Monsieur Maman

You know what separates the blog-men from the blog-boys? I just got through half of this post when my PC crashed and everything I'd written was lost; but, me being a TBW (Tru Blog Warior; peace, Ron), I'm not going to let that stop me, not gonna let that slow my roll. So here I go, one more 'gin. If you find the following boring and/or stupid, chalk it up to me writing it for the second time from memory, and/or you being---

On Saturday I once again had the immense pleasure of taking care of the little girl, solo. The fire department wasn't called, and neither was an ambulance. I'm 2-for-2. Here's how things transpired:

9:50am -- The Pacers and Pistons are playing on AFN. Dig it! I ask the little girl whom she's rooting for, the white team (Indiana) or the blue team (Detroit). "Yellow team!" she exclaims. Profound. I take it she's cheering for the Pacers.

10:50am -- This game is playing out like a Mars Volta record: it's technically sound and interesting to those who appreciate the skill involved, but it's long and trying for even the most hardcore of fans. The little girl -- whom from here on out, for brevity's sake, we'll refer to as the LG, LO, LA, or 18L -- looks weary. If she could vociferate her thoughts exactly, I'm pretty sure she'd say "dad, this game is draining my patience like the Skeksis draining a Gelfling's lifeforce."

11:26am -- Danny Granger (whose nickname should totally be Power Granger) has his potential game-tying shot blocked by Ben Wallace at the buzzer. "Dad, why didn't he score?" the LO asks. I tell her that, sometimes, what we hope for doesn't always turn out the way we want it to. She just stares at me like I'm crazy. Blame Ben Wallace for making my daughter a nihilist. Then she asks me for a cookie. "Sorry, darling; no cookies for you. You totally jinxed the outcome of that game. You're lucky I'm even talking to you right now, Jinxie Jinxington."

11:55am -- Story time. We run through most of the Dr. Suess library before I hit her with the propaganda that is Where The Wild Things Are. God bless Maurice Sendak.

12:29pm -- I have officially invented the best home sport ever, even better than "tag in the dark basement" and "use only your feet to prevent the balloon from touching the floor". The LG and I take turns throwing a soccer ball at the TV room's light switch, trying to turn it on and off. After my impressive streak of 5 in a row, the LO shows some pluck and takes the ball right up to the switch, yelling "slam dunk!" as she bashes the ball against it. What a cheater/innovator.

12:45pm -- Time for lunch. Today's menu consists of whatever I could find in the fridge, which wasn't much. I'd tell you what I whipped up, but I don't want revealing what I cooked for dinner to be anti-climactic. Let's just say I'm a firm believer of the "ketchup goes well with everything " school of thought.

1:02pm -- My mother-in-law calls. The LG picks it up and spends the next 2 minutes saying "yes he did! He did too! I'm not lying, he did!" When I get off the phone, I ask her what her grandmother asked. "She wanted to know if you fed me."

1:12pm -- I tell the LO it's time to get dressed and go to the playground. Because I was bored just sitting around watching her play, I had her sit on my lap as we went down the slide. There's a reason more adults don't do that. Those things are made for people with short legs. Thankfully only my pride was hurt.

1:50pm -- Is there a phrase any sweeter to a child than "Let's go to the store"? I doubt it.

1:53pm -- I scream, you scream, we all scream for...frozen orange juice? You're the boss, kiddo.

[brief musical interlude: Orange juice on ice, is nice; orange juice on the ice; drink real Florida orange juice; Orange juice on ice]

(a large bag of shrimp chips to the first reader who points out what film that's from. Hint: it's neither Midnight Run nor Midnight Express)

I myself opt for a chocolate fudge bar. Because I'm a homosexual.

2:00pm -- More books! Man, that Dr. Suess was smoking some shit when he came up with One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. Also, I noticed for the first time that at the front of the book there's a This book belongs to: ______ thingy, and the name written in the blank space is Jessi. Who the fuck is Jessi? I did a quick memory jog and remembered that my mother gave the LA that particular book. Mom, you're buying gifts for your granddaughter at yard sales now?

Anyway, if Jessi is reading this: I now have your book. And your parents don't love you and wish you were never born.

2:30pm -- TV time. I and the wife don't really like the little girl watching Jjanggu (perhaps more commonly known as Crayon Shin-Chen), but for some reason she loves the show. That and Maruko. Pray for me.

2:48pm (by the way, these times aren't 100% accurate, but deciphered correctly they do reveal the secrets of Lost) -- I try to make her fight it, but she nods off to sleep, and nothing I do -- nudging her, poking her with the TV remote, playing Flight of the Valkyries loudly -- can wake her up. She has a tendency to take long naps during the day, which means it's harder than Chinese arithmetic to get her to fall asleep at a reasonable hour later on. Looks like we're in for a long night.

2:49-5:25pm -- I spend the time she's asleep flipping endlessly through television channels and pondering whether or not I have enough time to watch Gangs of New York (Tuesday. The Spring Cleaning review is coming Tuesday. If I don't write it by then, I promise to donate 3000 doll hairs to PETA...that works better when you say it out loud).

5:30pm -- Time for dinner. I try to make an omelet, but completely forget to mix the eggs, milk, etc. in a bowl before pouring the mixture into the frying pan, so what I end up making is scrambled eggs with melted processed cheese on top. That and rice. The LG says it tastes great. Who says kids are picky eaters?

During her meal (it looked appetizing enough to me, but I had a "chicken club sandwich," a bag of "Doritos," and a 700ml "beer," all of which I bought at the local "7-11", waiting for me in the fridge) some egg falls on the LA's lap, to which I say "that's not where it's supposed to go; it's supposed to go in your tummy. In your mouth, into your tummy, and, eventually, out your bum-bum as POOPIE!."

"Dad, don't talk about that," she deadpans. I'm crushed; my puerile potty humor can't even impress a two-year-old.

5:57pm -- Study time. We spend the first 15 minutes doing numbers, then the next 15 on the alphabet. As teaching aids I employ Biggie's 10 Crack Commandments and Fritz Lang's M.

6:28pm -- Cleaning time. I wash and rinse, the LG dries. Then I wash and rinse again, and dry, because the LG keeps dropping the dishes on the floor.

6:44pm -- The poopie the LO kept crying wolf about the whole day finally rears its ugly head. "Are you done yet?" I keep asking her. 20 minutes later (she's like my grandfather on the can, for god's sake) I wipe her bum and flush. Man alive, she makes more chocolate than I do. Seriously, her deposit was larger than the circumference of a bicycle wheel! It was all I could do to stop myself from taking a photo as evidence. My sincere apology to all fecalphiles who are reading this.

7:10pm -- "Daddy can I watch Sesame Street?" Don't need to twist my rubber arm, darling. I need a break. Instead of a Sesame Street dvd, she chooses the Disney version of Alice In Wonderland. I pop it on, call my wife to see how she's doing, and check my e-mail. 15 minutes later the LG is crying. "What's the matter?" I ask. She tells me that the movie is scary. "You never have this problem when we watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre," I remind her.

7:12pm -- I switch Alice In Wonderland off in favor of something considerably less psychedelic and frightening: Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Just kidding. I put on Finding Nemo. "When this movie's done, it's time for bed, alright?" I say. She gives me a look that says just who do you think you're fooling, old man?

8:08pm -- The LG takes a quick t.o. from her movie and asks me to take a photo of her feet. Um, okay. I'd upload the photo were it not for the fact that she was sitting on my lap when I took it, and you can clearly see that I'm wearing a Toronto Raptors Vince Carter warmup jersey. It was laundry day, alright? Lay off.

8:40pm -- God, I need a smoke. How much longer until she falls asleep? 2 hours? Three? Getting people to do my bidding without using the power of hypnosis sucks. But ever since I messed up in college by hypnotizing a girlfriend and stupidly persuading her to swallow everything, I vowed to only use my powers for good. And getting free cable.

9:10pm -- The movie is over, and I have officially run out of ways to educate, entertain, and edutain. I'm lost. Then, like a beacon through foggy, treacherous waters, the LO shouts "crayons!" How stupid of me. Crayons. Of course. "Draw a picture of daddy," I request.

Apparently I look like a brown line with a squiggle at the end.

9:30pm -- The LA let's out an audible sigh, and I think we're entering the first stage of sleepiness, but then she laments "it's utterly tragic how short John Cazale's career was." "I'll John Cazale you in a minute," I threaten.

10:01pm -- "OK, time for bed. For real this time, no joking." I brush her teeth and dress her in her jammies. Then I spend the next 40 minutes pretending to be asleep, hoping the 18L will follow suit. It doesn't work. She's obsessed with making hand shadows on the wall.

7:46am, Sunday -- Hngh? Who turned on the light? What time is it?

Oh.

So that's how I spent my Saturday, with the most beautiful girl in the whole world. If you found that diary somewhat lacking in thrills and adventure, don't worry: next week I'm off to Hawaii! My suitcase is packed, and I didn't forget to include my Tiki idol. Should be fun.