Midway through her 11th year, Middle Child has revealed herself as the alien child we’ve always suspected her to be.
“She’s a Tween,” many of you parents are saying. “She just seems like an alien.
The slack-jawed expression accompanied by the eye-rolling thing and the constant gibberish that is supposed to pass as English is her inevitable sliding away from actually communicating with you … something that will just get worse in the next several years and will only improve after she goes off to college and then, will only be in the form of requests for money.”
Ah, but you parents would be wrong. Although Eldest Child is well into the facial-gymnastics-as-verbalization stage of adolescence, content to burrow into her bedroom with The Flobots or Rage Against the Machine (she thanks Dad for turning her on to them) blasting from her iPod Touch (a little device that has further assisted her flight from actual communication with the family — prompting me to speak the eight little words I swore I’d never say: “Could you turn that down a little, please?”), MC remains her eloquent, soft-spoken, witty self, happy to share her 11-year-old wisdom with the rest of us.
EC is no alien and I’ve accepted her angst-ridden embrace of the adolescent condition. In the midst of all the unsolicited advice I’ve received (“Hang onto your hat, it’s gonna’ get worse,” being the most common and least appreciated), I actually celebrate who EC is and what she’s becoming, ultimately because I know it could be worse and it isn’t.
At the end of the day, EC is an incredible kid and I beam every time one of her teachers or the parents of one of her friends tell me what a sweet, intelligent, creative and caring child she is. Yes, there is some frustration with her when she expresses distaste with actually being in proximity to the rest of u,s but she eventually comes around and, to her dismay, once again discovers we can be a lot of fun.
And, thinking back to when I was 13, I know absolutely that she could be worse but has chosen to be better. For that, my gratitude knows no bounds.
MC, on the other hand, is actually an alien, a starchild sent from some far-off system to facilitate the inevitable subjugation of our race; my evidence for that is irrefutable, concrete, and I present it forthwith.
When MC grows up, she wants to be a meteorologist. Her steadfast desire is to become a weather person on the nightly news.
I know, right? At 11, most other little girls want to be veterinarians (especially if horses are involved) or teachers or movie stars or fashion designers. When I was 11, I wanted to be an astronaut and a rock star. A rock star astronaut performing the first ever concert on Mars.
Not my daughter. Her life dream is to stand in front of a blue screen and wave her hands around, indicating the movements of weather fronts, her magic touch placing frowny clouds over the northwest part of the county that then become smiley suns by the next morning, followed by an explanation of the pattern as predicted by the five-day AccuWeather forecast and then finishing with the “segue” — idle chatter meant to engage members of News 5 News team, the region’s leaders in up-to-the-minute news and sports.
In case you’re thinking I’ve brewed a tempest in a teapot, read on, I’m not writing science fiction here.
MC’s decision to become a bona fide meteorologist was arrived at some time ago when she developed an abiding crush on Matt Meister, weatherman for News 13 in Colorado Springs, nabob of Storm Tracker 13 and all things forecast for the Front Range.
OK. And while readers of The Gazette named him “Male News Hottie” a few years back, it’s not like this guy is Justin Bieber or Johnny Depp or even the new Spiderman. In fact, the guy looks like a relatively successful car salesman or a Maitre d at the Broadmoor. I’m not slamming the guy (it’s not like I’m exactly easy on the eyes, by any stretch of the imagination) but it’s difficult for me to understand what MC sees in the guy.
When I was 11, I had a poster of Raquel Welch from “One Million Years B.C.” (any guy around my age will know what I’m talking about) tacked up in my bedroom. A few years later, that was replaced (mostly due to the fact that it was tattered and sun-bleached) by the iconic image of Farrah Fawcett in a swimsuit.
Matt Meister couldn’t hold a candle, I assure you.
Degrees of attractiveness (exponentially applied, as far as I’m concerned) have not seemed to matter to my daughter and Matt Meister’s mug not only graces her Facebook page but she’s managed to find his image and she’s clipped and pasted his face all over the place.
In fact, the clear slip cover of her school binder features a signed 8x11 glossy of the Matt Meister meister, one of her most prized possessions.
The program signed by all the members of Los Lobos from last year’s Four Corners Folk Festival? It’s buried beneath back issues of Tiger Beat and colored pencil drawings of animated Cheez Its (Cheez Its being her other obsession).
Matt Meister, on the other hand, goes with her to school every day, MC oblivious to the obvious ridicule of the other fifth-graders possessing binders festooned with pictures of Liam James or Nicki Minaj or Spongebob Squarepants.
Our planet is in peril, I’m warning you, and time is short. I’m guessing that these alien invaders (led around by the hand and hosted by MC) will not be amused by this year’s teen idols and only our affection for Storm Trackers will buy us some mercy.
If you’re snickering at my statement that, “time is short,” you might want to reconsider your lighthearted dismissal of my dire warnings. Indeed, signs are pointing to an immediate invasion (check your Mayan calendar).
That first sign appeared last Friday when MC landed a stint on the Fox 21 Colorado Springs “KidsCasters” segment, essentially doing the morning weather.
You can view this first portent of our inevitable demise at http://www.coloradoconnection.com/weather/story.aspx?id=774189 (You may want to wear a high-quality welding mask while viewing the video as MC’s ethereal brilliance could set fire to your eyes like camp fire marshmallows.).
The video shows MC to be a natural — further warning us that the end is near.
We may never know how MC landed the KidsCasters gig (extraterrestrial powers of mind control should be at the top of the list, however) but MC apparently convinced her grandmother to bring a plateful of brownies to the station, knowing full well that Earthlings are easily led when offered chocolate treats (if you suspect that your congresscritter has been bribed, just check their breath for the odor of brownies).
Although Fox 21 meteorologist Justin Chambers is no Matt Meister, MC was unfazed, secure as she was in her plot to overthrow humanity. An introduction by Chambers, a blue screen and a teleprompter was all she needed in order to set the stage for our enslavement to a race determined to reduce us to kibble.
As if that tidbit wasn’t enough to turn your spine into a carbonite rod, the following Tuesday MC was invited to spend the day with her object of adoration, the infamous (and, apparently, insidiously subversive) Matt Meister.
Yes, fellow Earthlings, on Tuesday of this week the stars twinkled their final warning when MC was given a personal tour of the KRDO studios by the one person on Earth she deems acceptable to the Spiders from Mars.
Of course, another plate of brownies was proffered in a subtle gesture of “peaceful coexistence” and intergalactic cooperation.
While T.S. Eliot wrote in “The Hollow Men” that, “This is the way the world ends: Not with a bang but a whimper,” I think it’s now become evident that it ends with a batch of brownies.
You know how, in old B-movie sci-fi, the alien’s first words to a hapless teenager who has stumbled upon the space monster is, “Take me to your leader,”? Who knew that they were unconcerned with heads of state but wanted to know what was popping up on the doppler radar.
Having put that out there, don’t monkey around with getting an audience with the president or Morgan Freeman (or both); apparently the aliens are referring to Matt Meister, head meteorologist for KRDO-13 in Colorado Springs. I assume that trying to be a big shot and introducing the alien to Al Roker will get your head bitten off or your lungs shish-kabobbed on a steely alien tendril.
I can’t say how MC felt about finally meeting her dreamboat (I submit this Monday for this issue of The PREVIEW) but I assume that she was satisfied to see all the pieces fall into place.
Likewise, it’s impossible to say what was going through Matt Meister’s mind but it wouldn’t surprise me to hear that, as MC’s alien glaze locked on him, his spine froze up like a banana dipped into a cauldron of liquid nitrogen, sensing up close that the end is near.
So, you see, the evidence is clear that my daughter is indeed an alien, intent on serving up the weather forecast on our nightly news (sans weekends). While that vocational determination has spurred her interest in math and science (something I must say has pleased me to no end), I dread the day when E.T. doesn’t phone home but calls for more rain this week, with a chance for hotter, drier weather this weekend.
Given the signs, let me be the first to go on record to declare that I, for one, welcome our alien overlords.