I live for game night. I live for cheese pizza. (and yeah, I kinda live for beating Philoboy at Scrabble. I'm such a good sport when I win. I have to win, or put up with him bragging for the next 6 days about his score. His good sportsmanship sometimes gets knocked out of the ballpark.).
Game night took an unexpected turn this week. You might say I was blue about it. (Or you might not, since you have no idea what I'm talking about.)
It started very innocently. Sometimes the Whee is all moody teenager, and sometimes she is still a delightful youngster, unconcerned about being all cool and hip. On game night, she had an attack of bath foam-possessed young-'un. It began like this.
Looks almost good enough to eat, doesn't it? Then it advanced to this.
Coiffure de cuckoo. I should have seen the red flag. Who knew a 69 cent can of kids bath foam would be a weapon of gross destruction? Who knew a 69 cent can could hold so much foam?!
Can you imagine where this is going? Can you envision the unsuspecting parental units, seated at the table, thinking they are providing their offspring with nurturing in a warm family gathering, stimulating her brain with words games?
When instead, the spawn was in the other room, planning her attack. Plotting her frothy assault.
The end result was blue foam innards all over the house. Humans, cabinets, carpet, the cat, and furniture splattered with blue viscera, the scene of a horrific massacre, the death of decorum. Oh, the carnage.
Only my camera survived unscathed. I don't know where she gets these tendencies. I think I'll see if we can prepay her spot at the home for delinquents. In the meantime, be warned young one, no foaming goes un-avenged....
1 comment:
First of all when did you start working? 2nd she acts just like her mother.
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