Well, I banged this out on the way home from my grandparent's house today, so I thought I'd just get it out of my way and publish it. I kind of like it. Um, name-wise, I still don't know. You guys gave me a bunch of awesome possibilities, I just haven't found anything that really caught my eye. I don't want to go with the cliched names like Tali or Kate, at least for a first name, but I want something with meaning. Geez, I'm picky, right? This is why my mom hates to go shopping with me!
Happy Thanksgiving, by the way!
Yo Dawg.
Hmm. Well, it's an improvement. Now I sound like a gangsta guy with saggy jeans and dreadlocks, which I'm not . . . Although my hair certainly takes on a certain clumpy quality if I don't brush it for a couple days . . .
Your hair, by the way, is not looking terribly fantastic either, so I'd suggest you stop smirking.
That's better.
So, shall we get on with the rant, having gotten the mandatory insults out of the way? Do you have your spectacles, tissues, and notepad within reaching distance?
Hmmm . . . A notebook with a notepad . . . Does the notepad within the notebook have a notepad? Because that'd be like Inception or something . . .
Ahem. Rant. Right.
So guess who's grounded again? . . . Bill Clinton? Puff the Magic Dragon? Kim Kardashian?
Yeah, no. Though I do wonder how the heck you know who Kim Kardashian is. What kind of trashy magazines do you associate yourself with, diary? I thought you were better than this!
Anyway, I'm grounded. Again.
Why?
You are so nosy, you know that? Seriously, don't you have a life to live? Or do you live vicariously through the exploits of people like me and Kim Kardashian?
Sniffle. That's kind of sad. I bet you sleep alone and spend New Year's Eve with your mother in the bookshelf, sweet bookshelf, too.
I find your silence rather suspicious, but choose not to pursue, as I have issues of my own, which you were supposed to be listening sympathetically to! Why do you always have to make everything about yourself?
Page-hog.
So I'm grounded again, because apparently I have a smart-mouth.
I don't know what basis they have for that theory, I must say . . . Any ideas, diary?
(By the way, that was sarcasm. Ink doesn't really convey the proper strains of snideness necessary for delivering such a statement, but I do my best.)
The frustrating thing - other than the whole 'no cell phone, no computer, no extra curriculars, no life' situation - is the fact that, honestly, I have no idea what I did wrong.
I mean, sure, I was being obnoxious. But that's entirely Dad's fault! It's his DNA! And if Mom doesn't like a smarty-pants, why the heck did she marry Anthony DiNozzo Jr.?
Tarynn and Sasha have a long list of reasons why he and Mom are the perfect couple, by the way, written in the back of a shiny pink spiral notebook. You and she should hook up.
You could entertain her on dates by divulging my deepest, darkest secrets over wine and cheese.
Do notebooks drink?
Well, I doubt you do. I bet one girly cocktail is all it takes to knock you flat on your back. Ha.
So, anyway.
I'm grounded, which means you'll be seeing a lot of me. Sitting on my bed, sulking. I do this very well.
I can't think of anything else to say, except that I hate you.
Over and out.
...
Honey, I'm hoooome!
Yeah, I called you honey. Don't get a swollen head about it.
Oh, wait - I forgot. No head.
Thou is headless. And fluffy. And pink. Makes for a truly terrifying Muppet.
If my insults are lacking, well, insult, I apologize. Same goes for the water droplets that are smearing my decidedly unfeminine black ink.
Yeah, yeah - so I'm crying. I'm not a robot with attitude issues after all.
Why?
... Why, what?
Why am I crying? ... None of your business. D
Geez, you really are a snoop, you know that?
Oh, so now you're interested in my well-being? I'm touched, really, though your timing just sucks. Obviously, I don't want to talk about it.
Nope.
Stop flashing those whimpery-eyes at me. It won't work. I am stone-cold and entirely immune to puppy-dog eyes.
Nothing doiiiing...
. . . Okay. I'll explain. But don't interrupt or ask questions or say something stupidly sympathetic, because then I will be forced to relocate you to some toilet or another. And flush.
Mom and Dad are fighting.
Okay, so it's anticlimactic. Cry me a river. You did ask, you know that?
But, see, the thing is - my parents don't fight.
I mean, sure, they are constantly sniping each other. And Mom frequently threatens Dad with various household items. And, yeah, they insult each other sometimes in rapid Spanish. But that's not real. At the end of the day, they're still a team, you know?
Of course you don't know. You're a frickin' notebook. But whatever. This makes me seem more sane than just talking to myself.
So what happened?
I have no idea, honestly, because my parents don't take me seriously enough to talk about things with me.
All I know is that Dad came home alone, looking kind of nervous, and started dinner. "Mom will be home later," he told me. He kept looking at the door like he was waiting for someone to burst in.
Madre dearest arrived right as I was helping myself to a second serving of pasta. Immediately, Dad jumped to his feet to fix her with a questioning look. "What's up?" he demanded.
Then Mom looked pointedly at me. Honestly, I might as well be a toddler, the way they treat me.
Dad looked torn, probably feeling bad about sending me away, but I'm a regular saint, if I do say so myself. "I've got homework to do," I lied. "Thanks for dinner."
Yeah, yeah, I'm a frickin' fairy princess. Bow down and kiss my feet with your nonexistent lips, lowly book of pink floof.
So off I went to stew in my soup of uncertainty. (Nice metaphor on my part, right? Oh, you're too kind . . .)
I don't know what's going on, but I'm a little bit scared, diary, because Mom and Dad never yell like this.
Never.
But they're speaking Italian, so all I'm getting from it is the anger.
Oh my god, my dad is so angry.
And Mom is angry, too, and - holy crap - I'm scared. Is this what Sasha used to listen to every night, before her mom turned into a spineless flirt and her dad ran away with his secretary?
I think maybe I should call Grampa Gibbs.
He won't tell me anything, of course, but at least I'll have someone decidedly masculine to talk to.
...
I don't have words to think up a witty greeting right now, so I'm just going to cut to the chase.
For the first time in my life, my parents have treated me like an adult. And I'm not enjoying it in the least.
Grampa Gibbs talked with me last night until Mom and Dad stopped yelling. I cried a lot, embarrassingly, but he was amazing about it.
Gibbs is, without a doubt, the best grandfather ever.
It's the other grandfathers that are the problem, actually.
Well, it's not really Grandpa DiNozzo's fault. He's just a rich womanizer of a teddy bear who likes to flirt with Mom.
Grandpa Eli's the problem.
Mom and Dad sat me down on the couch today and explained things in a tone that was almost truthful, for once. I might have even felt important and grown up if I hadn't been so busy feeling numb.
Grandpa Eli's the Director of Mossad, which is a government agency in Israel that always makes Mom's eyes tighten up painfully when mentioned. I've only met him a couple of times, but each get-together left Mom really quiet and Dad really irritable.
Mom used to be Mossad. I don't know what happened, except that something persuaded her to quit and join NCIS. She's tried to have as little to do with her previous occupation as possible, as far as I can tell.
But yesterday Grandpa Eli contacted NCIS with some vital information pertaining to an investigation of theirs. Apparently it's a matter he's been looking into for a while.
This is all fine and good. I honestly couldn't care less. It's the next part that made my stomach start to hurt really bad.
"Eli has requested that I be one of the agents to assist his team in the investigation," Mom told me calmly, meeting my eyes from across the dinner table. For once, I noticed, she wasn't holding hands with Daddy under the table.
Dad's eyes were on the pile of pancakes on his plate, which he was rapidly reducing to syrupy mush with the tines of his fork.
"You said yes?" I asked, confused and slightly concerned. What had Eli done that was bad enough to cause such distress by requesting Mom's help on a case.
"It makes sense," was the answer. Mom watched me anxiously, almost pleading me to see things as she did. "My skills as a linguist and my familiarity with the territory-"
I had frowned at that. "Familiarity with the territory?"
Mom nodded and reached over to take my hand, a gesture that was decidedly out of character for her. She wasn't really the touchy-feely type. As nice as it was, her hand in mine only made me more scared.
"I spent almost two years in Afghanistan when I was with Mossad-"
It was only then that it hit me. Yeah, I'm slow on the uptake. Blame it on the time Dad beamed toddler me with a rubber ball while trying to play catch.
"You're leaving?"
My voice was embarrassingly high-pitched, the way it gets when I'm scared.
"Only until the case is solved," Mom assured me quickly, keeping a tight hold on my hand and looking everywhere but at Daddy. "It would not be for very long, I promise, and we can-"
And that was when I ran out of the room, wrenching my hand from hers and knocking my chair to the floor. As I stormed up the stairs, I heard Dad say, "Well that went well." Mom snapped something in reply.
A second later the front door opened and shut violently.
Alright, so maybe I am being a baby. Maybe it was a childish move to run away. Sue me.
If this is being an adult, I'd rather go back to sippy cups and nap time, thank you very much.
Being treated as an adult sucks.
