Let's take a look at Austrian exports: Hitler, Arnold, Mozart and Hedwig. Maybe it's just the bad company, but for some reason Wiggie's already my favorite.
"I am getting that shot, Mom, no matter what you say. It's my hair and I can do whatever I want!" Kyle yelled at me.
For a couple of months there's been this newly developed DNA shot on the market which you could get in order to change certain things about your appearance. It could change the color of your eyes or even give you curls if you had straight hair. Also the other way round, which was what Kyle wanted.
"I don't think that's a particularly smart move, my dear. I've heard about some of the side effects of these shots and, believe me, you don't want that," I tried to talk some reason into her. She acted as if her hair made her a social outcast. Ridiculous, she had tons of friends. "Don't be silly, Kyle. You are beautiful. I bet Travis adores your unique hair," I continued.
"You!" the girl threw a furious look my way. "You are the reason I have this bird's nest on my head. You and your freak genes."
"Alright, that's enough. Simmer down. Now! Don't you see you're acting like a baby? It's just hair... it's not even worth complaining about," I retorted.
Patrick, who had been sitting on the couch, pulled his eyes away from the music magazine he's been reading and glanced our way. He cleared his throat before he said, "I don't mean to mess with your affairs," (acting as if Kylene's craziness wasn't any of his business, that twat) he smiled weakly, "but if I remember correctly, and I'm sure I do, you were quite unhappy about your hair back when we met, Sheena."
"AHA!" Kyle cried and pointed an accusatory finger at me.
"That was completely different," I tired to make amends as best as possible. Just wait until we're alone, Hatty. There's going to be repercussions. I hope the couch in your office is comfortable. "I never thought about injecting some chemicals into my system to change the structure of my hair."
"That's because when you were young they didn't even have decent hair colors, let alone the knowledge about how to manipulate your body like that," my daughter spat out.
"I'm not discussing this with you anymore," I stated. "I say 'no' and that's that."
As Kyle stormed up the stairs to her room she yelled, "I saved some money and I can spend it on whatever I want. You're not the boss of me, you Hitler!"
Lovely comparison. Reminds me of the time we sent Kyle to a summer camp. Or when we made her eat her carrots. Or when we told her that she couldn't have a pet crocodile.
I looked angrily at Patrick.
"Hey, at least she knows who Hitler* was," he shrugged.
"So how's your trombone playing? Haven't heard you play lately," Dad tried to strike up a conversation at the breakfast table. Sometimes I really would like to be able to go back in time to when he and Mom hooked up. I wonder if he's always been that laid-back and kind of timid.
"It's going, thanks," I replied.
Yeah, so I was in the school's band. Sometimes it got on my nerves but mostly I though it was pretty British. I mean I got to play music with other kids, felt quite good. I just didn't like the practicing. My parents said I inherited their musical feel so they had me take flute and guitar lessons when I was little. I didn't really care too much for either of those instruments so one day, to get them off my case, I told them I wanted a trumpet or something. Not thinking that they would actually invest the kind of money an acceptable brass instrument costs.
On my 14th birthday I got a trombone.
I really enjoyed playing it. When I felt like it. I didn't have the time to practice for hours each day (like my parents would have liked me to). Excuse me, I actually have a life with friends and stuff to do.
Dad took off his cap (I can't believe Mom lets him wear it in the house) and ruffled his hair. Or what was left of that.
"Kylene," he sighed. Oh boy. "Do you have to give your mother such a hard time? I think she's a bit stressed out lately."
"What did I do now?!" I defended myself. "Maybe she needs to take a possum pill."**
Dad put his cap back on his head in defeat. Ha, that was easy.
"One of my teachers, Ms. Mjoozikesards would like to talk to you."
"Kylene," he sighed. "What did you do this time?"
Don't believe the man. He's exaggerating. He's pretty cool actually but sometimes Mom's over-Ã¼ber-the-topness rubs onto him.
"I have no idea, Dad. But... did I mention she's a huuuge Fall Out Boy fan? She has like all your CDs! Even the limited single edition of 'Tell That Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes That Nobody puts Sugar In the Corner When it's Time to Dance, Dance On Saturday'."*
"Really? A fan?" His expression reflected interest and joy. Poor Dad. He was never the one to bask in the spotlight as much as Pete but he certainly had enjoyed being on stage and bringing thousands of teenagers under the spell of his music. I didn't actually know about Mom's attitude towards his former stardom. She didn't talk about it, it was almost as if she didn't think it was something special.
So I got him on the hook, it's time to reel in the big fish. Piece of de-sugarized, de-fatted, de-steroidized** cake.
And that's when the door bell rang. I checked the clock on the wall. Right on time. While I kept sweet-talking Dad I heard Mom answering the door. After two minutes her voice got louder.
"KYLENE STUMP! Get your back-stabbing butt here this instant!"
"Why, it's my pleasure, mother!" I called back, grinning at the sounds of sweet revenge for years of controling my life.
As Dad and I arrived at the front door we were faced with a Short Fuse Burning (Mom) and a smiling Hedwig, a transparent bag of small glittery somethings in her right hand and a suitcase in the other one.
"Goot moanin, Kyle!" she waved at me.
"Hello, Hedwig," I replied cheerfully. "Welcome to your new home." Suck on that, Mom.
Then the girl turned to Dad, "Hello, Mr. Shtamp! Glad to make yoa acquaintance, too." After extending her hand with the bag towards him she said, "It's so nais off you ant yoa vaif to let me stay at yoa hous. I brought you som Balls off Mozart*** to say sank you."
"Ah, thank you?" Dad took the bag with a confused look on his face.
"Kyle, did you tell this poor girl she could live with us for the rest of the school year?" my mother asked me.
"I guess that kinda came up in the conversation we had yesterday during lunch," I replied.
My father expertly interpreted Mom's facial expression and chose the only option there is in a case like this: hi-tail it outta here.
"Come on... Hedwig, right?" he grabbed the suitcase out of her hand. "Let's get you some breakfast while Kylene and my wife talk this over." Then he took a look at the ominous Mozart Balls. "And let's find out what to do with these."
* Nothing good ever came from Austria. But that's probably pretty redundant, coming from me.
to take a possum pill: to relax; if someone should take a possum pill they need to calm down; COMPARE: to do the possum dance/ to do the possum polka
* Even a poetic genius like Peter Wentz hits writer's block after years and years of whining about cruel girls and... mostly that's all there is to whine about.
* Around 2015 various bakery and candy companies tried to find a way to make their products more appealing to athletes, especially professional jocks who could act as (more or less) human billboards to advertise their goods. Surprisingly the current president of the USA, a certain Arnold, always managed to avert legal action against the new ingredient. Mostly he succeeded because of the problems his American people had with understanding him: a thick German accent combined with a mouthful of cookies or chocolate. (See footnote )
[The majority of US citizens don't even know how he ever made it into the presidency. Rumor has it that it had to do with the giant metallic robots that threatened to "claaab daaawn" everybody who didn't vote for him. But, of course, that's just a theory... However, should this rumor be true it's rather sad that political tactics haven't developed into something more refined since the days of the beginning of Bush's first term of office.]
*** Probably not the best translation Hedwig chose. For your information, we do not eat deceased musicians' testicals in Austria: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mozartkugel.