Saturday, April 19, 2008
I Feel Like Virginia Woolf.
There are 12 teenage boys in my house.
6 are in the den. - They carried a 32" TV down the stairs so they could hook up 3 Xboxes to 2 TV's in an arcane connection of cables, codes and online passwords. They are shooting each other with Spartan delight in a ballet of alien destruction, otherwise known as a six player/online game of Halo. Two are upstairs playing Wi, and yelling down the score of the Rockets game. The other 4, if you're counting, are in the pool room. 2 are playing pool, 2 are throwing darts.
Along with the sound of guns blasting, shouts of dismay, (or Joy - depending on if you're winning or losing), pool balls clicking, and electronic dart boards playing carnival midway tunes, is the cacophony of 12 cell phones, ringing, beeping, and texting in an unholy blend of electronic madness and horrible Hip Hop ring tones.
How one can text a girl, shoot a fellow Halo player, question his manhood for getting shot, and manage to eat a plate of chips and dip while carrying on an intelligible conversation about the NBA playoffs is beyond my realm of understanding.
They smell of sweat, grass, pizza, and an indistinguishable funk that can only be ascribed to teenage boys.
They are well fed.
By my estimation they have eaten approximately 27 pounds of food. That does not include the (up to now) 54 soft drinks, 4 quarts of Kool Aid, and untold cubes of ice. The birthday cake, is, as of yet, untouched. Post Xbox, I feel certain the feeding frenzy will again ensue.
I am in my computer room. The door is closed. Nora Jones is wistfully singing of a love gone not quite right. The room was cleaned today. The carpet smells sweet and clean. . . . "Spring Fresh, I think the container of carpet fresh said. The monitor is the only light, and I am at peace, knowing I am master of all these boys need to be happy, yet glad to be slightly removed from them.
A room of one's own is a joyous thing.
Happy Birthday Clinton.