The Huns are invading!
Sep. 19th, 2010 09:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
slipjig3This weekend was a small person invasion weekend, with Boy-Child and Girl-Child arriving late Friday afternoon for a few days' worth of reminding their father that he's completely nuts. (By which I mean saying, "Dad? You're nuts," at ten-minute intervals.) The Non-Voting-Age Praxis Residents were away for the duration, and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
primal_pastry was leaving for NYC Saturday morning, so it meant just the us of us, which further meant fewer people to blame things on should, say, the bathroom catch fire. [SPOILER WARNING: It didn't.]
1) For dinner on Friday night I took them to Wild Willy's Burgers, a whole two-and-a-half block walk from Praxis, which isn't nearly enough to burn the 28,903 calories in an average Wild Willy's meal; our count, however, was different because Nik, naturally, requested cheese on the fries. Abbey enjoyed her meal even though, bless her heart, she was deeply set against going there because she was scared of it, on account of it being called "Wild Willy's." Yep, that's what she said. No, she didn't explain why. After fixing her with a textbook big-O-dash-little-o stare, I said, "Abbey, love? It's a burger place. They've got a chuck wagon in there with a Homer Simpson plush in the driver's seat."
"DaaAAaad," she wailed, fresh tears a-glisten, "that's worse! I'm scared of Homer Simpson!" She's 13, ladies and gentlemen. I'm pretty sure the orthopedist assigned to fix her shortened leg removed her backbone by mistake.
Anyway, as I said, the restaurant was a big hit, even though we had to sit at the counter, facing away from the Homer Wagon. This in itself wouldn't have been a problem had Nik not decided to switch seats with me halfway through the wait and leave me in one of the stools that had been replaced with a Western saddle, an indignity no Voting-Age Praxis Resident should ever have to endure.
2) Saturday began with homemade cinnamon rolls fromprimal_pastry, which she dubbed "biscuits Foster" as the cinnamon and butter topping decided to remain staunchly liquid throughout their ordeal. (Still tasty as hell, though.) From there we drove her to the homes of a few Emperor Norton's Stationary Marching Band members in advance of their gig, and after wishing her goodbye and driving home—a trip that the petty-sadist GPS angled directly past Fenway Park—we headed to a local bead store and then Harvard Square to begin shopping in earnest.
Now, I had the brilliant idea of handing each child a twenty with the warning that, although they may spend that money however they so choose, I would not, under any circumstances, be giving them any further money regardless of any extortion attempts they might leverage. The theory was that this would stave off money-related whining. Hahahaha! Yeahhh, not so much: "C'mon, Dad, pleeeaaassse? I just need another six dollars and forty cents to get this [insert name of random useless geek-child object of desire]!" (This and the inevitable "It's not fairrrr!") In the end, Nik made off with a mess of Pokemon cards and some French fries, and Abbey got a "Leave It to Pyoko"-themed coin purse and a Chinese-styled cloth sack that she has earmarked as her first dice bag. Awwww! I swear, I teared up a bit. Also, both kids know all the words to "The Time Warp." It makes a geek dad proud.
3) Plans to go to a party atfeste_sylvain's that night were scuttled by the kids basically sacking out a little after eight, so I attempted to turn in at a reasonable hour, which my body summarily rejected. New improved plans of a good night's sleep with a midnight bedtime were delayed by the infant in the next apartment doing David Lee Roth impressions for a solid hour, impeded by my brain's decision to randomly wake up at 3:30, and finally buried like a statue of St. Joseph by both soon-to-be-shunted-off-to-military-school kids piling into my room at 6:30 (on a fnorking Sunday) to cheerfully inform me that it was Time to Get Up. I would like to remind those in charge of tabulating misdeeds for my final reckoning that I did not in fact shoot, stab or ignite anyone at this time.
Still, it was early enough to eventually get us on the road to Worcester in time to catch stART on the Street, an arts and crafts fair, during which there was whining for money from Boy-Child, who had already burned through his $20 and has not yet grasped that "that sucks" and "that's unfair" are not synonymous. From there, home for the kids, and then home for me, where I write these words from. Subliminally. Because, dude, six-flippin'-thirty. On a Sunday.
primal_pastry was leaving for NYC Saturday morning, so it meant just the us of us, which further meant fewer people to blame things on should, say, the bathroom catch fire. [SPOILER WARNING: It didn't.]1) For dinner on Friday night I took them to Wild Willy's Burgers, a whole two-and-a-half block walk from Praxis, which isn't nearly enough to burn the 28,903 calories in an average Wild Willy's meal; our count, however, was different because Nik, naturally, requested cheese on the fries. Abbey enjoyed her meal even though, bless her heart, she was deeply set against going there because she was scared of it, on account of it being called "Wild Willy's." Yep, that's what she said. No, she didn't explain why. After fixing her with a textbook big-O-dash-little-o stare, I said, "Abbey, love? It's a burger place. They've got a chuck wagon in there with a Homer Simpson plush in the driver's seat."
"DaaAAaad," she wailed, fresh tears a-glisten, "that's worse! I'm scared of Homer Simpson!" She's 13, ladies and gentlemen. I'm pretty sure the orthopedist assigned to fix her shortened leg removed her backbone by mistake.
Anyway, as I said, the restaurant was a big hit, even though we had to sit at the counter, facing away from the Homer Wagon. This in itself wouldn't have been a problem had Nik not decided to switch seats with me halfway through the wait and leave me in one of the stools that had been replaced with a Western saddle, an indignity no Voting-Age Praxis Resident should ever have to endure.
2) Saturday began with homemade cinnamon rolls from
primal_pastry, which she dubbed "biscuits Foster" as the cinnamon and butter topping decided to remain staunchly liquid throughout their ordeal. (Still tasty as hell, though.) From there we drove her to the homes of a few Emperor Norton's Stationary Marching Band members in advance of their gig, and after wishing her goodbye and driving home—a trip that the petty-sadist GPS angled directly past Fenway Park—we headed to a local bead store and then Harvard Square to begin shopping in earnest.Now, I had the brilliant idea of handing each child a twenty with the warning that, although they may spend that money however they so choose, I would not, under any circumstances, be giving them any further money regardless of any extortion attempts they might leverage. The theory was that this would stave off money-related whining. Hahahaha! Yeahhh, not so much: "C'mon, Dad, pleeeaaassse? I just need another six dollars and forty cents to get this [insert name of random useless geek-child object of desire]!" (This and the inevitable "It's not fairrrr!") In the end, Nik made off with a mess of Pokemon cards and some French fries, and Abbey got a "Leave It to Pyoko"-themed coin purse and a Chinese-styled cloth sack that she has earmarked as her first dice bag. Awwww! I swear, I teared up a bit. Also, both kids know all the words to "The Time Warp." It makes a geek dad proud.
3) Plans to go to a party at
feste_sylvain's that night were scuttled by the kids basically sacking out a little after eight, so I attempted to turn in at a reasonable hour, which my body summarily rejected. New improved plans of a good night's sleep with a midnight bedtime were delayed by the infant in the next apartment doing David Lee Roth impressions for a solid hour, impeded by my brain's decision to randomly wake up at 3:30, and finally buried like a statue of St. Joseph by both soon-to-be-shunted-off-to-military-school kids piling into my room at 6:30 (on a fnorking Sunday) to cheerfully inform me that it was Time to Get Up. I would like to remind those in charge of tabulating misdeeds for my final reckoning that I did not in fact shoot, stab or ignite anyone at this time.Still, it was early enough to eventually get us on the road to Worcester in time to catch stART on the Street, an arts and crafts fair, during which there was whining for money from Boy-Child, who had already burned through his $20 and has not yet grasped that "that sucks" and "that's unfair" are not synonymous. From there, home for the kids, and then home for me, where I write these words from. Subliminally. Because, dude, six-flippin'-thirty. On a Sunday.
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I miss stART
Date: 2010-09-20 02:52 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2010-09-21 05:29 am (UTC)