Thursday, December 1, 2011

Stinky Steamie and The Cow Vulva

My daughter meanly called me a, "Stinky Steamie" this morning.

That's not a euphemism for a turd by the way. That insult would be what the diesel engines call the steam engines on Thomas the Tank Engine. She said it with some genuine vitriol too. So on the one hand I'm annoyed that she called me a name. But on the other hand I am somewhat pleased that at least she has the foresight to end up on the right side of history. Those arrogant puff-pussies were scrapped and melted down to make bullets years ago. Mind you the diesel engines are painted as the evil foreign types on that series so maybe I should be somewhat watchful about this. If I find any unusual political pamphlets hidden in her pillowcases then I'll know something is up.

Anyway she called me that because I'd filled her MP3 player with Christmas songs. I know - I'm asking for trouble there. Most of the songs she liked. But the second song is a slow version of Jingle Bells and she was painfully confused as to why it wasn't the same as the one on the radio. So she asked me to erase it (from her memory too, I think) and I told her I would later. Not good enough. Then she breezed through Jingle Bell Rock (which she loved) and got a Raffi cover of Frosty The Snowman. Random meltdown ensued and she yelled that name at me. Ten minutes later she was all hugs and smiles, but these little outbursts are white-hot at times. Annoyingly she really likes that fucking abysmal Dominic The Italian Christmas Donkey song. Why did I put that on there? I knew not to put The Christmas Shoes (a human rights violation that the US cannot waffle its way out of at The Hague) so why include that one? I live to learn.

Yesterday though she spent a big chunk of the day as The Christmas Fairy. Which basically means being dressed like this and claiming to know magic -:

Note the pompous look of disdain. Down to a tee with that. She constantly waived a Santa drinking straw at me (then later her mother) insisting that she could use magic to turn us into either Santa Claus or an octopus. Pretty limited spell if you ask me. She also claimed to have used a magic spell to turn her brother into someone called Hairy Owen. Which - when she pointed him out - was actually the dog. The fact that I could still actually see her brother playing trains barely five feet away didn't dissuade her one bit from keeping up the charade. I think today I shall need to explain to her that make-believe works better if the illusion is more believable. Therefore if she wants to pretend the dog is her brother magically transmogrified then she should at least make the effort to tie him up, muzzle him and hide him a trunk int he attic. In this family I expect maximum effort to be made when spouting bullshit and talking bollocks. This half-arsed tomfoolery simply won't do.

Oh, I realize that I've been shirking my responsibility to tell you what snack food my daughter has been eating relative to the letter of the week. That's mostly because the effort seemed to have disappeared at the other end. My daughter would bring home pictures with numbers and letters on them - but when I'd check the letter of the week it would have no relation whatsoever. Last week was a short week and the letter was I. This week the letter is also I. So on Monday she ate a cookie. I could not locate any cookie beginning with I via The Google. Tuesday even she couldn't remember what it was. But yesterday - yesterday took the freaking cake. The teacher of a Pre-K class gave all the kids one of these -:

I think we just hit that point where I'll be saying something. Twinkies? Seriously? I don't know anyone who eats those. That's a whole new level of atrocious. The only thing that could be worse than that is if I asked my daughter what she ate today and she said, "oh, cock..." Actually I stumbled over this version which is much worse.

Now this is a parody (it's a photoshop). But it definitely falls into the Fake-But-Accurate realm doesn't it? And that is great stuff - "cattle flavored" is ingenious. And the pinkness can only be cow vulva-meat. I'm not looking it up to check though.

For thirty minutes this morning my daughter and I tried fishing out objects from a crack in the floor. Just to be clear it's not in the middle of the room or anything - it's a notch just off the living room and is matchbox sized. After poking about with a flashlight and a paint-stirrer we went into the basement and tried to find the spot where the hole came out. It was in an odd place but with my legendary flexibility and contortionist physique I squeezed in. Before I go I should point out that this is a flat out lie - I am not flexible in the slightest. I've recently learned that normal people can touch their foot to their mouth (note I said normal - I'm not lingering on toe-sucking websites or anything like that) whereas I can't get mine within (ironically) a foot of mine.

Anyhoo we ended up digging out nine Matchbox cars, the Baby Bouncy Mega-Ball and a Little People. And I mean the toy brand Little People, and not Time Bandits little people. Although I would be pretty frikking happy if Peter Dinklage was secrelty living in the wall of my basement. That is one damn good actor.

Oh and lastly, victory on the dead ex parents front though. Yesterday after school my daughter just said they were "at work." When we got back from the store this morning she said the same thing too. So I'm cautiously optimistic. Of course she'll probably explain tomorrow that they've been recruited to the actual assassinate squad to bump off the other parents though.

Ho hum though - every victory should be heralded as one.

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