I enjoy Weirdo being an ass.

Short post here, but one I believe to be perfectly emblematic of the ongoing struggle I face as a father of little girls.

On one hand, I’m a complete ass – proudly, I might add. And I derive immense pleasure when I see my offspring exhibiting similar crass and crude behavior…to an extent.

So the other day, Weirdo is getting dressed for school. Over my shoulder I hear her query, “Dad, can you see my butt with these pants on?”

Now, as a wry smile spreads across my face, I know what is coming next. And at 5 years old, this is funny. At 13, it’s utterly and completely horrifying.

Sure enough, as I turn around, there is Weirdo standing there with her pants down. It wasn’t enough though to have them sagging sub-cheeks level, as if she were part of T.I.’s crew or something (he’s one of those “rap guys,” for my fans from Vanilla City). No, she has them around her knees and is bent completely over.

I recognize that with my Grade A DNA resonating throughout her cellular structure, there is little she can do to avoid the impulses to be an ass. #2., mooning is almost always funny. And, C, the fact that she came up with that herself, I give her major bonus points.

Let me emphasize that last point, lest people jump to some awful conclusion: I do NOT moon my children. Perish the thought.

Let’s just hope Weirdo doesn’t take the “enthusiastic thumbs up” feedback she received to that bit from the audience and work it into her next headlining set with the neighborhood boys.

EVER.

Alas, I am my own worst enemy. Three-fingers, no ice, anyone?

I beg to differ with your definition of “Exceptional Service”

So, I took the family to the local carnival the other weekend. And before anyone gets ahead of themselves, this Ironic Observation about a carnival has nary a thing to do with a carnie stalking about with dental floss in his pocket.

Oh, no. That would be too easy. Besides, you’ll never find such a thing.

On the other hand, you will find several carnies with fake gold chains, with the gold plating faded away, worn on the outside of their shirts. Not sure why this is, I mean this was an abysmal fashion idea even when popular, one which I strenuously suggest you mock at every opportunity.

Lo and behold, we are off track. Again. As always. Mayhap I should do an Ironic Observation about people not getting to the point. That, friend, would be the penultimate example of irony.

Anywho, so I saunter up to the ticket booth, because sauntering is sexy and carnivals are all about sex appeal, and attempt to engage in conversation with “Terri.”

So see, I wanted to get Terri’s (ahem) expert opinion on whether we should buy an all-day bracelet for Crazy or just purchase tickets since Crazy is just 2 years old (Note: Terri gave me bad info on this, but we’re not here to rant about that, alas).

Well, first of all Terri was on her cell phone – a Go Phone no doubt as I’m going to climb out on the proverbial limb here and surmise that Terri’s credit is a shade sub-700. And Terri is chatting away. A good 30-seconds later Terri acknowledges me. She doesn’t end the conversation, mind you, she just keeps her phone cocked on her shoulder, continuing to chat while I hand her more money than she earns in week, and she gives me back in change more than she has in savings or retirement.

She is also annoyed with me the entire time because I have the audacity to ask her assistance.

Here’s the kicker, for those of you who stayed with me this long, pinned to Terri’s red polo is a shiny little pin that reads, “Exceptional Service.”

Who the eff (sorry mom) were they rejecting from the ticket booth? The dude with Tourette’s Syndrome? I realize every tin chain-wearing overachiever working the rides was an ESL, but c’mon.

Oh, well. The Figure 8 races were awesome.

So does this mean I’m more evolved than most? Evidently.

Check out the most important scientific discovery of our generation: http://richarddawkins.net/article,2761,n,n

The rest of you are all content with your opposable thumbs.  How adorable.

Trying to “squeak” out a victory in the war

So, it’s apparent that, as a parent (see what I did there?), I’m not dealing with the whole some-day-my-daughters-will-be-dating thing, as that means I will be spending a long time on step 8 of AA’s suggestion of 12. But my psychosis is such that my propensity to do the downright idiotic in order to prevent the inevitable knows no bounds. I lay bare for you the following (insert naked picture of self here).

Crazy has a bedroom door that squeaks. Not a little one either. It’s the kind of squeak that a booby bimbo in a slasher flick hears moments before a door slams shut, held tight by some paranormal force, as she is eviscerated by a clown or ghoul or random assneck with mommy issues.

I mean, this sucker squeaks.

Here’s the problem: Come bedtime, when you finally get Crazy to close her eyes and you attempt to sneak out of the room, like some Babysitters Club version of the Delta Force, the moment you start to close the door, it squeaks and wakes Crazy.

“Daddy?”

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Here’s the bigger problem: It would take 3 seconds and two shots of WD-40 to banish that cursed squeak, but I won’t do it.

And why? Because I’ve already fast forwarded to Crazy’s teen years, and I know when (“when,” not “if.” Note my distinct lack of trust and optimism) she tries to sneak in and out at night to meet a boy, she’ll trip that alarm and I will spring into action to choke some little bastard out.

You know, or tell him it’s really late and maybe he could come back tomorrow.

Or hurl an empty bottle of Chivas at him.

It really all depends on my blood alcohol level at the moment.

This is really how stupid it has gotten. I literally have figured out what angle to lift and amount of pressure to put on the door as I swing it closed to prevent it from squeaking. It’s that bad.

And you know what’s even stupider? Beside the word “stupider?” As if it’s completely unfathomable that Crazy would figure out that real complex Mind Bender herself.

Screw it. I sprayed the damn door. No more squeak, but I got my eye on pilfering the spike strip at the Enterprise rental lot.

I freakin’ dare her to sneak out once that is installed.

(But she can just step over it, dumbass!)

It only 2008. They’ll have laser containment fields by then. I will it to be so.