Wee Wisdom #11

This post was chosen by Hilary over at The Smitten Image as "A Good Laugh" Post of the Week.

Thanks Hilary!

Poignant Pearls of the Week

First up, from Miss America, age 6:

"I want to be a vegetarian when I grow up, so I can help animals."






Next up, my sweet boy Destructo, age 4:

"Nah, you got big knockers?"

I reply, "Uh . . . uh . . . Yes?"

Destructo smiles. "I got big knockers too."

[crickets]

The boy grins and runs off.

What the . . . some man put him up to that. Unless . . .

A short while later, it all becomes clear:



Destructo:  Look, Nah. I got big knockers!

Me:  Ooooooohhhhhhh!
My, you DO have some
big knockers.

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Kung Fu Fighting

Y'all, everybody's Kung Fu Fighting. Including Destructo.

Talk amongst yourselves.
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How I Ended My Summer Vacation

The summer of 2010 will go down in Fragrant Liar history as one of the greats. I set out on a new adventure and accomplished some things I'd been working on for a long time. Saw most of my kids on my June road trip and since then my Atlanta girl, TG and her family.

Fragrant Liar and Lisa from That's Why

Atlanta jaunts will always be fun. One of the coolest things that happened this last trip is meeting this fabulous blogger, Lisa at That's Why. She and her hubs, the infamous MathMan, drove 45 minutes to visit me. If you're not yet a fan of Lisa's, head on over there and revel in her coolness.

We have much in common, Lisa and I, most notably our love of writing. She's a talented and fun blogger and an interesting and smart woman. Plus, she's about as tall as me, so she is naturally a super-awesome individual that glows from the inside out. Heh.

I hope to see Lisa on return trips to Atlanta where we can talk about things that always get up people's ire:  sex, politics, and novels in progress.

I am the Corona Extra (emphasis on the crown, yo).

Y'all, the kids were determined we play games. I do love games, but I confess, I never once played Candyland with my daughters when they were young. I know. That's equivalent to depriving them of jelly. So I had some making up to do with Destructo and Miss America. Unfortunately, all their game pawns were either jammed beneath a sofa cushion, ground up in the disposal, or sucked down a toilet chute. So I improvised. Can you guess which bottle-cap-turned-game-pawn led me to victory?

Hey, just cuz they're kids doesn't mean I have to roll over. Winning is everything, people. I know you know that.

Mmmmm, chunky salsa!

I made this scrumptious salsa. Rachel Ray, eat your heart out. Of course, making salsa means you have to eat the carby tortilla chips. Ours were shaped like footballs. Getting drunk on salsa is not easy, but I totally did it, as evidenced by the not-so-pleasing hangover around my waistband. There was a Corona involved as well. Obviously. Go Saints!

Udder Hysteria, this one's for you too!

So I went to Atlanta this time for my daughter TG's birthday. This plaque was the coolest gift she got (besides moi) from her sister, Coco. High-sterical and so appropriate for their relationship.

But, Coco, who actually showed up for the partay? Yeah, that's right. Mama rules.

Miss America and Destructo giving me a tour.

Miss America and Destructo showed me around their neighborhood, which is hilly and lush with trees. What a gorgeous area. During the trek, Miss America was indulging in her usual chattery (where does she get it?), and I was paying close attention for her special brand of wee wisdom. (See, I work for you people nonstop.) So it was particularly noticeable when Miss America stopped, covered her mouth and made the gag face, and pointed to this (look down):

The sad remains of an inattentive squirrel.

Y'all, that's what remains of an inattentive squirrel. Estimated time of death: last spring.

Note the blue chalk line, which is an arrow pointing toward the street. Forensically speaking, this marker probably misled the little guy into thinking all the nuts were on the other side of the road. This once happened to a chicken.

TG, you'll be happy to know that the kids don't need anymore education, because I personally schooled them in the basics of road kill, decomposition, and where that nasty smell comes from (my creative juices really flowed for that one), and I think maggots. Yeah, there was some talk of bugs that live inside you and only come out when there's no more oxygen or something like that. Whatever. They believed it.

You're welcome.

No story of Atlanta would be complete without the requisite bragging over Shaboobka, who at nine months is on the verge of walking.

Foxy, check out that hat! Y'all this is a hat my good Hoo-Ha buddy Foxy made. She's all Etsy over there, and definitely worth a look.

People, I can't wait to take Shaboobka around the 'hood with the other kids. Think of all the wisdom I can impart.
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Name This Tune

People, meet Destructo.

He somehow got it in his head that he's Pavarotti.

Or maybe a long-expired, reincarnated soprano.

Please help us support Destructo's dream of reaching out to the world

via electrical cords.

Can you name this tune?

Want to sing along? Here are the lyrics (far as I can tell):

Oh, cat pee,
Oh, bad cat pee.
Can't tell cats to go outside.
Cuz they cry,
Aaaaaaaaaall the time—
Oh my god—
Go outside.
You cats,
Outside.

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What Goes Around . . .

Vacuum cleaners are a real point of contention among the Under-Five set. You probably didn't know that. It's true. They are terrified that some other pre-K miscreant might have a cooler one than they do. They're like starry-eyed vacuum cleaner sales-weebles at a tradeshow. I have seen with my own eyes as two four-year-olds spouted the features and benefits of their respective household appliances, each determined to walk away with the Cherriest Vacuum in Town trophy. (I'm not so sure how adoring they'd be once that vacuum was turned on, but that's another story.) In any case, Miss America's mother donated a real working appliance to the cause, and now Miss America is the proud owner of a Shark floor and carpet vac, which she stores next to our other two worthless dirt suckers in the broom closet.

While painting my toenails one recent morning, I was interrupted by Miss America who requested that I paint her toes too. She took a seat on my bed, stretched out her hairy little legs, and leaned back on her hands to enjoy the home spa treatment, courtesy of Nana. Soon after, little brother Destructo dragged in Miss America's Shark and quietly pretended to vacuum the carpet beside my bed, pushing it jerkily back and forth. It was heavier than he was.

"Brother!" Miss America said sternly. "That's my vacuum. Put it up."

"No," Destructo replied.

"Yes, Brother. Put it back!"

Destructo gave her a smug sideways glance as he continued to pretend vacuum. "No."

Unable to move her, uh, canister for fear of wiggling her toes and messing up the righteous lavender paint job, Miss America looked to me for assistance. But I determined not to waiver from polishing her miniature toenails -- I hate to get into the middle of a domestic squabble, you know? Besides, my in-home demonstrations are limited to whining about burgeoning physical ailments like indigestion, sore feet, and gas, not household machinery.

Destructo pushed the vacuum to and fro, taunting his big sister with the abandon of a self-propelled Electrolux Turbo; and I could see the ire rising in Miss America's neck. She raised her hand toward him, her tiny nostrils twitching and round brown eyes ablaze. Channeling the Great Spirits of Terrible-Two Disciplinarians in the sky, Miss America's small voice firmly issued The Count: "One . . . two-o-o-o-o . . . . . . three!"

Destructo continued, unfazed.

I thumbed off a tad extra polish from Miss America's big toe and muttered quietly, "Now whatcha gonna do?"

With her lips bunched together, she glared impotently at her little brother. "Four!" she bleated. "Don't make me save five!"

I sat back in wonder as Destructo continued to spite his sister just because he could, and Miss America found herself with no alternative but to call in the big guns. "MOM!"

I heard my daughter padding toward my room, and I chuckled. I love when life comes full circle.
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Pigs in a Blanket

“You have to come see what your grandson is doing now,” my son-in-law George said. “Guess he found something in the pantry that he wanted.”

Apparently 25-month-old Destructo’s new door-opening skills were paying off.

When I arrived on the back deck, little Destructo was shoveling inch-long, imitation pigs-in-a-blanket doggy biscuits into his mouth. By his mother’s count, he’d already scarfed half a dozen. She had that sort of stupefied-with-pride look on her face as she watched him intently. George scratched his head, looking to me for either validation that it was okay to let the kid fill himself to the gills or an urgent warning that a poisoning was in progress and we ought to stop the madness. Certainly the child’s mother was too entranced to undertake any decision-making.

“Guess it can’t hurt him,” I said as he shoved another one into his mouth. “They’re dog treats. They must be, er, edible.”

Big sister Miss America gaped incredulously at the all-knowing adults. Even at four-and-a-half, she knew the proper protocols for dog treats did not include human consumption.

Then my daughter awoke from her trance. "Try one,” she challenged George.

George and my daughter share a mischievous love of dares. They taunt each other to try things, just so one can claim superiority over the bigger wuss who fails to show the appropriate courage -- however stupid that might ultimately prove. George hesitated only a moment, then shoved his hand in the box and pulled out a cylindrical biscuit. We all squinted as he chewed the crunchy morsel expectantly. “Oh! There it is!” He recoiled as he tasted something afoul.

Destructo happily shoved another pig-in-a-blanket into his mouth, and my curiosity got the better of me. Tugging on the box (Destructo was not inclined to share), I plucked out a biscuit, examined it for purity, freshness, and cleanliness, because I would recognize that in a dog biscuit if I saw it, and then bit it in half. Hmmm. Crunchy . . . dry . . . bland . . . dry . . . swallowable, barely. I popped the other half in my mouth, because I don’t like to leave things unfinished.

I shrugged. “Not bad.” My tongue lapped noisily at the parched roof of my mouth, and I couldn’t help scanning the deck for a water bowl.

Destructo enjoyed several more biscuits while our chihuahua waited patiently below him for a morsel to be tossed his direction, while I went for my camera. I mean, is there anything cuter than a two-year-old chowing on dog food?
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