry!
pronto!
this is an emergency!
send help quickly!
I read over my e-mail before hitting SEND. The panic is a nice touch. I've got plenty of time—a
Things add up. Things make sense.
I can't make sense of this at all.
Grandma thinks there's nothing I'm not good at.
But the truth is, if it isn't in a textbook, I'm not good at it.
This is depressing. But my sister doesn't notice my mood when I let myself into her house and make my presence known.
"Uncle Reed's here!" she yells upstairs, then turns to me and begins talking in that mile-a-minute speech pattern used by
working moms everywhere. "German chocolate cake in the fridge, leftover veggie pizza, no Coke, make sure they take their multivitamins
and brush their teeth and no video games past eight o'clock—gets them too wound up—if you decide to watch The Lion King be prepared to discuss the death scene afterward, I recommend Aladdin instead, make sure their milk is warmed, you might have to stay in the room with Neil till he falls asleep, Rachel and Danny
too, Joely likes to dance to 'Rainbow Connection' before getting into bed. . . ."
My nieces and nephews hurl themselves down the stairs, pile on top of me, and pull me down to the carpet. There are four of
them—two girls, two boys—all under the age of eight.
"I lost a tooth!"
"My new dolly poops!"
"I made it to Level Eight today!"
"Can I have three pieces of cake, and three slices of pizza, and three glasses of milk?"
You gotta say one thing about kids. They sure give you a lot of attention.
Christine smiles as she watches them climb all over me.
"They're crazy about you," she says.
"Well, see, I bribe them," I answer. "I have Tootsie Rolls in my pockets."
Christine's husband, Roger, appears beside her, slipping his arm around her waist and looking pleased with himself. It occurs
to me that Roger was once my sister's boyfriend, that the two of them dated before getting married. But they've been married
since I was seven, so I've never thought of the guy as anything but a husband and provider.
"What's good, yo?" Roger asks.
Talk about wack. Adults using slang to look cool. I could reply, "We straight, dawg, jus' chillin'." But that would make me
sound as stupid as him.
"Where are you two lovebirds going?" I ask. I mean this as a joke, but Christine giggles, and for some reason, this depresses
me even more.
"Dinner and dancing," she says.
'And more," Roger teases.
Ick. Gross. Puh-leez.
I do not want to think about this. Besides, isn't there something terribly wrong with this picture? Shouldn't my mother-of-four sister
be sitting home in crusty sweatpants, inhaling microwavable pizza, and watching Disney movies with her brood? Shouldn't her
seventeen-year-old stud of a brother be out on a hot date?
Lonnie's got a hot date—he's probably swapping spit with her in my backseat right now—my grandmother's got a hot date, Ronnie's
probably out with Jonathan, even my parents said they were going out tonight.
I'm the only guy in the Garden State stuck at home on a Saturday night with a bunch of overexcited, sticky-fingered rugrats.
I remind myself next weekend will be different. Next weekend my life will change.
Take that, Roger.
. . .
We sing songs, eat German chocolate cake, make kettle corn, watch Aladdin, play video games, and watch cartoons. They're finally all asleep by ten o'clock.
I'm exhausted. And yet, now that it's quiet and I've got the place to myself, I feel worse than I did before.
I make myself a mug of Dutch hot chocolate and open my laptop on the coffee table in the living room. There's some old black-and-white
movie playing on TCM. Casablanca, I think, with Humphrey Bogart.
I write an e-mail to Ronnie and Lonnie. I describe my history-in-the-making events in the library. Then I bombard them with
questions.
wut does it mean?
BOTH ur asking-out questions worked!
need answers!
need info!
need nu tip list!
how to go on a date.
hurry!
pronto!
this is an emergency!
send help quickly!
I read over my e-mail before hitting SEND. The panic is a nice touch. I've got plenty of time—a
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