And We're Off. And I Do Mean Off.

We've had a rough go of it over here lately. For starters, we flew to Houston with the kids; nothing makes me want to pull that Julianne Moore move in "The Hours" faster than traveling with those two, and adding the air travel component is so awful that I can hardly believe such a reality exists in the first world. The trip usually starts with the Red Menace deciding to run for mayor of the plane, which means that she must establish a sincere personal connection with each of her fellow flyers. That's all well and good and marginally cute until someone inevitably doesn't want to see her belly button or talk about how long her hair is, and then all bets are off; she becomes the most put-upon creature you've ever met, so abused and mistreated that you can only assume she's on her way to the night shift at a Kathie Lee Gifford clothing factory. Because this behavior is met with swift discipline from JHP and me, we then move to the musical portion of our program, the sing-cry. She gets so worked up that her protestations sound like a Greek chorus by way of Barney - "yoooou yoooou yoooou are the most bad Mommy aaaaall the doo-dah daaaaaay!" or "poooooOOOOOPPPPY DAD!" This usually segues into kicking, which becomes extra awesome if she lands any on her sister because then they're both off to the races. All of this takes place before the cabin doors are even shut, which is why we bring so many drink coupons that we almost have to buy them their own seat. Then we do it all over again on the flight home.

So I'm barely recovered from our trip, and my sister emails this to me

 

this is a bat. A fucking BAT. What is with that guy next to it? You are NOT all nonchalant, coming home from work or whatever and finding this - you need to be losing your shit, throwing things at it and wetting yourself and running away. We have not one thing in common.

 

which makes me want to drink paint thinner just so I never have to remember it, ever again. Not since the Giant Sloth Phobia that ruled my 90's or the Great Camel Spider Discovery of aught-two have I been so instantly repelled by an animal photograph. That thing looks like it's trying to claw its way out of a Hefty lawn bag, and what the hell is it eating? I can't even address what it's got going on downstairs...how these aren't extinct, I don't know. Put some underwear on it, and be quick about it before I make a scene.

 

Now I'm really off my game so I do something baldly irresponsible - head to Chuck E. Cheese's. As if our recent trip to White Water didn't expose us to enough dangerous bodily fluids. I'm already feeling glum about the poor quality of my parenting, but as we pull in the parking lot the RM sees the sign and yells "Chuck E. Cheese is a proud sponsor of Disney Junior and Super Why!", and I'm back in a place of shame I hadn't visited since AD told me her favorite song was "800-588-2300, Empire...today!" I was thus compelled to abandon my plan of ignoring the girls in favor of the new "Vanity Fair" and instead actually play with them. The joint wasn't crowded so it was actually pretty fun (I totally rule Skee ball, bitches), but I don't know what I missed because once we got home the RM inexplicably stripped down and started wedging a series of things in her butt cheeks.

 

 

I'm wondering if there were any sneaky hands

 

Just to be clear, this is not at all unprecedented, which I guess just makes it more alarming. Here's a partial list of the things she tried on for size today:

 

1. my car keys

2. a bottle of nail polish remover

3. the "Pete's Dragon" DVD case

4. the "Pete's Dragon" DVD

5. a Swingline stapler (the Chinese and Russian judges upped her score on account of the strength that move required)

6. her flip flop

7. Polly Pocket. Sorry, Polly, we know that's not the pocket you aspire to

8. a starfish

9. a purple beaded necklace she bought with her Chuck E. Cheese's tickets

 

and as we speak, half of her turkey sandwich. I'm looking at something really special right now.

 

I don't know what it says about my mental state that I'm the most disturbed about the necklace. Not that she tried to stick it in her ass, but that I probably paid $20 in game tokens for something that costs eleven cents to produce.

 

I'm putting the girls to bed, making some popcorn and opening a bottle of wine. Come over if you want. We'll stick things in your butt cheeks.

 

Polly - sorry, sister.