Plague and smart-ass-ness

Yesterday was Halloween, which is always fun and always a bit of a madhouse in my neighborhood. We get hundreds of kids at the door, and hundreds of houses to siege down for their sweet, sweet candy.

Alex the Plague Doctor.

Alex loves it, and I kind of love it too. I’d love it more if I wasn’t forty years old, 65 pounds overweight, and a maker of bad decisions when it comes to how many layers of warm clothing I need to keep out the chill. Still, this year I found it all especially awesome because I was in a great mood and not exhausted. That’s novel.

She went as a plague doctor this year, and her costume was a solid hit. At the end of her own trick-or-treating expedition, she hung out on the porch in costume to hand out candy for the last half-hour, and had one small child steadfastly refuse to approach her.

If that’s not a good review, I don’t know what is.

My daughter’s awesome. Also? Kind of a smart-ass.

She asked me to order a book for her, the sequel to one she’s already read, and I asked her to write a note with as much information she could give me, so’s I’d be able to find it on Amazon.

This is what she wrote:

"The Giver (Probably should look it up with the keyword 'book')"
“The Giver (Probably should look it up with the keyword ‘book’)”

Part of me says I ought to try to get her to curb this tendency, but mostly I find it hilarious.

Obligatory parental post

Alex turns thirteen this week.

It’s been a weird adventure. And if you, too, feel deeply unqualified for adulthood, yet are inexplicably expected to help another human being navigate the world, you know exactly what I mean.

I can barely be counted on to return my library books on time, so how the hell they let me out of the hospital with a baby is anybody’s guess.

She’s turned out pretty awesome, though, even if I can’t imagine how. She’s hilarious, a fantastic writer and illustrator, and quite literally my favorite human.

And since I’m starting to get that urge to write out some overly-sentimental, saccharine missive on the now-lost pleasures of raising a tiny person, I’ll wrap this up with the one piece of advice I think is indispensable for expecting parents…

If someone gives you case of diapers and a six-pack of onesies for your baby shower, kiss that person full on the mouth.

With tongue.

Forty Trips Around The Sun

Yesterday was my 40th birthday, and while that’s the sort of thing which probably deserves a long, introspective write-up about the meaning of the middle of life, I’m far too focused on the tiny demon which is trying to claw its way through my intestines.

Let me back up.

I’m not exactly what you’d call “fit,” unless you’re trying to shove me into the gaping maw of a sudden tyrannosaur so you can make your escape, in which case I’d probably fit quite well. Rather, I’m sort of round, and while I’ve become less spherical over the past year or two, I still wouldn’t attempt to murder me and think you could get away with it by making it look like I’d had a heart attack while cycling.

I also have a back which routinely hurts, knees and ankles to match, and I smoke—rounding out the already-round image of a man to whom “good health” is as alien a concept as having sex with another person in the room.

That said, my health in the two weeks leading up to my birthday was legendarily awful.

It started simply enough, with a late-winter cold that took hold of my sinuses faster than I take hold of an unattended plate of pasta. Then, something between my shoulder blades decided I hadn’t had a good cry for a while and turned moving my arms, nodding my head, and sleeping into a special kind of torture.

And when you don’t generally get all that much sleep to begin with, well, I passed “tired” sometime around last Thursday, and am just wrapping up the “I hate life” phase of insomnia before settling into “motion hallucinations of clowns without pants.”

Which brings us up to yesterday, when I spent half the morning on the toilet. I began to suspect I’d maybe caught a stomach bug right about the fifth flush, and the white-hot agony I feel in my guts today seems to support that conclusion.

So, happy birthday to me!

But really, though, what could possibly be written or said about turning 40 which hasn’t been written or said before?

Do I make an over-the-hill joke? Write a self-deprecating stanza about my thinning hair, which actually started thinning a decade ago? Should I confess that the sense of creeping, existential horror I feel pales only to my apprehension of life’s end and the putrid promise of death hanging before us all?

How about none of the above?

Instead, I’ll leave you with a word of advice, the one piece of wisdom, that one bit of distilled truth which the Universe has so far seen fit to grant me in my forty-years-long, yet all-too-brief life…

Buy soft toilet paper.