Here we go.
After weeks of squirrel-dundancies, I strolled by the other day and came upon this:
They have palm trees now! The brick pedestals have been transformed into a veritable tropical oasis (I'm actually pretty jealous -- I like to pretend they're spending the afternoon at the Shipwreck Bar on St. Kitts -- drinking something flavored with rum and coconut -- watching the waves and the occasional monkey wander out of the brush. It's a pretty specific daydream.). Now that the squirrel ladies are expanding their little dioramas, the possibilities are endless! Tiki huts! Christmas trees! Snow forts! Miniature school buses!
A couple weeks ago, Lily lost her Princess Elsa MagiClip Doll. I don't know if you've heard of Princess Elsa or the movie in which in between freezing shit, she spends a lot of time as a recluse -- but if you've had any contact with a child over the age of 2 or their parents who start twitching uncontrollably and looking uncomfortably close to homicidal rage every time "Let it Go" comes on (which, by the way, is all the time) I'm guessing you have at least some knowledge of "Frozen." Where was I? Oh yeah, so the doll is missing and it's a pretty big deal. Lily roamed the house tearfully moaning, "Where's Elsa? I can't find her anywhere!" (I pointed out to her that she might have better luck finding her if she were actually attempting to look for her, but my quaint suggestions seemed lost on her obviously superior (though tortured) 3-year-old brain).
So I start looking for Elsa in earnest. Digging through the car and under couches and in various toy bins. When I couldn't find her in the usual spots, I took the hunt up a level. Which lead to me not only looking under couch cushions, but also rummaging through the bowels of my sofa -- a marinas trench of treasures unseen by human eyes in millenia.
|Strangely enough, no spare change.|
For the record, that's a spoon, two hair clips, half a Sofia the First Princess Amber magnet, a hair tie, a bumble bee stamp, a matryoshka doll, a sea shell, two Sofia the First plastic charms, one Sofia the First Prince James figurine, one static cling Eyore tail, two My Little Ponies, Ohs!, a finger puppet and a giant pile of fur (apologies if you have a weak gag reflex). I ain't proud.
Note, still no Princess Elsa. She was eventually located mob-style in the trunk of Barbie's VW Beetle. Nobody's talking.
Despite the fact that Lily was not at all concerned about the fact that two of her ponies were missing for months, she took issue with me for how I set one up in her dollhouse tonight:
|Don't judge me. |
I have to amuse myself around here somehow …
|Poor Harry Pony. (Horsy Potter?)|
In my defense, Lily herself had stuffed all three ponies in the closet underneath the doll house steps -- like Harry Potter's equine cousins. How is that any better?
But the saga doesn't end there, because tonight as I was straightening up the living room -- what did I find peeking out a sofa orifice:
|Maybe I should stuff some more cereal down there|
so they have something to eat …
These ponies don't stand a chance in this house.
When we're not losing plastic ponies, stuffing them in the couch or positioning them inappropriately (at least according to Lily) in the dollhouse, we're pretending to be My Little Ponies. Specifically, I'm told that I am Princess Twilight Sparkle, Jovie is Rainbow Dash and Lily gets to be whatever pony she wants (she can apparently morph into different ponies by rolling around on Jovie's bed and snorting). Being Princess Twilight Sparkle is actually a pretty sweet gig, I just lounge on Jovie's bed half asleep and occasionally ask Lily to make me an apple pie (when she's pretending to be Applejack) or to sing me a song (when she's pretending to be Lyra Heartsrings).
Here's a sample of a song Lily (aka Lyra Heartstrings) sang me recently:
"I want to drum on your heart
I want to eat your tummy
I want to be your friend."
Think death metal meets Disney power ballad.
So disturbing, and yet sweet.
Our games of My Little Pony generally end when, for some inexplicable reason, Lily morphs into "Bad Pony" and proceeds to growl and bite me. Maybe Bad Pony should spend some time in the closet under the stairs.
In between terrible pony impersonations, I've been studying how to talk Scottish by way of "So I Married an Ax Murder," Fat Bastard and "Downton Abbey," in preparation for what will be, no doubt, the height of my literary career: Reading an excerpt from my third-place winning entry to the YorkFest adult literary competition.
If you're in the York area on Friday night and are looking for something to do (or have been looking for the opportunity to witness my public humiliation) stop by YorkArts, 10 N. Beaver St., at around 7 p.m. You'll also get to hear my friend Joan's excellent non-fiction piece and check out cool art and stuff.
Maybe you can even get Lily to sing her pony song while you're there -- more likely, she'll just bite your leg. You've been warned.