Superman Doesn't Like Cleaning Up Your Messes

No matter how many times I repeat myself, scream, threaten--whatever, the girls (to include my wife) can't seem to grasp the concept of picking up after themselves. They will pull down a game; play half way through it; leave it on the floor (they also have follow-through issues); and then pull some other dumb thing out to mess with. Twenty minutes later, their bedroom looks like a helicopter tried to land in it... upside down. I could provide examples of my wife's proficiency in this matter, but I've long since given up that fight in the name of love (and my sanity).

But of all the things these people "forget" to clean up, I think throwing away the empty toilet paper rolls grates on my nerves more than anything else. For the heck of it, I've refused to clean them up on my own just so I can see how many will pile up before someone else takes action. The worst part of it is, the trash can is RIGHT NEXT to the TP holder! Yesterday, though, had a breakthrough... or at least I thought we did.

Later that evening while downloading the latest Java update, I inadvertently hacked into a video surveillance feed from a satellite owned by Halliburton and Kentucky Fried Chicken. They claim it's for conducting market research, but I'm a little suspicious as to how they managed to capture this footage in my bathroom. In any case, I now know exactly what happened to the TP roles. See for yourself.

When I watched this the first time, there were a couple frames that seemed a bit fuzzy so I had a buddy over in Homeland Security blow them up for me.



Yeah, that's what I thought....



...Superman doesn't like picking up after the girls any more than I do.



This post brought to you by the good folks at DadBlogs, sponsors of Fatherhood Fridays

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Touché

Even though my three sons live several states away, we talk on the phone almost every night. Sometimes this yields some interesting dialogue as it did last evening with my oldest son Noah who's 10.

Me: Hey, Noah. How's it going.

Noah: Not too good. Harrison and I got into fight and mom just happened to pick that moment to show up. Here's the thing, I was trying to get him to calm down, but mom said she wasn't going to hear any of it.

Me: Why did Harrison need to be calmed down?

Noah: He was playing video games and Sawyer was on the same team and kept shooting his guy; so Harrison got ticked off and starting shooting Sawyer's guy over and over and over. When I tried get him to stop he started swinging. He hit me in the back of the head with a toy pizza and that sucker hurt. I was just defending myself.

Knowing how Noah thinks, I knew there was more to the story than his side of things, but then again, his tone was awfully casual. This was further supported by the sound of Noah chomping on something.

Me: Are you eating something?

Noah: Yeah, Chips. chomp, chomp.

When Noah settles into this nonchalant demeanor of his, he tends to mix in a large dose of scornful disgust and all the world is one big bull's eye. In the background I can hear Harrison sobbing his way through an explanation to his mother over what had transpired. Even though I can't understand what he's saying, it's clear he's upset.

Me: What's your brother saying? He sounds pretty upset.

Noah: Oh jeez I don't know. He's been going through one of those emotional phases of his.

I can see Noah rolling his eyes as he says this. A few seconds later his brother's crying fades into silence and Noah's voice bouncing off the walls of some enclosed space. He's still crunching on chips as he's talking to me, but as he goes on about something he found on the computer, his sentences are broken by a strained grunting.

Me: Noah, where are you?

Noah: In the bathroom.

Me: Wait. You're talking to me on the phone; you're eating chips; and you're going to the bathroom at the same time?

Noah: Chomp, chomp. Gulp. Grunnnnnnt. Hey, it's not like I sit in here all day like you.

Touché


On a totally unrelated note, I posted some relevant information over at Sugar Milk in case you're interested.

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Mr. Sparkle

Whoever it was that thought it would be a real hoot to make cosmetics for little girls, I hope they’re having a good laugh. It’s one thing for kids to play dress up with toy makeup, but to make eyeliner and lipstick that they can actually smear all over their face? And furthermore, was is so necessary for them to push the envelope just that much more by mixing glitter in with these products? This added touch, this cherry on top, this pièce de résistance that someone up in R and D deemed so crucial, I consider to be the equivalent of the Viet Cong dipping punji sticks in excrement in order to inflict more damage those unlucky enough to impale a foot on the razor-sharp tips of such a diabolical invention.

As you can guess, Allie and Avery already possess so much of this junk whoever purchased it must have received a bulk discount from Costco in the process. But even before owning this lifetime supply of cosmetic crap, they felt compelled to spruce up their appearances. I say this in reference to time I looked in rearview mirror during our drive to school only to notice Allie and Avery had used black and red Sharpie markers to highlight their *eyebrows and lips. Like any good stay-at-home stepdad, my response to this was to let them go to class just as they were. So what if they both looked like characters from A Scanner Darkly, I thought maybe everyone laughing at them might be a better deterrent than anything I could come up with. However, the effectiveness of such a tactic would’ve proved a moot point after they were given “real” makeup.

***

Fast forward a couple years to this week. It was typical day getting ready for school. Allie and Avery had finished their list of regular tasks—brush teeth, load backpacks, do chores—in which case I told them to play in their room until it was time to meet the bus. Fifteen or twenty minutes later we headed out the door, but as we stepped into the outdoor light, I noticed something… peculiar about their faces.

“What were you two doing in your room?” I asked.

The two them looked at me as if my question was the most ridiculous thing ever uttered. “We gave each other makeovers,” Allie said finally.

I closed my eyes and sighed. Their faces glistened like dew in the morning sun.

“But we’re all sparkly glow-ee!” Avery countered in response to my disapproving reaction.

Indeed.

I explained to them that glitter makeup was meant for play, not for going out into public, and like the Sharpie marker incident, I let them grace the school in all their sparkly glow-ee glory. What I didn’t mention was my plan once they were gone.

Walking back from the bus stop, I resolved to find the items used in this latest round of makeover mischief. My search, however, proved futile leading me to the logical conclusion that the girls hadn’t just done up their faces, but they had taken the makeup to school as well. This wasn’t much of surprise to me given that my unannounced backpack inspections have turned up a number of smuggled contraband items such as a baggie of Pixie Stick powder with a street-value of five dollars and a shiv cleverly fashioned from a Barbie doll leg. Sure enough, when the girls got home, I found the culprit—a bottle of pink glitter spray crouching in bottom of Avery’s backpack.

“Do you know what your girls did today?” I rhetorically asked Ashley later that evening. “They thought it would be a good idea to give each other makeovers before school.” I held up the bottle of glitter spray, pinching it by the neck as if it were a squirming rodent.

A sheepish grin melted across Ashley’s face. “Yeah, sorry,” she said. “I uh… I got that for them.”

In what’s become my signature expression of late, I closed my eyes and sighed wondering whose side my wife was on these days. Opening my eyes again, I saw that Ashley was all sparkly glow-ee too. It looked like fairies had crop-dusted the entire region right above her bosoms.

Glancing down, Ashley chuckled. “Must’ve been from when the girls hugged me when I got home from work.”

I closed my eyes and sighed again.

The reminder that glitter could be passed from one thing to another “thrilled” me just that much more. I envisioned Allie and Avery running around with their grubby hands touching everything and everyone like King Midas transforming the entire apartment to a state of sparkly glow-ee-ness. Understand, I am very particular about home décor (a fact you will learn about in the October issue of Errant Parent). It’s bad enough that the sparkles look is so 1960’s, but the real problem is that once it gets on something, glitter can never be completely gotten rid of making it the arts and crafts version of herpes. The thought of this caused my mind to race in search of a solution for preventing a wide-scale outbreak. Too late.

Walking into the living room, I could see the sofa had already been infected. And by the extent of the affected surface area it appeared as Allie and Avery had rolled around on the entire thing the same way cats do when using the floor to scratch their backs. Despite my best efforts, all the Valtrex in the world couldn’t clear up the glitter festering on the seat cushions. I sighed and closed my eyes, resigned to the shimmering permanence of the disease. It would never be the same again.

***

This morning after stepping out of the shower and combing my hair, I caught the glint of something in the mirror. No, it can’t be, I thought, leaning forward. Using my fingers, I separated the follicles of hair above my forehead. There, right below my crown, a field of glitter, winked at me, brought to life by the bathroom lights overhead.

How in the name of Orion’s leotard did this—and then the answer dawned on me. After a three-day stretch of insomnia, I had finally fallen asleep on the couch last night. I sighed and closed my eyes, adding a disheartened head shake to further express my sadness over this life-changing discovery. I mouthed a curse word at the face staring back at me.

No longer would I be known as Ron—husband, father, all-around good guy. Now, I would be forever referred to as Mr. Sparkle.

I apologize in advance to my Canadian readers if you are unable to see the videos. Is there a solution to this I am not aware or?

Mr. Sparkle


The Meaning of Sparkly Glow-ee


* Shameless self-promotion warning: The Sharpie marker story is a tale I go into more detail about in Sugar Milk

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I Have To See This Movie... There Are Goats!

I saw this trailer yesterday and the world stopped...



Reasons I have to see this movie:

1. George Clooney

2. Jeff Bridges + Big Lebowski + the Army = WIN!

3. The subject matter: I was an Infantry Captain and my dad was a Green Beret

4. It's basically a true story.

5. The First Earth Battalion? Priceless.

6. No Duggars were conceived during the filming of this movie--no wait, I'm wrong.

7. My schedule for 6 November is wide open.

8. I'll have saved enough money by then to afford it (thank you, paper route & lemonade stand).

9. To see that goat fall over again.

10. It's piss-your-pants funny.


I'm reserving a copy of the book at the library as we speak.

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