On this week’s Santa Ana winds:
Me: Those are some really strong winds! I hope I don’t get blown away!
Julianna (7 years old): Daddy, don’t worry. You won’t fly away.
Me: I don’t know about that. Are you sure?
J: Yes. Because you’re HUGE!
Me: Um… Are you calling me fat?
J: No. I just mean you’re VERY heavy.
Me: Oh, OK. Thanks for clarifying.
Four-year-old Isabella held me hostage last night. After singing her a lullaby and gently scratching her back, I tried to slip out of her bed. “Daddy,” she whispered, “I want to snuggle.”
Over the next few hours, I tried to make my escape many times, only to be summoned back with that faint whisper: I want to snuggle.
Finally, at 3:00 a.m. I made a break for it. Silently slipping out of her bed, I tip-toed to my room.
At daybreak, I realized I was clinging to the last inches of the edge of the bed. There was a cold foot on my leg, a knee in my kidney, an elbow jammed in my spine, and the warm, pulsing, rhythmic breath of the four-year-old captor on my neck.
“Hey, how did you get there?” I asked.
“I wasn’t finished snuggling,” she said as she drifted back to sleep.
Tonight, our game continues.
7 year-old Julianna: Daddy, “Snooki” is not a word, right?
Me: That’s right. And she’s not a Lady either.
J: Blink. Blink. You make no sense.
Sorry, Facebook, I am breaking up with you. And to be clear, it was you, not me. I’m moving in with Twitter, though I know you think she’s a skank. (But, you just don’t know her very well.) Yes, her 140 character limit is going to pose a problem, but I’m sure in time we’ll adjust. And she has so many great qualities, things that I know you have been trying to emulate. I wish you the best. (By the way, I’d certainly appreciate it if you would forward my stuff to me at Twitter’s place. The address is @Darren_Otero)
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My first Twitter ‘follower’ Olliem51 posts: “Sex is like snow; you never know how many inches you are going to get or how long it is going to last.”
Rimshot! Wow, I’m already having buyer’s remorse. (And not because it is still September, and no snow has fallen.)
Maybe I’ll start a blog or something. How hard could it be?
But, in response to Olliem51: All I have to say is, not long, and not long.
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So far, I’m disillusioned by my move to Twitter. I have a total of 4 followers: my mother-in-law (Hi Darlynn!) and three hoochie-mamas whose website addresses are of the order of: sluttygirl27@www.TripleXXXBabes.com… (Really, are there 26 sluttier girls than you?) Plus, I really don’t care if Kathy Griffin’s performance last night “rocked Mackinaw!!!!” So, while I am totally distrustful of Facebook, understand this: Twitter, you are weak… I may not be through with FB after all.
Since I’m just lounging around the house in my tuxedo like on any normal Sunday afternoon, I suppose maybe we’ll go to the Emmy Awards. How fortunate that Lynn is vacuuming in her ball gown.
There’s nothing like “air conducting” the girls to a rousing rendition of the William Tell Overture to get the blood pumping in the morning. Things petered out, though, when the woodwind section left the performance to brush her teeth. The string section then followed suit to put her shoes on.
Maestro Daddy was left flapping his arms at the brass section of forks and spoons. They ignored him (as is usual for a brass section).
(7-year-old) Julianna: Daddy, do we have a Juicer? You know a machine what makes juice when you put food in it.
Me: Have you been watching TV again?
J: No. Just commercials.
Me: Touché… No, we don’t have a Juicer.
J: Well, maybe we could get one. And you know what the secret ingredient is?
Me: No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.
J: It’s… (pause for dramatic effect…) Radishes!
A commercial that gets my daughter excited about radishes? Who says TV is a wasteland?
The first rain drop falls just as the guy at the car wash signals to me that he is finished. Then the first thunder clap scares the crap out of a bird just as it passes over my windshield. Please tell me that the rest of the day isn’t going to be like this…
A sad loss over the weekend for the Otero clan: After eight wonderful months, Isabella discovered Spotty the goldfish lying motionless on the bottom of the fish bowl. He was returned to his “family” (by way of toilet flush) after a brief ceremony led by Mommy.
Julianna, wept, “I don’t ever want another pet again!.”
Isabella, ever the instigator, said: “Maybe we can get a chihuahua now.”
Overheard the other day: A game of Tic-Tac-Toe with Isabella (4-year-old) vs. Mommy…
Iz: Mommy, you’re X and and I’m O
Mommy: Ok.
A few plays later…
Mommy: Sorry Honey. X-X-X… Tic-Tac-Toe. I win.
Isabella: That’s Ok, Mommy. I changed my mind. I wanted to be X. So, actually… I WIN!