Foolery

Smedley On Artists

5/18/08 Smedley, age 7:

"Every artist has something in mind and never lets go of it."

I don't know where she got this, but she said it as she was drawing this morning, and she said it just came to her.

"Invisible Lady," drawn by Smedley 9/28/06 (age 5 1/2 at the time)

He's Neutered, I Swear

This is Campos, doing what he does best.



Let me give you another angle to set the scene, in case you don't quite have a fix on him.



Okay.  About half an hour ago I checked on fussed with yelled at cuddled yelled at my daughters for the third time since bedtime, and Smedley was urgently telling me something (as usual) as she cuddled.

" . . . blah blah blah . . . just like when Campos sat on my face."

Whaaaaa?

Me:  "He did?  He sat on your face?"

Smedley, giggling:  "Yes, he did!  And it felt like a couple of big furry prunes."

You just can't make this stuff up, I tells ya.

Shy Toots

(Photo stolen from Groove Alliance on Flickr)*

Around our house, farts are funny.  Only we don't call them "farts,' we call them "toots."

So Chas apparently was getting into position to toot -- one cheek off the chair, I presume -- but couldn't pull the trigger.  Smedley looked at him and asked if he were going to toot.

"Well, I was," said Chas, "But it's just not ready to come out."

"Is it straightening its tie?" asked Smedley.

Don't look at me; I have no idea.

*That isn't me, by the way, straightening The Big Toot's Saddam's tie, but my hat is off to this cheeky climber, and I'm sure Chas will have a salute of his own.

A Political Discussion with Smedley

(Photo stolen from Danny Engesser on Flickr) 

"Mama, who is Barrack?" Smedley asked at dinner tonight.  I told her.  She had questions, and so, impressed with her interest, I launched into an explanation of the three main candidates, emphasizing only the positive.

"Who's the smartest?" she wanted to know.  I chose to waffle, instead starting a sidebar about who had gone to which college, etc.

"Who are you going to vote for?" she asked me.  "John McCain?"

I told her that I thought so, unless something happened to change my mind.  "It's possible that I could vote for Barrack Obama," I said.

"Not Hillary?" she asked.  I told her No, probably not.  "Do you hate her?" she asked.

Where on earth is she getting these ideas?  Certainly not from either Chas or me.  "No, I don't hate her!" I answered.  "I'm not a big fan of hers, but she is definitely smart and tough, and might make a very good president -- who knows?  But I just think the other two are . . . better --"

"People?" she offered.

Wow.

"Well, yes, I guess so.  I like who they are better than I like who she is.  I would trust either of them more than I would trust Hillary Clinton.  But I don't hate her.  I admire some things about her, actually."  And I told Smedley a few of those things.

"Do other people hate her?" Smedley asked.  This was HARD.

"Yes, it's true, lots of people REALLY don't like Hillary Clinton," I said.  "But there are people you know and love who really like her.  It doesn't make them bad, or wrong, it's just a different way of looking at things.  You can't help who you like and don't like, right?  You can't help it that you don't like lima beans or coconut; it's just how things ARE."  I was feeling more in control than at the start of this conversation; I might actually be reaching my seven-year-old.  I think she gets this.  Next question.

"Do you not like Hillary because she goes to the Playboy Mansion?" she asked.

My jaw hit the table -- THUD.

Whaaaa?

I corrected this little misunderstanding, and thought I had her back on track, when --

"Do other people hate her because she sometimes goes out in just underwear and bras?"

Whaaaa?

"Well, I've seen pictures of Hillary in underwear and bras, in front of people, really --"

You can't help it if you don't like lima beans, and you can't talk politics with anybody -- especially not a seven-year-old.


(Photo stolen from these guys) 

Edit:  Thanks to MamaMo (and welcome, by the way!) for this link -- apparently Hillary really DID go to the Playboy Mansion!  Now how the heck did Smedley find out about it?!

Sparky: Playing the Catskills Next Summer

Sparky went a little nuts in the comedy department yesterday.  Lucky for me she didn't know she was being funny.

 

While driving home I hit a tire iron lying in the street, that I couldn't see until it was unavoidable.  CLANG!

 

Sparky:  "What was that?"

 

Me:  "Oh, I hit a . . . thing."  Traffic was a bit heavy, I was distracted, and anyway I often can't come up with the right . . . thing.

 

Sparky:  "I think it was a broken plate.

 

Me:  "No, it was a metal . . . thing.  Besides, why would a plate be lying in the middle of the street?"

 

Sparky, defensively:  "Maybe someone bought a plate from a plate truck and then dropped it on the street."

 

Smedley:  "A plate truck?  There's no such thing as a plate truck."

 

Sparky:  "There is too!  I saw one!  You don't know!"  At which point I sensed Sparky was gearing up for a showdown, so I diffused the situation.

 

Me:  "Oh, I dunno, Smedley -- there COULD be a plate truck.  I haven't seen one, but it's possible."

 

Smedley, quietly, with obvious disdain for her idiot mother:  "No it isn't."

 

Sparky:  "But one time?  When I was TWO?  I SAW a plate truck, and there was a whole big line of people in line to buy plates.  I DID.  When I was TWO.  It's TRUE.  YOU DON'T KNOW."

 

Me:  "You're right, honey, it could be true, I just don't know, and I believe with all my heart that you saw a plate truck selling plates beside the road."

 

Smedley, even quieter:  "There's no such thing."

(Original photo stolen from this guy)

 

I was quietly laughing to myself during this whole conversation, unaware that the exchange to come would challenge my ability to keep the car on the two-lane road at 65 mph without swerving into oncoming traffic.

 

(Photo stolen from these guys)

 

Smedley:  "Mama, is Jack Black famous?"

 

Me:  "Yeah, I guess he is."

 

Smedley:  "What does he do?"

 

Me:  "Well, he's an actor . . . and I think he has a band."

 

Smedley:  "What's it called?"

 

Me:  "Ummmm . . . I forget.  It starts with a T, I think.  I can't remember."*

 

Smedley:  "Tigers?"

 

Me:  "No, don't try to guess.  All I remember is that it starts with a T and that there's no way you'd ever guess it, so please don't keep guessing."  The guessing game would likely go on for the entire car trip and escalate to frustrated shouting, I knew.  I had successfully staved off such a conflict.  Until . . .

 

Sparky:  "Redsocks?"

 

Me:  "No, Redsocks doesn't start with a T, does it?  Silly!  I'll try to think of it --"

 

Smedley:  "THAT would be TEDSOCKS!  HA HA HA HA HA!"

 

Me:  "Oh, you guys --"

 

Sparky:  "Tits?"

 

 

 

I'll wait.

 

 

 

Yes, you read that right.  No, we don't use that word.  Yes, I nearly clipped a UPS truck.  No, she didn't laugh, and she didn't know that I was laughing, silently, into my hand, as the tears literally ran down my face and over the back of my hand.  I fought to regain composure enough to squeak out an answer before they figured out that I was doing The Silent Laugh.

 

Me:  "No, that starts with T, but that's not the name of Jack Black's band."  Actually, I think I managed only a strangled "no."

 

On to get groceries at the "greasy store," known to others in Orland as Sav-Mor, Th Land Whr E's Ar Not Wlcom.

 

Once home from shopping I put away groceries while the girls fed the cats.  Sparky was in the laundry room for a long time.  "What're you doing in there, Sparky?" I called.  She came in, wide-eyed as only a four-year-old can look, with a very important Sparky Announcement about her new (self-appointed) status as Litter Box Sanitation Engineer.

Sparky:  "Mama, can we pluck the turds AFTER dinner?  Because it's late."

(Photo stolen from these guys)

 

Yes we can.

*The band is Tenacious D, and I have no idea how I know that.

Can I Get Back to You?

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Smedley has, for about three years, been negotiating the minefield of adult relationships and (yuck) LO-O-OVE by posing interesting questions.  Smedley usually constructs a dilemma of some sort, designed to tell her something pertinent about her parents' marriage, or sanity, or both.  Tonight was no exception.

Smedley:  "Mama, I told Daddy that if he hadn't married YOU, he would have had to choose between a five-eyed monster that poops and piddles ON THE FLOOR, or The Ugliest Girl In The World."

So glad to see where I rate, exactly.

Smedley:  "Guess what Daddy picked?"

Me:  "Ummm, The Ugliest Girl In The World?"

Smedley:  "Yes!  He picked The Ugliest Girl In The World!  And d'ya know WHY?"

Me:  "No -- why?"

Smedley:  "Because he said he'd be afraid that the five-eyed monster would EAT HIM UP!"

Me:  "I need you to go tell Daddy something for me, please?"

Smedley:  "Okay -- what?"

Me:  "Go tell Daddy that he made the right choice, because -- so far, at least -- The Ugliest Girl In The World hasn't eaten him up
. . . yet."

Smedley:  "Daddy!"

I can only guess what that told Smedley about her parents' marriage -- or sanity.

Minutes of the Cuties Club, Local 136

The following are the minutes of The Cuties Club, Local 136, 2-23-08.  Meeting called to order at 4:47 PM.  In attendance:  Smedley, club president; Sparky, club initiate.

Smedley:  You have to say The Cuties Club Pledge:  Liberty, Justice, and Cuteness For All."

(Repeated by Sparky.)

Smedley:  "Repeat the Cuties Club Rules after me:

Be cute. Be cute.
Smile. Thmile.
Laugh. Laugh.
Happiness. Happineth.
Be nice. Be nithe.
Quit jobs. Quit jobsthz.

Whoever is cute, whoever smiles, whoever laughs, whoever is happy, whoever is nice, and whoever quits their jobs, can join."

Sparky:  "Okay."

Meeting was adjourned at 4:49 PM.

*     *     *     *     *

I am SO ready to join.  I just need a sponsor.  And a makeover.  And an attitude adjustment.  And Unemployment Insurance.

Putting the FUNK in DYSFUNKTIONAL

(Ignore this please.  I'm an idiot.)

 

Here's a Smedley conversation from about a month ago.  I sat on it for three weeks, afraid to tell anyone for fear they'd call a priest to try to arrange a good old-fashioned exorcism.  Or someone would at least drop a dime to Dr. Phil -- didn't want that (I vote for the exorcism, if I get a choice?).

 

But I told Gubby on the phone, and he laughed.  I told my boss Friday, and a few people at a party on Saturday, and no one backed slowly away from me with freakish smiles plastered to their faces.  Well, no more than usual.  So I'm telling the blogosphere (both of you, if you're still awake).  Ahem.

 

About a month ago, Sparky was doing something she's not supposed to -- I don't even remember what, but it was something dangerous, like jumping on the couch with a grenade in one hand and a cobra in the other, you know.  "Sparky, get down!" I barked.  "You know very well you're not allowed to do that!"

 

Smedley looked at me with piercing eyes for a moment.  "Mommy."

 

Uh-oh.  This can't be going anywhere good.  "What, honey?"

 

"Do you know that Sparky does that when you're not here?"

 

"Oh, I believe it," I said, thinking that was the end of it.  But this is Smedley's world, I just cringe in the corner of it, so of course that wasn't the end of it.

 

"Mommy.  It's worse than that.  I don't know how to tell you this, but . . . " -- I swear she must watch reality television or something -- " . . . but Daddy lets her do it.  When you're not here."  Ferocious gravity.  Oh, is that all?  Yeah, I could have told you as much.

 

"Oh, well, I'm sure Daddy just --"

 

"You don't understand, Mommy, Daddy lets her do it -- ON PURPOSE.  When you're not here to see.  You know what I think?"

 

No, but I know you're gonna tell me.  Please just rip the Band-Aid off all at once; it hurts less that way.

 

"I think Daddy doesn't like you very much."

 

Whoa.  Time for some quick face-saving and ass-covering.  "Well, honey, maybe I just haven't explained myself to Daddy very well.  I think it's dangerous when Sparky [juggles vases, gargles bleach, hangs from the ceiling fan -- pick your poison], don't you?"

 

"Yes, but -- Daddy lets her do it!  He must not like you!  Don't you get it?"

 

I can feel you all slowly backing away from your computers while smiling freakish frozen smiles.  Sigh.  I'll call the priest.

I Can't Draw This Well, And I Majored in Graphic Design

Smedley drew this last night.  Chas handed it to me and pronounced it "a new classic."  She knocks me out.



It's a mixed media piece: No. 2 pencil, crayon, Bic pen, and Mommy's Very Illegal Off-Limits Sharpie Pen, all done on the back side of an old fax cover sheet.  I asked Smedley to explain it to me.

"This is the fortune teller," she said, pointing to the figure on the left.  "He's reading her fortune," she continued, indicating the hysterical woman on the right.

"She looks a little upset," I said.

"Yes, she is," Smedley agreed.

"Why is she upset?" I asked.

"Because the fortune teller just told her that she is going to die after being bitten by a three-headed snake."

"Oh, wow, I can see why she'd be upset," I said.

Check out the little tart's belly shirt; the poor snakes couldn't help themselves.  I'd bite her, too.  I held my fork-ed tongue.

Who Cut the Cheese?

(Photo stolen from these guys)

At the risk of lowering this blog's reading level even further . . .

The girls were crowded around me at the computer today, sending Grandma and Grandpa a drawing for their anniversary.  The close quarters suddenly felt way too close.  "Who tooted?" I asked, to a chorus of denials.  Then they started using their imaginations.

Sparky:  "I think Daddy tooted before he left for work, and he left his toot here.   Daddy tooted."

Smedley:  "Daddy put his toot in a jar.  With airholes."

I agreed that that was the most likely scenario.

Could Be Worse . . . Could Be Squash

This will be funny to you only if you know who Gwynneth Paltrow and her rock star husband are, and what they named their baby.  Somehow Smedley knows about it; I can't remember how.

On the way home in the car today, Smedley was reciting her lines for tomorrow's big Thanksgiving play.  She had two or three fairly long sentences memorized, and was repeating them with feeling -- actually acting.

"Wow, that's really good, Smed!" I said, impressed.  "Maybe you can be an actress when you grow up."

"No, I don't want that," Smedley said, wide-eyed.  "I don't wanna hafta name my baby Pear."


(Photo stolen from spooky daddy on Flickr)

They're Just Short People With Budding Senses of Humor

Big, big developments around The Pushing Water Ranch.  Well, not really.

Smedley has long been telling me of her new hobby, or talent, or Stupid Human Trick (according to how you look at it).  My answer has typically been, "Uh-huh, great."  Well, today I got to actually SEE what she's been talking about, and I burst out laughing.  She washes her face with soap, and gets lots of suds on her lips.  Then she carefully forms a bubble out of the suds on her lips, gives a little puff, and POOF!  Smedley is a human bubble machine.  She stood there in the bathroom, launching bubble after bubble off into the bathroom airspace, while I nearly collapsed with laughter.  I guess I should listen better when she tells me (and tells me and tells me . . .).

And, on the Sparky front . . . it's a politically-charged season, and Sparky has firmly taken a position:  "I think Jesus is a complicated name for a four-year-old kid."  Oh, like SPARKY isn't?

Trick or Treat

The girls are practicing trick-or-treating for Halloween.  Grandma Lynne gave them each a new treat bucket, so this evening they've been running between Daddy and me screaming "TRICK OR TREAT!!" and thrusting their buckets forward.  I'm trying to check my e-mail, and Daddy is trying to watch Notre Dame shame his beloved UCLA.

"TRICK OR TREAT!"

"Hey, Sparky, look -- it's a Dora the Explorer popsicle.  You can chew her head off."

After about the sixth time I was so over this clever little role playing game, so I grabbed Smedley and kissed her all over her face.  "There's your treat -- lots of kisses from Mommy!!"  She staggered backwards as I awarded Sparky the same prize.  They walked away slowly, until Smedley figured out her story.

"I got a popsicle!" she chirped.

"I got nothin'," said Sparky, dejectedly.

They used to like my kisses.

It Was the Best of Times, It Was the Worst of Times

It was family time.  Welcome to my obnoxious family.

*     *     *     *     *

Me:  "No -- stop!  Don't get tomato sauce on Daddy's shirt!"

Smedley:  "I wiped it on his pants already!"

*     *     *     *     *

Sparky:  "No, I didn't pee on the floor.  I peed in my pants!"

*     *     *     *     *

Sparky:  "I TOOTED FOUR TIMES!  I TOOTED FOUR TIMES!  I TOOTED FOUR TIMES!"

*     *     *     *     *

Family time isn't usually this silly.  Sometimes, it's much better.  Usually, it's much worse.

Curiouser and Curiouser

Smedley:  "Sparky is the youngest in our family.  [PAUSE]  And VERY curious."

Smedley Cuts Through the Baloney

Smedley:  "Mama, is this my left hand?"

"No, that's your right hand."

Smedley:  "How can you tell?  They look the same."


(Photo stolen from unbelivable14 on Flickr)

Sarcasm Runs in the Family

This morning we are getting ready for a lunchtime birthday party for one of Smedley's classmates.  I was wrapping the present, when I stretched out the ribbon just as Smedley leaned in, and I accidentally smacked her nose.

"Oh, I'm sorry, honey."

"That's okay -- I WANTED to get pounded in the face!"

Guess What!

Photo stolen from ferrous on Flickr

Smedley called me at work just now.  She does this often, usually on the pretense of having something VERY IMPORTANT to discuss, and it's usually something goofy.  Today she was terribly excited to tell me about her counting skills, which I was surprised by, since she's been counting to 100 for a long time now.  Oh well.

 

"Mama, guess what!  Today, at school AND at home, I counted to 100 ALL BY MYSELF!"

 

"You did?  That's great!"

 

"Yeah!  And Sparky didn't learn anything 'cause she wasn't listening!"

 

Only one genius per household, please.

Playing Teacher

Smedley, to Mommy:  "Mommy, how do you spell Joe -- is it J-O-E?"

Mommy:  "Yes.  Oh -- is it a boy named Joe, or a girl?"

Smedley:  "A boy."

Mommy:  "Then yes -- J-O-E."

Smedley:  "And his middle name will be Elizabeth, and --"

Mommy:  "I thought Joe was a boy?  Elizabeth is a girl's name."

Smedley:  "Elizabeth is his MIDDLE name!  And his last name can be . . . Sam.  Joe Elizabeth Sam."

Smedley:  "You can't look at the instructions; this is grown-ups work."

Smedley:  "Snoopy is a funny guy, so his name is Snoopy Rob Dolly."

Smedley, to Sparky:  "Your first name will be Angela, and your middle name will be Nooner.  And your last name will be Stripe.  Angela Nooner Stripe."

Nooner?

So Many Plot Lines, So Little Time

Listening closely to children at play can be eye-opening, embarrassing (for what they've picked up from YOU), and touching.  Most of the time, however, it's just hilarious.  I think perhaps the writers of daytime TV dramas are actually 4-6 years old.

The following snippets of role-play are from the girls' Barbie At The Littlest Pet Shop sessions, and were taken down verbatim, while they weren't paying any attention to Mommy.

Smedley:  "They have to be on top of each other.  Sometimes emergencies call for that.  It's silly, but . . ."

Smedley:  "Help!  Help!  A fire!  We need to sit on you!  Okay, you can take our picture."

Smedley:  "I got shipwrecked in my sailor dress.  It sticks out my nipples."

Smedley:  "There is one place where you can stay forever:  "The Chest of Hope."

Sparky:  "Skateboardy is a girl.  A girl baby skateboarder.  I would like to show you where Skateboardy is."

Smedley:  "Pretend Skateboardy was sick, so she gives her stuff to Kitty, to take back to the store.  'Can I give the stuff to you to take back, before I get buyed?'"

Sparky:  "Oh, I gotta go to the hospital!  I've got allergies!"

Smedley:  "I was playing there so I could get a sticker from the hospital."

Sparky:  "Pretend no one helps her, so she falls in the water.  And she's stuck on a big rock, and she doesn't know where she is."