After a particularly long day, a no-nap-kind-of-day, an Arby's-mah-fah-free-roast-beef-sandwich-day, a did-my-stomach-just-touch-my-boobs?-kind-of-day, a let's-sleep-this-day-gone-kind-of-day, I decided that I would take dinner to the park on foot as a last attempt to rectify this... day.
And so, Terry, the kids, Banjo, and myself walked to the nice new park in our neighborhood. We crossed over the street that is shared with drug dealers, hookers, horny pilots (we live near the airport and often see them walking to their crash pads with an attendant or 2), scared and disoriented hotel guests that have ventured across the street to Arby's (free roast beef sandwich day remember?) in their khaki shorts and blinding white socks and sneakers, and other neighborhood characters deserving their own chapters in the book I've not yet written entitled, "We Still Owe How Much On This House?"
So, over the road and through the cemetery. I'm not kidding. And there's a man named "Okay" buried there too.
Pass the nursing home, strangely (or strategically) placed next to said cemetery.
Pass the baseball field, which I've yet to see used for baseball.
Pass the unidentifiable gray building that has people dangling out of it's windows. (I have no idea why.) When the charm is just not there, I like to cloud gaze. Dera, just keep your eyes above the horizon!
And then, boom, there you are. It's the nicest, most out-of-place (but I'm not complaining) park grounds you've ever seen. Paths, lush sodded greenspace, tennis courts, ergonomically propelled high-design play things, picnic tables under cabanas, bathrooms (!), and a huge chimney thing that's really old and cool. It's the park oasis among rows and rows of boarded-window homes. Again, I have no insight... we don't ask why, we just ignorantly and blissfully propel ourselves in an ergonomic fashion. (We should attend a few more Neighborhood Association meetings, huh?)
To add another layer of lovely, conversation en route went like so:
(Sirens blaring, as fire trucks and police cars whip through the intersection between the aforementioned street and the entrance to the cemetery.)
Neve: "That engine has a fire in it, right?"
Me: "What's that?"
Neve: "That engine. It had a fire in it. Right?"
Me: "No. That fire engine is going to put a fire out in a house or a car."
Neve: "Right. Because of the fire in it's engine."
Me: (whispering to Terry) "What is she saying?"
Terry: (goes on to explain fires, engines, and fire engines. I walk ahead, leaving him to it.)
Fiona: "Mom?"
Me: "Yes?"
Fiona: "What is there, other than fire?"
Me: "Hmmm?"
Fiona: "Other than fire, what else is there?"
Me: "Everything other than fire is something other than fire. This sign, the grass, the air, water that puts out fire, the houses that are not on fire, dogs, that man over there and dinner. All things OTHER than fire. Is that what you were asking?"
Fiona: "Yes. (pause- one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four...) But then there's fire gas."
Me: "Terry? Wrap things up with Engine Fire. I need your help with Fire Gas now."
Sometimes I think they're just screwing with me. I mean, if you heard their tone or saw their faces as they spoke to me you'd think they were genuinely interested in getting to the bottom of these hard-hitting questions. But, I think they conspire after hours. I think they try to scheme the most bizarre conversations or non-sequitur opportunities for confusion for the following day. Just because they like to watch mommy sweat.
Between our unpleasant surroundings, our go-nowhere conversations, and our Arby's and Horsey sauce glow, I was ready to lay down next to Okay and cloud gaze. Give me a good night sleep, something fresh to eat in the morning, and a sunny day, and watch me answer those hard-hitting questions, rapid-fire. Good night, Okay and friends.
Very Merry Un-Birthday
I confess that I've never really been to a tea party before.
As I kid, I was more interested in doing fake radio shows with my Casio than throwing fake tea parties with dolls. (Mom, did I play with dolls?)
My mother was more the type to give me coffee and a bagel than tea and, say, a scone. In fact, I still have issues of taste bud inadequacy every time I bite into a dry crumbly triangle today. "Hillbilly, why don't you like scones!?"
The closest thing to a real tea party memory was the bridesmaid luncheon I attended at the Swan Coach House a few years ago, where tea and little tartlettey were things were served on tiered glass plates. I was too preoccupied with taking note of where everyone else was tucking their not-paper-napkins and how many bites they were taking of what I would consider 1-bite sandwiches to enjoy my first tea party.
I guess the Italian half of me overrides any Anglo I've got goin' on. And the Anglo half would rather eat pulled pork sandwiches than cucumber cream cheese heart-shaped sandwiches. The Italian half would never let the Anglo half throw away the crusts anyway.
But, this was for her.
She loves tea.
And miniature paper umbrellas.
And strawberry cupcakes.
And her fancy friends.
But, of all the days she wants to wear frills and tiaras, she chose to wear this to her "fancy tea party". Rebellion permitted today and only today, Missy.
And colorful lanterns.
She does not like waiting for water to boil, however.
And kicking the moms out, to avoid any chance of us micro-managing the sugar cube rations. (You would not believe the amount of sugar cubes consumed that afternoon.)
It didn't wind up being the Wonderland-centric party I'd hoped for, but the party at large was thrown together at the last minute (due to my inability to read a calendar). Truthfully, those parties are usually the best anyway. Being that this was not Fiona's real birthday, we decided to call this her "Un-Birthday Tea Party".
(A big thank you to our last-minute guests. I'm so relieved that we didn't have to rent any friends!)
As I kid, I was more interested in doing fake radio shows with my Casio than throwing fake tea parties with dolls. (Mom, did I play with dolls?)
My mother was more the type to give me coffee and a bagel than tea and, say, a scone. In fact, I still have issues of taste bud inadequacy every time I bite into a dry crumbly triangle today. "Hillbilly, why don't you like scones!?"
The closest thing to a real tea party memory was the bridesmaid luncheon I attended at the Swan Coach House a few years ago, where tea and little tartlettey were things were served on tiered glass plates. I was too preoccupied with taking note of where everyone else was tucking their not-paper-napkins and how many bites they were taking of what I would consider 1-bite sandwiches to enjoy my first tea party.
I guess the Italian half of me overrides any Anglo I've got goin' on. And the Anglo half would rather eat pulled pork sandwiches than cucumber cream cheese heart-shaped sandwiches. The Italian half would never let the Anglo half throw away the crusts anyway.
But, this was for her.
She loves tea.
And miniature paper umbrellas.
And strawberry cupcakes.
And her fancy friends.
But, of all the days she wants to wear frills and tiaras, she chose to wear this to her "fancy tea party". Rebellion permitted today and only today, Missy.
And colorful lanterns.
She does not like waiting for water to boil, however.
And kicking the moms out, to avoid any chance of us micro-managing the sugar cube rations. (You would not believe the amount of sugar cubes consumed that afternoon.)
It didn't wind up being the Wonderland-centric party I'd hoped for, but the party at large was thrown together at the last minute (due to my inability to read a calendar). Truthfully, those parties are usually the best anyway. Being that this was not Fiona's real birthday, we decided to call this her "Un-Birthday Tea Party".
(A big thank you to our last-minute guests. I'm so relieved that we didn't have to rent any friends!)
Sadistic Parents Like Fried Shrimp
... thus leading their kids to Clark's Fish Camp.
Otherwise known as a permanent scar in child memory. I think this post warrants it's own blog category, "Another Bad Decision":
But the seafood was good! Alright. Not that good. We just really thought the girls would get a kick out of all the zoo hand-me-downs. (I'm not even kidding. Our taxidermied dinner guests were given to this classy restaurateur by the local zoo.) And despite our attempts to clarify "once alive" from "not alive anymore", they both sat motionless, waiting for a large cat to jump into their basket of popcorn shrimp. Little was eaten that night.
I felt awful:
(Caught by the bartender and some regulars making the universal cat-claw gesture to the camera. This is me embarrassed.)
The upside? I got my picture taken for the first time in... ever. Apparently, ladies, if you want the mister to point the camera in your direction, it helps to be surrounded by stuffed wildlife.
Otherwise known as a permanent scar in child memory. I think this post warrants it's own blog category, "Another Bad Decision":
But the seafood was good! Alright. Not that good. We just really thought the girls would get a kick out of all the zoo hand-me-downs. (I'm not even kidding. Our taxidermied dinner guests were given to this classy restaurateur by the local zoo.) And despite our attempts to clarify "once alive" from "not alive anymore", they both sat motionless, waiting for a large cat to jump into their basket of popcorn shrimp. Little was eaten that night.
I felt awful:
(Caught by the bartender and some regulars making the universal cat-claw gesture to the camera. This is me embarrassed.)The upside? I got my picture taken for the first time in... ever. Apparently, ladies, if you want the mister to point the camera in your direction, it helps to be surrounded by stuffed wildlife.
THACSOLOTMOMYE
Last night, we were sitting around the dinner table playing our annual Scattergories game with our favorite Brits, when Fiona decided she wanted to go out the back door without telling us. When asked what she was doing, she replied, "I'm going outside to save the world" (with a hint of "duh" in her tone). I told her that it was too dark to be playing outside without us [next to an unlit creek], and that we would take Banjo for a walk when the adults were through playing our game. She clearly didn't appreciate us trivializing her responsibilities to save the neighborhood by referring to it as "playing".
With a stomp and a pout, she went into the guest bedroom and began drawing. I assumed it was cased-closed for "Rainbow Dash" (the super-hero name she gave herself. "Turning bad guys into rainbows" is her superpower. Awesome, right?)
Our game of ridicule and ruthless mockery, I mean Scattergories, ended. (Click on the above link for a Scattergories explanation.) We said goodnight to our friends, and Fiona emerged from the bedroom. She threw a piece of paper at me and ran off.
What I'm about to tell/show you is very embarrassing. I can't believe I'm even able to laugh about this now (on a blog, mind you. NOT in front of my mean child.):
I had no idea that I was looking at the cartogram to my demise. Totally unaware and with a big smile, I asked her to tell me all about "this lovely picture you've drawn". She seemed a bit embarrassed to have to explain to me that each figure was a carefully executed anger-fantasy. (What on earth???)
From the top:
The crown-looking things within circles are her eyes. And those aren't crowns. They're flames.
Beneath her angry eyes is the title of her creation: THACSOLOTMOMYE. Translation: Thanks Alot, Mommy.
The figure falling into a hole? That's me. Falling into a hole.
The picture of a sad woman with the <--> Mom next to it?
And the figure next to the sad Mom? That's Fiona, sticking her naughty tongue out at me.At the bottom of the page, Fiona is scaring me. And enjoying it.
This is disturbing on so many levels.
We leave for home (reality) tomorrow. There we will be enrolling her in an anger management program. For super heroes.
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