by Tim Carvell
My mom’s running around getting ready for Sophie’s eighth birthday. She’s having a Barbie-themed party. That was her third choice. Her first choice was to have a princess-themed party, but then my mom told her that if that was the theme of the party, it couldn’t just be HER being a princess—she had to let the other girls be princesses, too. Her second choice was a Lady GaGa–themed party, and both my mom and dad told her absolutely not. So it’s a Barbie-themed party. I’m going to try to be out of the house as long as I can.
I bet the hardest part about being Bruce Banner isn’t the moment when you turn into the Hulk. It’s when you’re done being angry, and you calm down, and suddenly you’re naked in the middle of a whole lot of rubble, and someone’s looking at you like, “Um, that’s my car you just threw.” I bet that part never gets any easier.
Well, today was Sophie’s party. I went to the mall and managed to miss almost the whole thing—only one of Sophie’s friends was still there when I got home, Brenda Winters, who was waiting for her mom to pick her up. She’d had too much cake and ice cream and kept saying, over and over, “I think I’m gonna throw up!” My mom looked really nervous, because Brenda was sitting on the couch that’s not Scotchgarded.
Anyway, for her birthday, my parents got Sophie a hamster, which is totally unfair, because they never let me have a pet. This is what her hamster looks like:
His name is Thunderclaw. Sophie calls him Mr. Squeakers, but he and I both know his name is Thunderclaw.
Chuck came over today, and we sneaked into Sophie’s room to play with Thunderclaw when she was out at her oboe lesson. I think he’s a really smart hamster, because Chuck made a little maze out of Legos, and Thunderclaw figured out how to get through it in no time. Chuck’s coming over tomorrow, when Sophie and my parents are at her oboe recital, and we’re going to build a hamster-size obstacle course to test Thunderclaw’s strength and agility.
Oh, man. Today was a long day. Chuck and I were putting Thunderclaw through the obstacle course, and he’d already finished the swimming portion in the bathroom sink, and the ice-skating portion inside a carton of sherbet we found in the back of the freezer. But then, during the Road Rally, when we had him in my radio-controlled car, Chuck took a turn too hard and it slammed into the coffee table. Thunderclaw went flying off somewhere in the direction of the sofa, and we couldn’t find him, despite spending a long time diagramming where he could have landed:
Finally, we gave up on finding him, and ran down to Pets-a-Million to find a replacement for Thunderclaw before Sophie got home. I think the one we found looks a lot like him, especially after we added some spots with a brown magic marker:
Gotta go—I hear Sophie and my folks getting home.
Good news! Sophie thinks Thunderclaw II is her original hamster! Although she did tell Mom and Dad that Mr. Squeakers is suddenly “a whole lot bitey-er.”
Um. Well. Today brought good news and bad news. The good news is, we found Thunderclaw I. The bad news is, he was in my mom’s Rice Krispies.
I guess, after we lost him, he ran into the kitchen and climbed into a cereal box for some food, and then he couldn’t climb out again. So this morning Mom was pouring herself some cereal, and suddenly she screamed, because there in the bowl, with his four tiny paws in the air, was the lifeless body of Thunderclaw I. Sophie started crying and ran to her room, and then a minute later, she came back down to tell us that it couldn’t be Thunderclaw, because he was still in his cage. And mom said, “Well, how did a hamster that looks just like him wind up in my cereal?” I tried to suggest that maybe it was a prize—like, they were giving away one free dead hamster in every box of Rice Krispies.
Mom stared at me for a really long time, and then she asked, “Is there something you want to tell us?”
And I answered honestly: No. There was absolutely nothing I wanted to tell her.
September
School starts on Tuesday, so today I had to go back-to-school shopping with my mom. (She won’t let me go on my own. Apparently, you buy one “I’m with Stupid” T-shirt and suddenly you’re not allowed to buy clothes by yourself anymore.)
We spent the whole day going from store to store, and she made me try stuff on, then come out of the changing room to show her. The worst moment came at Marshalls, when I tried on some jeans and she announced, “Those look like they’re too tight in the crotch!” That’s when I looked up and saw that April Dawson was shopping nearby, and she was trying hard not to crack up. And then I realized April was with her mom, and her mom was also trying not to crack up.
It’s too late for me to change schools this year. I checked. But I told my mom that I’m not going shopping with her ever again.
Well, today I found out what’s worse than going shopping with my mom: not going shopping with her. She brought home a bunch of clothes from TJ Maxx and said, “I bought you some school clothes! I’ll return whatever doesn’t fit!” Some of the stuff was OK, but some of it was really ugly. She bought me a purple sweater-vest, and I told her I didn’t like it and wanted her to return it, but she insisted that I keep it, because, she said, “It makes you look so handsome.”
I don’t even understand sweater-vests. Like, are they sweaters for people whose arms don’t get cold?
I’ve hidden it in the back of my closet. Hopefully, she’ll forget she bought it.
Today’s Labor Day, so my parents have the day off work. I’m not sure why. It’s Labor Day, so shouldn’t they have to work extra-hard instead?
Unless maybe it’s called Labor Day in salute to anyone who’s ever gone through labor.
No, wait. That’s what Mother’s Day is for.
(I’m spending my time thinking about stuff like this to try and distract myself from the fact that summer is over, and it’s my first day of eighth grade tomorrow. It’s not working.)
Today was my first day of eighth grade. It’s cool to finally be the oldest kids in school—we get to use the eighth-grade lockers, which are over by the lunchroom. But for fun, Chuck and I walked by the hallway where the sixth graders have their lockers, just to watch them wandering around looking lost, or running to get Mr. Fox, the custodian, to open their lockers because they forgot the combination. Speaking of which: Chuck taught me a neat trick to remember your locker combination. You can hide it in your math notebook by putting it into a fake equation. Like, if your combination is 9-30-6, just write in your notebook “9 + 30 = 6.” That way, if anyone finds your notebook, they won’t figure out that’s your locker combination—they’ll just think that you’re sort of dumb and not very good at math.
Arrrgh. Today I figured out the problem with Chuck’s math-notebook method for holding on to your locker combination: It doesn’t work if your math notebook is inside your locker.
The big news at school is that there’s a new girl in our class. In homeroom, Mrs. DeWitt said, “I want you all to give a big Lakeville Pirates welcome to Jenny Bachman. Her family just moved here from Idaho, so she’s starting school a little late. Welcome, Jenny!”
After homeroom, I said to Jenny, “So what’s Idaho like?” And she said, “Actually, I’m from Ohio. Mrs. DeWitt got it wrong, but I didn’t want to correct her.” And I said, “Oh,” and then there was an awkward pause, and I was about to say, “What’s Ohio like?” but then Mark O’Keefe came over and said hi, and she said, “Hi! I like your Iron Man shirt. He’s my favorite superhero. Well, Marvel superhero, anyway.” And they walked off together talking about comic books.
So: She’s cute, she’s nice, she likes comic books. And I wasted my chance to talk to her, all because Mrs. DeWitt confuses Idaho with Ohio. Stupid geography.
Chuck and I spent a long time at lunch today arguing about which of the X-Men has a lamer superpower, Storm or Iceman. Afterward, Jenny Bachman came up to us and said, “I’m sorry—I couldn’t help overhearing. Clearly, it’s Iceman. Storm can at least control the weather. What can Iceman do? Make your drink cold? Still, nobody’s as lame as Gambit. What kind of super
hero has playing cards as a weapon? If you wanted to kill him, all you’d have to do is attack him with fifty-three guys.”
Then she walked away. Chuck and I are both totally in love.
This morning, I was heading out the door to school, and my mom said, “You know what would look nice with that shirt? That sweater-vest I got you. Why don’t you go put it on?”
I told her I was late for school, so I couldn’t change. But now I know: My mom hasn’t forgotten the sweater-vest. She’s going to make me wear it. It’s only a matter of time.
Tonight, at dinner, my mom said, “You know what I hear is really ‘in’ this season? Sweater-vests. All the big celebrities are wearing them now.” And I said, “But I don’t want to wear a sweater-vest,” and she said, “Trust me on this, you’ll look really cute in it. The girls will like it!”
After dinner, my dad took me aside and said, “Don’t even try fighting her on this.” He’s got a point: My mom thinks she knows a lot about fashion, so she can get really obsessed with how we dress. She once wrestled Sophie for ten minutes to get her into a yellow polka-dotted dress for Easter. (Although, to be fair, Sophie did look nice in it.)
Well, today it happened: I was running late for school, so my mom had to drive me. And before we left, she said, “It’s getting cold out. Go put on another layer.” So I went back to my room, and found that all my sweaters and sweatshirts were gone, except for the purple sweater-vest.
So I put it on, and planned to take it off as soon as I got to school.
Then, on the way into the school, I saw Jenny Bachman. I tried to hide so she wouldn’t see me, but she looked over and said, “Hey! Nice sweater-vest!”
Argh. The only thing I hate more than when my mom forces me to wear stuff is when she’s right.
The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are fun, but I bet that if you exposed turtles to radiation, they wouldn’t suddenly gain a whole lot of martial-arts abilities. I bet they’d just get, like, covered with blisters and die.
In bio class, we’re learning about bacteria. On Thursday, Mr. Hamilton ran a swab across Leanne Chu’s desk and then swiped it on a petri dish. Friday, he showed us all the bacteria that had grown on the dish overnight. It was pretty cool, but it totally freaked Leanne out. She showed up today with a big bottle of Purell, and kept squirting it on her hands and staring at her desk like it was gonna attack her. Mr. Hamilton tried to calm her down and told her that there’s bacteria on everything—even the food we eat. I don’t think it worked, though. I saw her in the cafeteria later, closely examining a fish stick like she was looking for germs.
So today at school, Chuck was talking about this online game he’s found, “Sword of the Valkyries.” He says it’s great—you can roam around ancient Norway as a Viking and fight, like, other Vikings and dragons and stuff. So I just went on and created a new character for myself. I was going to just call him “Tad,” but the name “Tad” was taken, and so was “Tadd.” And so was “Ttad.” And so was “Ttadd.” So I wound up going with “ViciousVikingSlayerTad3.” (“ViciousVikingSlayerTad” and “ViciousVikingSlayerTad2” were taken.) I’m about to start playing—wish me luck!
Man, I’m tired. I started playing “Sword of the Valkyries” last night, and wound up joining a guild and going on a dungeon run. We found a baby dragon, and all the other guild members already had one, so they let me keep him! I named him Fritz. Anyway, by the time it was all done, I looked up and it was two in the morning. Totally exhausted now. Going online to feed Fritz, then to sleep.
Sooooooooooo tired. When I went online to feed Fritz, some of the guild members asked if I wanted to go on a quest to get an immunity amulet, which I could totally use, because I keep getting killed whenever someone throws a cup of mead at me. (There’s a lot of dangerous mead-throwing in “Sword of the Valkyries.”)
So we went off and got one, and then the guild members said that since they’d helped me on my quest, I should help them go fight this wizard who’s been harassing them. And I couldn’t really say no, after they’d helped me get my amulet. So I’m not sure when I got to sleep, but I think the sun was rising. Just going to check in on the game now, and then I’m going to collapse.
Ugh. I’m in so much trouble right now. I stayed up till four last night playing “Sword of the Valkyries,” and I really didn’t feel like waking up and going to school this morning. So I told my folks I had a sore throat and a fever, and needed to sleep, and they let me stay home.
That would’ve worked out great, except that, when Sophie came home, she found me playing the game. The good news is, I convinced her not to tell Mom and Dad. The bad news is, in return, now I have to do pretty much whatever she says. I just spent an hour playing Uno with her, and in a few minutes, I have to go play Sorry! I also have to figure out a way to let her win, ’cause she gets mean when she loses.
My life officially sucks.
Grrr. ViciousVikingSlayerTad3 is dead. I was just about to go into battle when Sophie called me in to look under her bed for monsters, and by the time I was done, my character had been slain with a lightning bolt. So my guild kicked me out, on account of deadness. And then Sophie made me come into her room and kill a spider.
If anyone reading this saw tonight’s episode of CSI, could you please email me and let me know how it all turned out? Just before the episode ended, Sophie changed the channel to watch SpongeBob SquarePants. I was all ready to complain to Mom and Dad, but then Sophie said, “Are you sure you want to do that?”
So instead, I just went up to my room and drew pictures of SpongeBob being used as a sponge.
So last night, Sophie made me clean out her hamster’s cage, and now, no matter how much I scrub, I smell like hamster. I thought it was just my imagination, but this morning in homeroom, Julie Underhill sniffed the air and said, “Ew… I smell something hamstery. I think it’s Tad. Mrs. DeWitt, can I move?”
7:04 p.m.:
I didn’t think things could get worse, but now—BRB
7:06 p.m.:
they have, because—BRB
7:09 p.m.:
Sophie’s got a little bell she rings whenever she—BRB
7:11 p.m.:
wants an Eskimo pie or a Fruit Roll-Up, which is surprisingly—BRB
7:14 p.m.:
often.
Today I had to give up going over to Chuck’s house because Sophie insisted that I come to the tea party she was having with her stuffed animals. Which was bad enough, but then, when I got there, I found out that I wasn’t even a guest—I was their waiter. So I had to keep on pouring fake tea for her teddy bear and elephant and Robo Sapien, and Sophie kept complaining loudly to them that I was a really awful waiter, and saying that she wasn’t going to tip me a dime.
After a half hour of this, I finally put the teapot down and went downstairs to Mom and Dad and told them that I’d faked being sick. I was expecting them to get mad and ground me or something, but instead, my dad just laughed and said, “We were wondering how much longer you could last.” I guess my folks figured it out last week. As my mom put it, “We thought that having to be bossed around by Sophie was far worse than anything we could have done.”
Anyway. I’ve got to go. I need to go tell Sophie about all the new monsters I’ve noticed under her bed.
I just got back from Best Buy, where they were selling a Special Edition DVD of X-Men Origins: Wolverine, with director’s commentary. I think the only commentary I’d want to hear during X-Men Origins: Wolverine would be the director being poked with a stick, over and over, until he apologized for making a really crappy Wolverine movie.
I don’t get why some people think it’s OK to leave their chewed-up gum in the drain of water fountains. It’s really gross to have to stare at their gum when you’re getting a drink of water. You know where I bet that doesn’t happen? At the offices on CSI. I bet if someone did that at a CSI lab, they could examine the bite marks in the gum and then use dental records to match them up to the person who chewed it, and then f
orce them to put it back in their mouth. At least, that’s what I would do if I worked at a CSI lab.
October
Our whole family went to the zoo yesterday. And then, for Sophie, we went to the Children’s Zoo. I don’t understand the Children’s Zoo. Like, isn’t the whole zoo for children? It’s not like the rest of the zoo is the Adult Zoo, where the bears swear and the giraffes smoke and the chimps serve hard liquor.
Anyway, Sophie really enjoyed the Children’s Zoo, because they have machines where you can buy food and give it to the animals. She was having a lot of fun, feeding the pigs corn and giving each of them names like “Mr. Pigglesworth” and “Dr. Piggington.” (Sophie’s not very good at coming up with names.) And then my dad said to my mom, “Oh! This reminds me: When we get home, I’ve got to remember to defrost the pork chops for dinner.” And Sophie said, “Why would a pig remind you to defrost pork chops?” And my dad kind of froze up and said, “Um, I don’t know,” which is weird, because the answer’s pretty obvious. So I told Sophie, “Duh! Pork chops come from pigs.” And then she screamed, and all the animals ran away, and she started crying, and we had to go home.