Teenage Heroes

I got tagged by Erika, my favorite editor, and hardworking and talented developer of The Wham Magazine, for a meme that's thought provoking enough to make me set down my jelly doughnut and think for several seconds at a time. Why do I like to work at home?

I have a part-time job away from home. So why do I worry and work and stay up so late that people think the racoon rings around my eyes are permanetly etched on, laboring to get my at-home writing base up to speed?

Just now there are four teenaged boys in my living room. Their names are Twinkie, Fatt, Mini, and Seth. I’m not sure why they don’t call Seth by a nickname unless it’s because A) he has one, but I’m too old and parently-impaired to be allowed to hear it, or B) there’s not one awesome enough for a boy who can play the guitar with more ease than the rest of us strain spaghetti.

At present these guys are profoundly affected by the actions of several multi-colored creatures cavorting in cartoon-like battle rage on the television screen. Although they will all be eligible to vote come November, right now the actions of a round pink fellow with large, engaging eyes is more important to them than the actions of any of the candidates engaged in the brawl that is this year’s race for President of the United States. If any of the candidates ran on the Wii platform, they would secure the vote of teenagers all across the nation, and probably a few write-ins from outlying territories.

Following is a conversation taken from these actual teenaged boys. (Teenaged girls take note—these are authentic sounds used for communication in the wild. Not once did the subject of hair, nails, or what to wear to the mall enter into the conversation.)

Psychologists might make much of the fact that these guys seem preoccupied with death. But it’s nothing that a Care Package consisting of sodas and pizza can’t cure. Toss a bag of bite-size candy bars in the mix and they’ll swarm like yellow jackets in a State Park picnic zone. And there’s at least one of them that I know is partial to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

“We’re all gonna die!”

“Stop shooting me!”

“Ow! Stop killing me!”

"Dude!"

Silence broken only by the bip boop bang of electronic battle noises backed by cartoon music.

“Run in fear!”

“Where am I? I found me! I lost me!”

“I killed myself off by accident!”

“I’m not dead yet!”

“We’re all gonna die!”

“Am I dead?”

“Run!” (Various colored creatures dash in different directions like a box of Crayolas kicked across the playroom floor. Think Pac Man on speed.)

Eventually, these young men grow weary and tired of the trauma of death by colored laser blasts. Then they switch to a challenge that involves a miniature guitar and more colored notes onscreen than sprinkles on a sugar cookie. One of them wields the guitar like a superwizard wields a magic wand, and the powers of good and evil hang in the balance. The others watch in awe and I stop in the middle of my essay on grieving hearts to see this kid play a toy guitar like Clapton performing Cocaine. The song ends in onscreen applause and real life respectful silence broken only by a hushed, "Dude!"

So why do I like to work at home? Because I get interrupted mid-project by gangland activity fueled by carbonated beverages that I just brought home from the grocery store. Because food disappears from the refrigerator like I have an automatic Hoover installation in the door. Because it won’t be long before these young men have families and responsible jobs and haircuts that don’t touch the collar of their pinstriped suits.

So for now, I’ll plan to do a little extra work later on tonight so I can stop to cheer for a fifty note run in a song that was famous when I was in high school.

And maybe I’ll make a peanut butter sandwich and cut the crusts off.

You're It!

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t lack the competition gene. If it were up to me, not only would the National Football League still allow excessive displays of emotion after every goal scored, the victory dance would stand on its own as a separate event, complete with judges murmuring together over technique and holding up cardboard placards with the scores. Interpretations of the Chicken Dance would rate extra credit.

I don’t mind coyly pointing out that I’ve been known to perform my own ritualistic dance of victory, choreographed with vigor and soul to a stirring rendition of Aretha Franklin’s version of R-E-S-P-E-C-T. I used to trot it out after family games of Parcheesi, Scrabble, and Monopoly until that unfortunate incident with the dog got me banned from participating in Family Game Night. That turned out all right because I ate all the leftover roast and blamed it on him, so his name is still on the naughty list right beneath mine and he’s not trusted alone with a roast. Anyway, a victory dance, although still satisfying to the soul, is not completely effective after a rousing game of computer solitaire.

It is my opinion, and therefore accurate, that appreciation of competition need not go hand in hand with rigorous physical exercise. Therefore, when I got tagged by the ever-gregarious Wordsmith, I immediately checked the rules on her insightful and well-written (Erika, you owe me extra for the infomercial) blog (Musings From the Mitten) to see if any actual physical exertion is involved. While an enthusiastic proponent of competition, I’m not a fan of sweat, and have often considered dressing the dog in baby clothes so that I can avoid the physical exertion of a long walk by grabbing the parking spot at the front door of the market marked for mothers with small children. However, the dog is still harboring a grudge from the roast beef incident and refuses to cooperate.

Thankfully, the only aerobics involved in this game of tag are fingers flying low over the keyboard. I’m clear for take-off.

The way I understand the rules of the game, bearing in mind that rules are often subject to my own colorful interpretation, is this:

Link to the tagger and post these rules on your blog. Share five facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird. (Although random and weird are often synonyms in my case.) Tag five people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Alrighty then. Sit back and prepare to be entertained. Amused. Well, just sit still long enough to count to five.
1. I’ve been in a building that was on fire. It was a church. I came out okay. Well, not with anything I could bill the insurance for, anyway.
2. I wear my husband’s socks. Girl socks just won’t stay up.
3. I broke my arm in high school. I fell three inches. I don’t feel that this incident is in any way indicative of my physical coordination. (Perhaps I should disable the blog comments at this time.)
4. The blog entry I wrote about the results of my son’s personality test showing he has the same traits as Hannibal Lecter was true. Except for the part where I mowed down the stop sign. I barely touched it.
5. My husband took the same test. Same results. I’m afraid to open meat tenderizer in the kitchen.

Okie dokie, for the fun part: I’m tagging. . . let’s see a show of hands now. . .KODB at TheDoggerelKing, Wynter at FlibbityGibbet, Ltd. at Mama Needs A Book Contract, Janna at Something She Wrote, and Sdarb at From Rebel Deb to Doublewide.