Since 8.30 this morning we've been outside. We've been off to buy fruit and poked around a garage sale (very bad - mostly old tools that nobody would buy and not for the silly price they wanted) and then ponced about in the backyard. After 90 minutes or so of working and playing we tried some more Warheads sour Popsicles (bloody awful - so obviously my wife came home and tried one and declared them to be amazing). To fill the time up the kids and acted out a Captain Cheesestick adventure. It's been a good month since he last one. I thought it would grab their attention and it reinvigorated my daughter into staying out side for another hour until her mother got home. In this particular story Princess Bounce (a detective archaeologist in this story) and her sidekick Dr. Bonk discovered that under the potatoes in their vegetable garden lived a group of dinosaurs. Captain Cheesestick (that's me) is well known in these parts to be a great dinosaur naming expert. So they'd basically shovel up a pile of dirt (and maybe a potato - though sadly not many) and I'd name them.
"Ah - the Plopasaurus. Interesting one this. Spends it's entire day on the toilet..." I'd say. They would then laugh and dig for more. We got through these in a few minutes before the potatoes dried up. Some I won't explain because they're obvious, but some I will -:
The Bananasaurus (which is yellow, curvy and is Bobby the Banana's Great Great Great Great Grandad)
The Lickasaurus (he simply cannot stop licking people)
The Woofasaurus (a stubborn dinosaur that wont stop eating the bloody walnuts no matter how much it makes him desperately shit himself)
The Michael Knightasaurus (had one red glowing eye and was often suspiciously covered in puppies)
The Bumasaurus (massive, it was)
The Poopasaurus (my daughter offered that to my dissaproved gaze - and changed it quickly to Hugasaurus)
The Cheese (that's my son's offering....)
The Honkysaurus (my daughter thought it honked like a seal - but I suggested it was the white-cracker voice that Richard Pryor used in his act)
(and my favorite)
Th Eminemasaurus (Thankfully not a foul-mouthed big-nosed homophobic dinosaur - but rather a dinosaur from Spain that looks just like my son - but that laid M&Ms all over the place. Which is how we get all the ones we eat today. It's not even food - and the people of Spain can't believe we actually eat them).
After that we splashed about and picked berries - what was left of them - for a bit. As it seemed to be getting hotter and more humid and the kids were all played out in the back yard we needed to go somewhere fun that wasn't horrifyingly hot. So the wife came up with slapping on creek-walking shoes and taking a stroll up the river.
After getting home from that it was still ridiculously hot and the kids seemed to be the wrong side of tired. Meaning that one where they are not going to sleep but should, so you need to get them to do something that will make them more tired so that at regular bedtime they'll go to bed really easily. I needed to get groceries and the wife needed bras. So stupidly I suggested a combined mall/grocery trip and off we went. Me and the kids zoomed off to get groceries while their mother put her boobs in things. I'm assuming she tried on bras too but frankly she could have been doing anything.
Obviously my wife had a good time. Shopping alone with a gift card? Always going to go well. I, on the other hand, had picked an atrocious store to buy food in and my daughter needed to go to the bathroom three times to poo. And as many Americans can attest to - going to the grocery store at 3.30 on a Saturday afternoon is probably the dumbest time to go. So the bathroom was busy. My daughter ended up three-times squashed into the little stall chutneying unpleasant sounding poos (not a clue what caused that - she'd eaten perfectly normally) into the toilet. Her mother would have beamed with proud then as her daughter whispered as loudly as possible, "EVERYONE CAN HEAR ME POOPING DADDY!" Which would have been true if my son wasn't gripping the dividing wall between the stalls as firmly as Silvester Stallone in Cliffhanger and yelling, "Hi!" at the guy in there. Who - ironically - looked quite a bit like John Lithgow exited his stall while we were washing hands and eagerly shot straight into the one we had been in. Which is the big red flag for a Creepiness Alert. Upon our immediate return (obviously decided upon when we are the part of the store absolutely furthest away from the toilet as possible) I checked the bathroom for tell-tale signs of creepiness - and was very glad that there weren't any obvious enough that someone like me (who's never witnessed that sort of thing in a public toilet) could identify it. Sadly I did quickly wonder if I could grab a Woods light from the electronics department to double check - but decided that it was a 50/50 chance that I'd find a pentagram on the stall-walls made from DNA and I'd rather live in ignorance.
After picking up all the food parts we met up with my wife to get faff like hair ties that I thought my daughter would enjoy picking out more with her mother. I was evidently wrong about this because my daughter snottily rejected some her mother showed her as, "boring and dumb." Obviously that's not nice - and oddly out of character. So I grabbed my son and headed for the cash register to get out of the store. My daughter then proved that she's been reading this stupid blog by having a tantrum at the cash register. Yes - my daughter decided for the first time in her life to be a dick at the store. Her mother told her was time to go and they were off. I then endured those sympathetic looks from the other shoppers. Not that kind of sympathy either - the one that suggest they are really sorry that snotty little brat has to be raised by shit parents like us.
Very briefly at home I asked my daughter what is going on. She's been fantastic for almost 5 years. Then one weekend two weeks she turns into a world class arsehole at least once a day. She made some vague comment that we keep telling her she can't do things. In this case that she can't say unkind things or have hair ties. She suggested we do this all the time now and she should be allowed to do what she wants. Her attitude and the cadence in her voice made it sound almost conspiratorial. Frankly her being a full-blown whack-job would be easier to handle. I know people like that. I know people that think the Moon landings were fake, but that ironically that Capricorn One was filmed on the Moon just to take the piss. I even have a friend who is decent and logical in almost every area, but has sincerely confided when mildly inebriated that he thinks there is only one blackbird in the whole world and you just keep seeing the same one all the time (now that's proper mental). I've even been sat between two people who argued with sincere anger that speaking in tongues was either the Holy Spirit saying chants through real Christians (that cannot be understood by other not-real Christians - easily identified because tehy don't do it)), and alternately that speaking in tongues is the devil calling his demons to fill Christians with sin. Those kinds of odd conspiratorial ideas are easier to deal with in my opinion. The closet my daughter has come to that was rushing into the kitchen this morning while I was making coffee to claim that, "black holes make tormadoes Daddy - they don't think I know bu t I do." And yes - she does say, "tormadoes".
My son does this odd thing where he assigns ownership of something to someone. Nothing will ever shake the fact of this. So the grill is Mommies. And the lawnmower is mine. As is the weighing scale in the bedroom. If it isn't referred to using it's full designation (ie: Mommies' Grill) then he will correct you. For some odd reason this morning outside he kept calling everything mine. So he was playing in Daddies' Pool, then on Daddies' Slide before we dug for Daddies' Potatoes (get your mind out of the gutter - that is a perfectly activity). Evidently this annoyed my daughter enough to angrily yell a one point, "NO! Everything isn't Daddies!" Obviously my son growled at this point. The kids went back on forth growling for a few moments before I intervened to tell them that we aren't wolves. So my daughter went with the calmer, gentler tact of telling him with a customer service voice that, "Just so you know - the bathing suit is mine. So is that bike. And the carrots. I have my own clothes in my own room. Everything else is Mommies. Except Daddy has a coffee machine and a car." While I weighed up how a house I bought for cash with my own money was now just my wife's in her mind, my daughter remembered,"....and the skunk is Daddies." Oh good. When the her mother kicks me out me and the skunk can pick up some real quality ladies in Utica with some quality one-cup coffee options for them to sample.
Now - I have to consider weather running at 8pm in 90 degree heat, after putting the kids to bed and on Graduation Party night is a bad idea or not. Probably is which is probably why I will.