The Dictator, the Idiot Tooth Fairy, and Me

This might not have been the first time I've done it.

"Gappy," as we like to call the toothless
Dictator. For some reason she abhors
this name. She also doesn't want her
picture taken..."because it's
emBARrasing!" So I tickled her
while she was snacking on pretzels
(yes, that's chewed up pretzel in her
mouth), snapped a pic, and posted
it on my blog for all to see.
Have I mentioned that I'm a bad parent?

My precious Dictator came skipping home from school two days ago clutching a plastic sandwich bag with a big grin on her face. "Guess what, Mommy?!" She thrusts the bag in my face and I catch a glimpse of a tiny, bloody canine tooth. Then she grins and jams her face up against my eyes so that my eyelashes mash into her mouth. "Do you see?! I lost another TOOTH! And Makayla says it's a LUCKY tooth because it's POINTY! I'll probably even get EXTRA money tonight!" (The Dictator is nothing if not mercenary). I make a note of it in my head. Must not forget tooth fairy tonight. This is important. Because I've forgotten before. 

The good news, in our family, is that we've already established that the tooth fairy is pretty much a moron. We have a saying: "You can rely on Santa Claus. You can count on the Easter Bunny. But the tooth fairy is all like 'Blahahahahah!"  

Really. We actually go around saying that. The last part sounds like ditzy, flaky, confused blonde exclamations. We're just a house full of dorks, really. 

But this time, I'm not going to forget. I write reminder notes to myself everywhere. I set an alarm on my phone. This is important. 

So naturally, I fall asleep on the couch while the Bureaucrat is out doing social-person things that night. I wake up in a sleepy stupor at 1 am, stumble upstairs and fall into bed. I sleep peacefully, dreaming about alien takeovers, kindergarten classrooms, and lattes...obviously. And in the morning...

"Mom! The tooth fairy FORGOT AGAIN!" 

Yup. Again. 

But don't worry. This is the Dictator we're talking about. She knows who she's dealing with. Tooth fairies are all like "Blahahahah!" They're morons. They need patience, guidance, and most of all, passive-aggressive letters.

"Because when I woke up, like four times to see if you had come--you thoughtless, insensitive harpy--it was still there...because you're inconsiderate, self-absorbed and slow in the head!"

"And even though my tooth is very small, it's still there...MORON!"

The Bureaucrat said that he recently read somewhere that the phrase "please advise" is business speak for WTF. As in, "We still haven't received those documents. Please advise." I think that if the Dictator had been aware of this useful bit of business info, "Please RSVP" would most certainly have read "please advise," and would even more certainly have implied something which, as this is a PG rated blog, is unrepeatable here.

Anyway, the problem was resolved quickly, as the repentant fairy immediately deposited a double sum of tooth reward money (a guilt offering) the following night. And thusly, the passive-aggressive wrath of the Dictator was satiated by cold hard cash.

Guilt offering. Nice and blurry so you won't
notice that the blithering idiot fairy
committed a federal offense by defacing
federal currency with an apologetic,
pink "oops!"

Fairies might be dumb as dirt, but at least they're easily manipulated. And that's all the Dictator ever really asks, anyway.

Going to the Chapel: Second Wedding Season

The young Mortons in our wedding
heyday. This is how young people
dance...after a few drinks.

At some point in their mid-twenties most young adults go through a phase of life in which they attend/stand up in a wedding every month for about two years. This phase is fun, exciting, and expensive. Luckily, most people in their mid-twenties are also young enough not to care about silly things like finances, and are still energetic enough to enjoy exhausting things like fun and excitement. Then we age a bit, and weddings stay fun and exciting, but are fewer and farther between. This is clearly the work of some great, beneficent force that mercifully slows the occurrence of exciting events to keep pace with our ever-waning old-person energies/need to find babysitters.

Doe-eyed, innocent
young people, circa
2003

Of course, there are those twenty-somethings who slip through the cracks and do responsible things like get jobs, and houses, and cars, and "savings" (whatever that is), and "the right one" before taking the plunge in their thirties. And there will always be those young'uns in our lives that fall madly in love and have doe-eyed, innocent, young-person weddings and invite all us jaded, sleepy, elderly folks. As a result, this year, in the midst of our thirties, the aged Mortons are experiencing a mini-flux of weddings. I can think of at least five six happy couples that have been married/are about to be married in 2013 and a good handful that married in 2012. Even though we are as old as the hills, the Bureaucrat and I are very excited about all these wonderful events...even if the mere phrase "bachelorette party" causes me overwhelming fatigue.

Older Mortons, in the wedding of
the Librarian and the Accountant.
If you asked us to be in your
wedding, be advised: we look like
this--armpit, tongue, and all.

My little sister, who shall henceforth be known as "The Pretty One,"* is getting married in the fall, and has bravely asked the Dictator and the Anarchist to participate. I am honored to be her "Matron" of honor (but I swear if I hear anyone call me "matron" I will punch that person in the throat). Our friends the Scapegoat and the Jackrabbit (we'll stick with our animal theme for this couple) are marrying in the spring. Both of these couples fall into the "responsible" category (yes, I'm calling you guys "old," please don't kill me), so we've heard them utter phrases like, "We really wish we could keep this simple," "We just want to make this easy for everyone," and "We're trying to be responsible about keeping costs down." Ah, old people!

Sometimes, when the Pretty One and I are in weddings,
this happens. 

At work, I'm exposed to the two extremes. My boss, the Eternal Optimist (he becomes ashamed of himself if he even hints at complaining about the weather) is engaged to be married in June...probably...in Vegas...most likely. He's just going to wing it. Whatever. It'll work out. Ah, old (optimistic) people! Another younger coworker (I'd call her Bedroom Eyes, but if she ever read this she'd kill me...oops!) is getting married in the fall. She picked out the dates, wedding colors, and dress pretty much immediately. She talks endlessly of groom's cakes, beauty appointments and bridesmaid drama. Her wedding will be elaborate, fun, and thoroughly planned. Ah, young people!

Ah! Young people! (Does anyone else notice that my face
is about three times lighter than my body?!)

And of course, there are all the other weddings: huge, tiny, expensive, simple, drunk, dry, near, far, first, third, young, old. Weddings galore! I feel like there's a ton of blog material here. And I plan to exploit it...how can an Anarchist flower girl not be hilarious? (I'm guessing she will probably yell something about farts during the Pretty One's vows. Is it wrong that I'm excited about this?). In the process, I hope not to offend any blushing brides or starry-eyed grooms...but I did say "exploit," so I'm not making any promises. Congratulations, all you engaged people! I can't wait to use you celebrate with you soon!

My adorable young parents...at their
Hippie/Game Show Host themed wedding,
circa 197-something.

*As in, "No WAY! You guys are sisters?! You two look nothing alike! She's SO PRETTY!" 

Dance Moms

I know that none of you watch Lifetime Television's exploitative and hideous show Dance Moms because you're all better people than that. Good for you. I'm better than that, too. So, if this is a post about Dance Moms, I guess I have nothing more to say and you have nothing more to read, so you can all just close this page now and move on to do more important things like preparing that presentation (is that something that people with real jobs do?), caring for your children, or virtuous acts of charity. Run along. Shoo! There you go.

Okay. Are they gone? Good. To those of you real people still left reading, I feel completely free to confess that I was an avid/addicted watcher of the first two seasons of that hideous monstrosity of a show...and I loved every minute of it. Don't get me wrong, I feel guilty about it. I do. But it happened and I can't take it back so I'm' just going to embrace it: Abby Lee Miller, crying little girls, shrieking jealous harpy women and all.

I live vicariously through the Dictator...
which is awful...but notice the
complete lack of duck lips.

For those of you who are actually good people and are somehow still reading despite my clever ruse to eliminate you from my readership, Dance Moms is a "reality" show following a nasty dance studio owner with a God complex (Abby Lee Miller) who hurls insults at dancers' mothers as a motivational tool. Apparently it works, because the tiny prodigies keep winning all sorts of awards at the competitions they attend weekly (who the heck attends dance competitions weekly?!). And to be fair, if there is even a shred of reality in this show, the mothers probably deserve the insults. A few of them would have made perfect guests of the Jerry Springer Show, while others have mastered passive-aggression with an  artistry and skill that would make the meanest tween girl drool with envy. It is an awful show. I hate everything about it. And I loved it.

We find that roses, t-shirts and trophies are nicer
motivational tools than insults hurled at parents.

There are many theories as to why. There's the stated reason, of course, that I just really like to watch people dance, and there's a lot of dancing on the show. Also, there's the theory that I'm just a really awful person who likes exploitative television. Most compelling, perhaps, is the theory put forth by a psychologist I heard on NPR (yes, I also consume substantive, responsible media output), who speculated that one reason we so love these shows is that they make us feel infinitely better about our own parenting. Yes, I'm a dance mom who lives vicariously through my own child, but at least I'm not those dance moms. And I'm not.

Evidence:

Those Dance Moms: Put their daughters into the hands of a diabolical crazy woman.
This Dance Mom: Puts her daughter in the hands of a very nice group of teachers who really care about the children...and who are not crazy (I think).

Those Dance Moms: Get into dramatic, crying, screaming fights with their daughters' dance teacher and storm out of the studio on a regular basis.
This Dance Mom: Never gets into dramatic, crying, screaming fights with anyone. Usually leaves dance studio in an unstormy fashion.

Those Dance Moms: Have a special observation room in which they are filmed obsessively watching their daughters dance...because they want to assure that their precious offspring are getting the most attention.
This Dance Mom: Plasters herself to the observation window and peers annoyingly through the slats of the closed blinds in order to obsessively watch her daughter dance...because she's nosy as all sin.

Those Dance Moms: Have giant homes with massive kitchens, probably as a product of selling their lives, children and possibly souls to Lifetime Television
This Dance Mom: Has an itty bitty condo with a cramped kitchen, probably as a result of spending money on dance tuition instead of trivial things like housing.

Those Dance Moms: Dress their children in two-piece, custom-made, rhinestoned dance outfits with matching hair accessories, earrings, and full make-up for dance class.
This Dance Mom: Throws her kid in whatever black leotard may or may not happen to be clean at the moment, whichever tights happen to emerge first from beneath the pile of stuffed animals in her room, and endures the Dictator's shrill screams as she forces her ratty, unbrushed hair into a haphazard ponytail, which the Dictator will then proceed to pull out within the first ten minutes of class.

Those Dance Moms: Pitch hysterical, indignant fits when their children aren't granted multiple solos per competition.
This Dance Mom: Figures the Dictator will get a solo when she's good and ready (and to be fair, probably before that time) and isn't interested in pushing it, because solo entrance fees are really pricey and we can't even afford housing, remember?

Those Dance Moms: Get a little icked out by all the age-inappropriate raunchiness that can occur in the dance world (much to their credit...bravo, other Dance Moms!), and yet somehow still manage to put their preteen children onstage in nothing but push-up bras and booty shorts.
This Dance Mom: Is utterly disturbed by the age-inappropriate raunchiness at dance competitions which includes, but is not limited to: duck lips on preschoolers, push-up bras for costumes, eight-year-old girls making dirty sexual faces that I didn't learn to make until I was, like, 30, and choreography that, as the Bureaucrat puts it, "Would have every guy in here throwing dollar bills...if these girls were 15 years older." But they're not. They're seven. And so every man in there feels like a dirty, dirty pedophile when he accidentally wakes up from his nap/looks up from his i phone and happens to inadvertently glance at the stage full of gyrating little girls. As a result this dance mom has put her daughter in a studio that likes its children fully-clad, its dance dads unhorrified, and its choreography super-wholesome...and is happy with that, even if it means enduring more than her fair share of Disney music.

The Dictator and Anarchist with their unhorrified dance dad
after a recital in which they did NOT gyrate ANYTHING.

Those Dance Moms: Leave their husbands at home.
This Dance Mom: Wakes her husband up at 6 am so that she doesn't have to drive to all these dance things by herself. Tries to engage her husband in conversation about the dancing. Fails utterly. Takes solace in the fact that at least he's physically present, even if he's actually finishing The Hound of the Baskervilles on his Kindle and not watching the dancing at all.

Those Dance Moms: Have younger children who do not want to dance and prefer to stay home and eat chips...but dance anyway, even if only half-heartedly...while thinking of chips.
This Dance Mom: Has a younger child who actually stays home and eats chips.

The Anarchist and Dictator in last year's
dance costumes. This is the last dance
costume the Anarchist will ever own, as
she feels the dance studio gets too hot in
the summer and would thusly prefer to
stay at home and eat chips.

Those Dance Moms: Get into physical confrontations with one another over whose daughter is the apple of crazy-diabolical-dance-teacher-lady's eye.
This Dance Mom: Is well aware that her child isn't exactly the most coordinated dancer in the bunch and is just happy that she's active, part of a group, and loving the heck out of it. Also, is deathly afraid of physical confrontation.

Those Dance Moms: Live vicariously through their children (shame on them!)
This Dance Mom: Lives vicariously through her child. But feels bad about it. And tries to keep herself in check. And doesn't scream, throw tantrums, weep, or cattily talk about other moms. So...that's a start, right? Right?

Of course, right. Thank you, unethical, destructive "reality" television for validating my own view of myself and making anything I do look like super amazing good parenting, relative to anything those other moms do. And those of you who watch/have watched that glorious abomination of a television show, please take solace in the fact that it provides a useful service to self-doubting moms everywhere...and also take solace in the fact that you're not alone. But whatever you do, don't let the good, kind, wholesome-stuff-watchers of the world know what we're up to. And now I must be going. I have some Toddlers in Tiaras to catch up on Beowulf to read...and some dirty tights to salvage off the floor.