Well, I managed to be Superdad until 7:03 p.m., last night. Then it all went to hell.
Thursday and Friday were pretty much no problem. Got 'em up, ready for school pretty painlessly, and even after school was fine. Shit, we even played Jenga one day. And then Friday, while they were playing a rousing game of "Let's See if We Can Be So Fucking Loud That We Simultaneously Pierce Both of Dad's Tympanic Membranes," I even decided to go all Julia Child on their ass and cook up an authentic, non-chicken-nuggets dinner.
Special thanks, by the way, go to Shannon at her great cooking blog for the recipe for "Chicken & Biscuits, which rocked the fucking hizzy. It was all so goddamn domestic, I could've puked. They were playing "AAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!" and I was in the kitchen, stirring, browning and kneading. And then I pulled my hand out of my underwear and started cooking. HELLO!
Anywhich, the meal turned out fucktastic and the spawn actually ate a heapin' helpin' of it. Amazing. Then, while I was cleaning the 9000 pots and pans, Mr. Z said something to Miss O, or vice-versa, and it all went to shit. Within seconds, Miss O was bawling and saying, "I want Mama to be home!" Then Mr. Z started bawling because he thought I was going to get pissed at him for making her cry and, well, then I started looking for the gin.
I eventually guilted them into chilling-the-fuck-out (something like "You know, your mom's out of town and it's JUST ME, doing everything -- getting your food, playing games with you, wiping your stinky asses -- is it too much to ask to have a nice, quiet dinner without it turning into World War III?!"). It was then that I realized that I had officially become my mother, and I shot myself in the head.
They managed to unflip their lids long enough to finish the meal, and I rewarded them with a couple of ice cream cones filled with Ben & Jerry's 'Phish Food.' And I will toss in a qualifier here -- rarely has a band annoyed me more than "Phish," what with their pretentious Dead-ripoff wanking and their child-molesting bass-player, and I have a real philosophical dilemma every time I buy this flavor, but the kids like it and I guess it's better than buying Ben & Jerry's 'My Chemical Romance Food,' so fuck it.
The rest of the night proceeded without incident, and, after the usual if-you-two-don't-fucking-stand-still-and-let-me-brush-your-teeth-
and-wash-your-faces-I'm-going-to-murdelize-the both-of-you'se moment, they were in bed and unconscious by 8:30.
Amazingly, they let me sleep in until 9:30 on Saturday morning, but I woke up in such a heavily fortified mucous-pod, I still felt like shiznit. I half-heartedly brought up the "going out for pancakes" idea, but, luckily, the spawn bonged it. That's my kids! So, we just hung out for a coupla hours and then decided to head to the mall to find a birthday present for the party Miss O and I were to attend today. Yes, that sentence was awkward, but I'm lucky I'm still fucking breathing, so suck it.
We went to the fency-schmency toy store and walked around in a stupor for a good 1/2 hour before finally picking the gift I suggested when we first got there -- a Groovy Girl. Mission accomplished. And they fucking wrapped it there, too, so that was a big bonus. Then I spent the next 20 minutes trying to explain why Mr. Z and Miss O couldn't also get toys, which they fought valiantly, but futilely.
At this point it was about 2:30 and I realized that I hadn't fed them since breakfast, so I suggested we sup at the nearby Johnny Rockets -- the loudest, most annoying hip-boss-cherry-rock-n-roll-diner in the world. Of course they didn't want any part of it... but we went anyway. When we walked in, the waitresses (either of high-school or college age -- I swear, at this stage in my life, I have no fucking idea) were doing some bizarre choreographed cheer/song/thing to Aretha Franklin's "R-E-S-P-E-C-T." It made little to no sense, and the three of us were simultaneously repelled and hypnotized. Whatever it was, I'm convinced it would have been anything but respectful in the eyes of Ms. Franklin. When the specatacle was over, we were seated.
They ordered some chicken strips and milkshakes and I ordered the turkey and swiss burger and a chocolate malt. And at some point during my order, I must have said, "And make sure the chef licks the shit out of my burger," 'cuz I'm pretty sure he did.
Now, lactose and I have never seen eye to eye, er, colon. I used to take those little Lactaid pills before ingesting milk products, but then I'd always forget, and they taste like pencil, so I just kinda stopped and tried to avoid milky shit altogether. Well, I can't tell you the last time I downed a nice, thick and milky chocolate malt. Sure, it was delicious, but I knew that in a few short hours, someone, nay, many people, innocent and not, were going to be in serious danger.
Well, I was so pissed Saturday night when I got into bed and the old lady was not there to experience what would have been the most heinous of dutch ovens ever endured. Actually, it's a good thing she wasn't there, because she probably wouldn't have survived it. Here's what I learned:
One (1) Johnny Rockets Chocolate Malt + My Digestive Tract = the fudgiest, eggiest, velvet-foggiest, swamp-gassiest vapor cloud known to civilization
And it hung about six inches above the bed, like some sort of museum laser-security system, for the entire night. It was literally breathtaking.
I can't wait to try it out on the old lady when she gets back. Might make her think twice before going to another conference again, I'll betcha.
I'm stopping here because A) I'm tired as shit, and 2) there's no way anyone has read this far, so I'm basically just typing to myself at this point.
Tomorrow I'll finish up with "The Birthday Party" and "Why I Cleaned the Tubs."