Aren’t “good” things supposed to come in 3’s?

So, the topic of this post was supposed to be completely different than what you will absorb beyond my preamble. I woke up in the middle of the night with the red ass, mind effervescing with profound commentary on the new Spiderman 4 movie, how it had deviated from both cannon and the foundation established by the initial trilogy of films.

Then I realized it was 3:40 in the morning and I was in a sleep-deprived state of delirium. Oh well, that’s what you get when you average 4 hours of sleep a night.

Could have been worse, I reckon. My next dream was that I was on the throne taking a dump. Good thing I regained cognizance in time to realize that it was a dream too.

So instead of me further exposing my dorkitude as I lament the casting of Frodo as a new, shimmery silver clad Spidey (think Terminator 2), or seeking tips on how to bleach out a shit stain – both from sheet and long-term memory – I’ll instead regale you with a trio of tales involving Weirdo, footwear and the makeup.

You see dads, here’s the inherent risk you face every single time your daughter walks out of the house: You gotta analyze their outfit and accessories with the acute attention to microscopic detail of that of a colonic therapist searching for parasites.

Sometimes I catch it. Sometimes I nearly eff up. And sometimes the world effs me over.

Observe…

Absolutely not.
It may just be me, but I doubt it. I think in most cases with those of my persuasion, the shoes can complete an outfit. Pair a hot look with some pumps or boots and you got my attention.

So, imagine my horror when Weirdo came strolling into the room one day in her fancy clothes and wearing a pair of the wife’s red pumps.

You know how when you walk in on the middle of something and there’s this real uncomfortable silence? Inevitably someone throws out the most unnecessary inquiry, “Ummm…what’s going on?” Seems to me when you’re skull fucking a goat in your bath tub, as an example, it’s pretty self-explanatory.

Nevertheless, there I was: “So, ummmm…what’s going on?”

Weirdo replies as innocently as she can muster as a sly smile spreads across her face, “I’m wearing mommy’s shoes,”

(Ask a stupid question…)

“Ummm…why?”

“Because I like them.”

“Uh-huh. Well, um, I don’t think so, sweetie.”

You notice too how she seems to seek me out when she pulls this stuff? I swear she does it because, on some strange level even at age 6, she knows it has a profound affect on me. The GD joke’s not supposed to be on my though, if you recall.

Now, I get that this is cute and girls like to play dress up with mommy’s stuff. Except Weirdo isn’t trying to dress up like mommy. She’s trying to be Hannah Montana, the Cheetah Girls, the cast of High School Musical or some other iteration of jailbait.

Think I’m exaggerating? I implore you to read on, there feller (or missy, for all my female readers).

So Weirdo promptly struts back to the closet – yes, I said strut, because the kid has been walking in heels since about 2 1/2…expertly I might ad – and emerges in knee high leather boots (I suppose they would be thigh high on her).

And not just any boots, knee high “eff me” boots. You know, the kind you buy for your wife with the most salacious of intents.

(Oh don’t get all prude on me now. If you’re reading this you know what the eff is up with this blog.)

Sure. Wait….what did you – NO.
This is where dear ol’ super dad damn near dropped the ball.

One morning as I’m getting ready to travel off to my place of employment – and remind you, 4 hours sleep on average – Weirdo comes walking into my room with her hands over her eyes and mumbled something.

Here’s where I’m going to call myself out. I have no idea what she said. I thought she was asking if she could come in but was covering her eyes in case I was in mid undress.

What I thought I heard: “Can I open my eyes?”

What was actually said: “Can I wear this on my eyes?”

When she did an about face and scurried out of the room with her eyes still covered, I found it odd, seeing as how I said it was ok to open them.

TANGENT: And, no, adawg, I was not granting said permission because I was nude. Love how I have to proof and edit my blog posts to account for your twisted mind…

After a moment my anti-pole instincts kicked in. I tracked her down.

“Wait. What did you say?”

Nary a word need be uttered, for the nefarious deed was evident. There upon her eyelids were the soft shades of electric blue. She was wearing eye shadow, had come to me and asked if it was ok to wear it to school and I almost, almost approved it. I think I have sabotaged my own efforts enough this year, thank you very much.

Apparently Weirdo has entered into a pact with some of the other girls at her school to wear eye shadow to school that day. It’s bad enough I gotta keep the boys away. Now I gotta worry about the girls undermining my will as well? And you know how I feel about pacts among girls…

With merely the authoritative thrust of a finger, back the bathroom she headed to wash it off.

Whew. We barely averted a disaster, until…

What the…? No no no no no. Eff all that B.S.

I come home the other night and I’m talking to the wife about this, that and the other. Suddenly Weirdo comes running into the room.

“Daddy!” (yes, she always runs to greet me when I come home because I am teh awesome and she loves me)

“Hey, kid! How are – “

Pump the GD brakes.

“Are you wearing eye shadow?”

Just like that, folks. A 6-year old at top speed in low lighting coming around a corner and I can pick it out. Something wicked this way comes and it has upset the fabric of the idyllic universe I strive to create (or perhaps liquid medicate myself into believing truly exists).

You see, turns out some of the girls at Weirdo’s school brought makeup to school and they all decided it would be fun to symbolically take a shit on my world  put it on at recess.

You remember recess, right? Swing sets. Jump rope. Tag. Playing with dolls. Applying gobs of makeup.

One of these things is not like the others,
One of these things just doesn’t belong,
Can you tell which thing is not like the others
By the time I finish my song?

Did you guess which thing was not like the others?
Did you guess which thing just doesn’t belong?
If you guessed this one is not like the others,
Then you’re absolutely…right!

 

So, yeah. That’s just wonderful. She should be sharing joints after a rough morning of fractions and identifying common denominators at this rate.

There you are. That’s what I’ve been dealing with. On the positive side, at least I get to go bowling tonight. Yes, folks. That’s the positive side of my life right now.

It could be worse however, I suppose. Fucking Frodo as Spiderman…

The Security Guard at My Building Terrifies Me.

I work in Metro Detroit and like most corporate centers found ’round the country, there is in general some level of security in place, whether it be cameras, patrol vehicles, guards at a desk or a combination of these examples. Their sole purpose is to make the people who work and visit there feel safe.

So why does the security guard where I work frighten me?

Because I have been nothing if not brutally honest with the literally several people who tune in, I’ll share with you another little tidbit about yours truly: I like the rap music.

It’s true. I got into hip hop and break dancing around the 4th grade and never looked back. I love it. I love it so much my soul withered and nearly died during the whiny-ass grunge era where the goal was to have a more effed up name of your band then the next one (Toad the Wet Sprocket? Are you shitting me?).

Nothing beats a little Ice Cube, Jay-Z, C.L. Smooth, Eminem or Big Daddy Kane to get me in a good mood. Besides infectious beats, their lyrical prowess (a.k.a. Skeelz), involving word play, rich analogies and both pertinent and obscure cultural references, is mind-blowing (a.k.a. dope, fresh or “the shit.”).

I state that to make sure we’re all on even ground here. I’m no suburban, white flight, cracker over here. Those are my relatives down south. I had blue and black first generation Jordans (cooler than your red and black ones, sheep), parachute pants, skinny leather tie (see my Thanksgiving homage to readers), a tacky magnetic earring, and I have never mistaken Turbo and Ozone for characters in a Mortal Kombat game.

You see, at one of the buildings where I have an office (I have two offices. Probably because I am a peon and therefore need to go to people rather that be gone to, but I like to pretend it’s because I’m important. You with me on that? Yeah. No, I’m not buying it either…), the parking lot is patrolled by a security guard in a maroon vehicle.

Now, let’s set aside the fact that this individual inspires zero feelings of safety or comfort.

A slightly less intimidating version of our security guards. Probably more level-minded too.

The problem is he inspires exactly the opposite. When your security guard is creeping through the lot, window down, gangsta lean in effect and blaring hardcore gangster rap while he stares you down, it’s, well, unsettling.

An audio snippet of what I deal with while the security guard “glares” me down as I walk to my car:

I pull my strap on a muthafucka (boom boom)
Put a cap in a muthafucka (boom tick boom)
Where you at, muthafucka? (boom boom)

Should I be scared of being caught short when 2.5 is on the smooth creep?

(Translation for the urbanites: Do I need to be carrying a firearm in order to protect myself in the event the security guard should drive past?)

I guess I gotta start ridin’ dirty.

(Try Wikipedia. It’s your friend.)

I think what scares me the most is that if you are in your 30’s and you drive a maroon Hyundai with a magnetic security logo slapped to the door, you’ve basically lost all hope. And some sorry S.O.B. without hope is the scariest S.O.B. I can think off.

I get being a security guard when you’re in your 20’s or even later in your career. A bunch of my friends were mall cops (albeit not of the Paul Blart ilk, hijinks and hilarity most certainly ensued) and they had a lot of laughs about harassing teenagers and incapacitating shoplifters.

Here’s the thing though, they moved on and got “real” jobs. Some even went into law enforcement. One coaches girls basketball (ok, that’s only funny to me because I know the guy. You? Less so, but this is my blog, so tough).

Anywho, that’s my quandary du jour. At some point I’ll buck up and be a man about the whole thing. But for now, I’m going to continue darting between cars as the dark stain in my pants continues to expand.

Parting thought: Do you think the security guard turns his canister of Mace to the side before he uses it?

“Break yo’ self!!!”

(hissssssssssssss)