by Tim Carvell
Still, it was pretty nice to help Sophie out. She seemed really happy afterward. I asked her why, and she said, “Did you see how sad Sara Cambert looked in her bush costume?” And then she just laughed and kept imitating her, going “I’m Sara Cambert! I’m a bush! I only have one line!”
Sophie scares me sometimes.
We have a new exchange student in our class—Claudine Moreau from France. I felt kind of bad for her, because in social studies, Mrs. Wexler said, “Well, class, I think it’s exciting to have someone from another country here! Would anyone like to ask Claudine anything about France?” And everyone just kind of sat there feeling embarrassed for her, until Doug Spivak raised his hand and said, “What do your toasters look like?” And Mrs. Wexler said, “Why would you ask that, of all things?” And Doug said, “Well, I’ve always wondered how the French make French toast. Like, do you pour the egg and milk into the toaster, or what? It seems messy and dangerous.” And Mrs. Wexler said, “Does anyone else have anything to ask?”
After class, I saw Doug asking Claudine about French onions, and whether they come out of the ground covered in melted cheese. She looked really confused.
I think the most upsetting nursery rhyme has to be “Pop Goes the Weasel,” what with the whole exploding-weasel thing.
February
I would be writing this on the computer in the family room, but Sophie’s in there right now, watching reruns of Hannah Montana. I still can’t believe there’s a show where the whole plot is that nobody can tell that Hannah Montana is Miley Cyrus in a wig. The kids in her school make Clark Kent’s coworkers look like brain surgeons.
The only way that show would make sense would be if there were a title card at the beginning of every episode that said, “Everyone in this town has had the exact same kind of brain injury that destroys your ability to recognize things, even if those things look exactly alike.”
This morning in homeroom, Mrs. Coleman wished us all a happy Groundhog Day. Then our exchange student, Claudine Moreau, raised her hand and asked, “What is a groundhog day?” So Mrs. Coleman tried to explain it to her, and Claudine asked a lot of questions, like, “How does anyone know if the groundhog actually sees its shadow or not?” But finally, she said she understood: “You Americans believe a rodent controls the weather. In France, we have—how you say?—meteorologists?”
When she put it like that, it did sound kind of stupid.
Went to the mall with my parents today. Sophie and I stopped by the pet store, which is sort of like going to a crappy, free zoo. They had a whole litter of Dalmatian puppies there, and they were pretty cute. Although seeing Dalmatian puppies up close, I didn’t understand why Cruella De Vil thought she needed 101 of them to make a coat. I feel like you could make a really nice coat with six or seven of them. Which, it turns out, isn’t the sort of thing you’re supposed to say out loud in a pet store, because the clerk kind of asked us to leave.
Werewolves are badly named. They’re not people who were wolves. They’re people who are wolves. They should be called arewolves. (Or, if you’re going to be super accurate, aresometimeswolves.)
At school today, the signs went up for the after-school Valentine’s Day dance. I really want to ask Katie Zembla from my geometry class.
She seems super friendly and pretty, and she’s always really nice to me after I let her copy my homework.
I tried asking Katie to the dance today, but I got all nervous and wound up asking to borrow her eraser instead. And then I had to erase some stuff so it wouldn’t look weird, which meant that I wound up erasing a couple of answers on my homework right before I had to hand it in.
I tried asking Katie again, but I wound up asking to borrow her protractor. It’s getting embarrassing.
Good news! I finally asked her, and she said she’d go with me! Well, actually, she said she’d go if this person she’s waiting to ask her doesn’t by tomorrow. So I’m her second choice!
It’s Friday, and I caught up with Katie after class. She said her first choice still hadn’t asked her, but she wanted to give him until the end of the day, so she said she’d call me tomorrow.
Hooray! I just called Katie, and she said she’d go with me! The dance is three days away, so I have until then to find out stuff like what to wear and how to dance.
Mom took me to the mall today to look for a new tie. I like the one I have, but she says girls don’t like boys who wear ties that look like fish.
Tomorrow’s the big dance! I went to the Dollar Depot today and bought some cK One cologne. Well, actually, it’s called dB Two, but it smells just like cK One, and it only costs a buck! It’s pretty good—my dad noticed it right when he came home, and I was all the way up in my room. He asked how much I paid for it, and when I told him, he said, “That’s a bargain for cologne that strong!” And then he opened all the windows.
Ugh. I didn’t wind up going to the dance after all. I woke up this morning covered in hives. Mom took me to Dr. Bauer, who tested me and told me that I’m allergic to the artificial musk in the dB Two, which I guess is good to know. He gave me some Benadryl, and I spent the day at home, recovering. So instead of going to the dance, I stayed home and watched TV with my parents. They tried to be nice about it, but every once in a while, my dad would look at me and start laughing, and then he’d try to pretend that he was laughing at the TV, but we were watching reruns of Law & Order: SVU, which isn’t really all that funny.
At the grocery store tonight, they were giving away boxes of those Valentine’s candy hearts for free because, as the cashier said, “It’s not like anyone’s going to buy them the day after Valentine’s Day.” I just ate a few of them and then threw them away. Valentine’s hearts are the worst candy on earth. They’re, like, made of sugar, soap, and chalk dust.
The family went out to dinner tonight to Chili’s, and in the restroom, they had this sign:
It made me wonder if any customer has ever wound up just standing there in front of the sink, waiting for an employee to come wash his hands for him.
So I just got back from brushing my teeth, and when I was done, I noticed something: I’ve got a little bit of hair growing in on my upper lip. At first I thought it was a shadow, but I looked closer and it’s definitely a mustache. I may finally be ready to start shaving. I considered asking my parents to get me a razor, but then I decided that I’d let it go for a while and see how long it takes for anyone to notice.
Today was the first day for my new mustache. There’s something about having a mustache that makes you feel automatically more mature. I spent the whole day feeling like Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean—holding doors for girls and trying to come up with clever, Jack Sparrow-y things to say to them. When Julie Underhill asked me in class today if she could borrow a pen, I said, “You can borrow anything you like.” And she said, “Oh. Um. Well, can I borrow a pen?” And then I realized that I didn’t have any pens to loan her. But still—it sounded really cool.
I’m kind of surprised my parents haven’t noticed my mustache yet. I feel like it’s pretty noticeable—it’s the only thing I can see when I look in the mirror. At dinner tonight, whenever my parents asked me anything, I’d pause and think about it while stroking my mustache with my thumb and forefinger. But after I did that when Sophie asked me to pass the turnips, my mom said, “Are you feeling OK? Are you sick? Come over here!” and took my temperature by pressing her lips to my forehead, which I don’t think is the sort of thing you do to someone who has a mustache.
So today at school, Señora Lutz asked me why I was late to Spanish class, and I said, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” And she said, “Yes I would. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take that tone with me.” Maybe the light was too low in the room for her to see my mustache. After class, Chuck said, “Why’ve you been talking weird lately?” And I said, “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.” And he said, “You’ve got, like, this weird British accent all of a sudden. You sound like a drunk Mary Poppi
ns.”
Well, today, I got tired of waiting for my parents to mention my mustache. So when my mom said she was going to the store and asked if I needed anything, I just said, “Maybe some razors?” And she said, “Why?” And I said, “Isn’t it obvious?” And she said, “No. Not really.” And I said, “My mustache!” And then she walked over and looked at my face really closely and said, “Eh. I don’t see it.”
Since my mom wouldn’t get me any razors, I decided to shave using one of my dad’s disposable razors this morning. I couldn’t find any shaving cream, so I used some of my mom’s hairstyling foam. It turns out that styling foam is super sticky, and razors are a lot sharper than you’d expect. So I came down to breakfast with a Band-Aid across my upper lip and another one on my chin. (I wasn’t even growing any hair there, but I figured it’d be good to practice shaving my whole face.)
My dad saw me and said, “Whoa! Tad—what happened to your fa—” But then my mom kicked him under the table and he quieted down. Neither of them said anything about it for the rest of the day, but just now, when I came upstairs to the bathroom to brush my teeth, there was a new electric razor there. I can’t wait to use it the next time my mustache grows in. Hopefully, by then my face scars will have healed. And if anyone at school asks, I’m telling them I got into a fight.
I never understand why Jeopardy! does that whole weird “You have to phrase your answers in the form of a question” thing. But I think I’ve figured out a loophole: If I ever wind up on Jeopardy!, I’ll buzz in every time and ask the question, “What is an answer in this episode of Jeopardy!?” And they’d have to let me win, because that is technically right.
I can’t believe nobody else has thought of this.
Today in science, we learned that monkeys and apes are different species: Monkeys have tails, while apes don’t. So a marmoset, for instance, is a monkey, while a chimpanzee is an ape.
Doug Spivak raised his hand and asked, “What if you cut the tail off a marmoset? Does it become an ape? And what if you attach that tail to a chimpanzee? Does it become a monkey?” We never found out the answer, because Mr. Parker just put his head down on his desk and made a noise like he was either laughing or crying—it was hard to tell.
Today’s Leap Day—the day that comes only once every four years. I feel like whoever came up with Leap Day should go down to the hospital and apologize to all the babies that were born today, because thanks to that person, they’re in for a long life of explaining their birthday to people.
March
Overslept this morning and missed the school bus, so my mom had to drive me to school. I blame my alarm clock. Why do they even put a Snooze button on there? They might as well just call it an Oversleep button.
In my science textbook, I read that even blind chameleons change color to match their surroundings. I asked my dad how they figured that out, and he said, “Well, I guess they did a study where they blinded some chameleons and then saw what happened.”
I think it’s weird that somewhere out there in the world, there’s a guy whose job title is Chameleon Blinder.
I’ve been thinking about it, and if I ever have a band, it will be called Chameleon Blinder.
Getting a little excited for my birthday—it’s in three days. I’m not having a big party or anything—my parents are going to take Chuck and Kevin and Jake bowling with me, and then out for pizza at Pizza Land.
I told my mom I want a GamePort XL game system for my birthday. Chuck got one for Christmas, and he brought it to school last week. He let me see it. That’s all he let me do, though—see it. He wouldn’t let me hold it because, he said, “My mom said I can’t let people play with it, because they might break it. Plus, it’s flu season, so it’s better not to touch things other people have touched.” (Chuck’s a nice guy, but his mom’s super nervous about everything, and as a result, so’s he. Until he was in sixth grade, his mom made Chuck wear a helmet on the school bus.)
The GamePort XL is pretty cool—there’s a game that makes it look like it’s got a puppy inside it, and you can make it fetch and stay and stuff. Chuck really likes it because his mom won’t let him have a dog, because she’s afraid it might one day go crazy and kill him just like this dog she saw on the news. I told Chuck that if I get that game, I’m naming my puppy “Chuckbiter.”
I really need a GamePort XL. In study hall today, Chuck and Kevin both spent the whole time playing with their imaginary dogs.
I had nothing to do but draw pictures of blind chameleons:
At breakfast, I reminded my mom and dad that I want a GamePort XL for my birthday, and my mom said, “Well, maybe if you’re good, you’ll get that GigaPet 9000 you want.” And I got all worried and said, “No! I want a GamePort XL! Why did you think I wanted a GigaPet? Those are for seven-year-old girls!” And she said, “Oh, a GamePort? Well, it’s probably too late to get you one of those.” And then she smiled at my dad. So I think they’re just messing with my head. Which isn’t very nice.
Today was my birthday. Bowling and dinner were a lot of fun. (Well, there were two bad parts: First, even though I told him not to do it, my dad told the people at Pizza Land that it was my birthday, so all the waiters and the Pizza Badger came over and sang “Happy Birthday” to me, which would’ve been fun when I was, like, nine, but I’m thirteen now. And then the fact that I was being serenaded by the Pizza Badger made Kevin laugh so loud, he sprayed soda through his nose and onto my cake. We had to eat around that part.)
When we got home, my parents gave me my present: a GamePort XL! So I can’t blog now—I’m teaching Chuckbiter to fetch.
Bad news. I went over to Chuck’s today, and Kevin came over, and we were all playing with our GamePorts. And then I put mine on the floor and went to the kitchen to get a soda, and then, when I came back, I stepped on it and broke it.
I don’t even know what was worse—breaking my GamePort or having Chuck’s mom come in the room immediately afterward and say, “You see, Chuck? That’s why you shouldn’t let Tad touch your things.”
I bet that if all the animal mascots for products got together for a convention—like, if the Trix rabbit and the Cocoa Puffs cuckoo and Elsie the cow all got together—I kind of think that everyone would make a point of avoiding the Charmin toilet-paper bears. Seriously. As best I can tell, those bears would talk about nothing but toilet paper, and everyone else would be like, “Hey, we’re trying to eat over here.”
For vocab in English, we have to learn the word disgruntled. It means “unhappy.” Weirdly, there’s no such word as gruntled, meaning “happy.” I’m going to try and make it a word, though. I’m just going to start using it in conversation, and hopefully it’ll catch on.
Well, after one day, I’m giving up on making gruntled a word. I told my mom that I was gruntled with dinner last night, and she said if I didn’t like it, I didn’t have to eat it. I told Mr. Parker today that I was feeling gruntled, and he said, “If you need to go to the bathroom, just ask to be excused.” And then I told one of the lunch ladies today that the food was very gruntling, and she said she’d had enough abuse from us kids.
Making words catch on is a lot harder than I’d thought. It gave me a whole new respect for Merriam and Webster.
Today at school, we all pretty much wasted a whole period of social studies. Mrs. Wexler was explaining how the United States engages in trade with other countries, like Mexico and Canada. Doug Spivak raised his hand and said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wexler? But Canada’s a state.” And Mrs. Wexler said, “No, Doug, actually, Canada is a whole separate country.” But Doug said, “No, it’s a state. States have their names on quarters, right?” And then he reached into his pocket and held up a quarter and said, “I got this Canadian quarter a little while ago, and it says ‘Canada’ on it. So they must be a state. A state full of stupid people who don’t know how to make quarters that work in vending machines.”
So then Mrs. Wexler spent a while explaining that while Canada uses dollars and quarters, that
doesn’t make them a state. And Doug said, “But they speak English! That means they must be American!” And she said, “Just because they speak English somewhere doesn’t mean it’s part of America. I mean, Great Britain’s not part of America, is it?” And he said, “It’s not?” And things went on like that for another half hour.
I bet Doug Spivak’s going to get held back again this year. It’s too bad. He kind of makes every class more interesting.
Today is St. Patrick’s Day. Supposedly, St. Patrick’s the guy who got all the snakes out of Ireland. I dunno—that doesn’t seem like a sainthood-worthy achievement. I mean, committing reptile genocide is really hard to do, but it doesn’t seem like it makes you a saint so much as it makes you a really, really good exterminator.