The Tooth Fairy and the Banker

The Tooth Fairy is a touchy subject in this house.  Last August Riley lost his first tooth.  Kim and I the Tooth Fairy made the mistake of giving two golden dollars for the feat.  (inflation.  I swear, I got a quarter.)  I’m not sure why we the Tooth Fairy chose this particular route.  At the time, it seemed reasonable.  He was only 5.  We knew he’d get excited about seeing gold even if it were only worth a dollar each.  We the Tooth Fairy regretted this just a few short weeks later when Riley lost his second tooth.  He chose the night we moved across town to lose the second tooth.  We spent the entire day unpacking, organizing, and trying to make sense of our new space.  Exhausted, we crawled into bed after midnight.  And as we relaxed, Kim realized that we needed to pay up for the lost tooth.  Only we had no idea which box might hold my jewelry box and my jewelry box held my golden dollars.  Kim started rifling through boxes, destroying the illusion that we packed in an organized fashion.  No golden dollars.  Finally Kim opened a box that contained Riley’s painted tooth box.  (Apparently the Tooth Fairy has gotten lazy in the last few years.  Under the pillow is too much work.  So she now removes the tooth from a much more sanitary wooden box and replaces the tooth with the golden dollars.)  In Riley’s painted tooth box were his two golden dollars from his tooth a few weeks earlier.   

I had an epiphany.  We’d set out his tooth box and he’d find the 2 golden dollars.  He’d happily accept them.  We’d get 6 hours of sleep.  When things were unpacked and back to normal, I’d throw in a couple of golden dollars to keep things fair.  Kim refused to believe it’d work.  She insisted that he’d know.  She was convinced that the FIRST thing he’d do would be to find his other golden dollars and put them all together.  I was certain that he’d happily accept the money without incidence. 

He awoke the next morning and rushed to open his tooth box.  Tears welled up in his eyes.  “The Tooth Fairy didn’t come,” he wailed.  I responded, “Of course the Tooth Fairy came.  See, there’s your money.”  He insisted that he was two dollars short.  I repeatedly informed him that his OTHER two dollars were packed somewhere and that the two dollars in the box WAS MOST DEFINITELY HIS LOOT FROM LAST NIGHT. 

He wasn’t buying it.  Instead he shouted, “You’re the worst Tooth Fairy a kid has ever EVER had!” 

He’s lost 3 other teeth since then and the Tooth Fairy has always arrived without incidence.  She even paid up an extra buck for the tooth that had to be extracted by the dentist because the permanent tooth was growing in from behind but the baby tooth wasn’t loosening fast enough. 

Tonight Riley lost his 6^th tooth.  His four front teeth (top and bottom) are permanent and seem extra large for his little mouth, especially now that he has a missing space on each side of his bottom front teeth.  He was so proud because tonight was the first time that he’d pulled the tooth out by himself. 

While I was putting him to bed, he gloated just a bit more.  “I’m six years old and I have lost six teeth and I have one brother and this is the one tooth I pulled myself.  Get it?  Six.  Six.  One.  One.”  He thought he was being clever.  I told him I got it.  But I have NO IDEA what he was going on about.  He was rambling, “speaking six” we call it.

He went on, “What time does the Tooth Fairy come?”  He asked. 

“I have no idea.”  I responded.  “I guess just when she can get here.” 

“Mom.  I KNOW you’re the Tooth Fairy so just tell me.”

“Why do you want to know?”  I asked.

“Because if she doesn’t come until tomorrow, I’m going to have to charge interest!”

To think that I tried to trick him out of 2 dollars less than a year ago. 

Camping like it is the 4th of July

  

Apparently, there’s nothing like colonialism to make a person want to fry up fish, get eaten by gnats and play with small amounts of explosives.  Anecdotally, I’ve heard that the 4^th of July is to LGBT folks as Super Bowl Sunday is to women.   With the beer flowing and the Patriotism running rampant, I can see how the 4^th of July might include a little gay-bashing.  Independence Day has never been my favorite holiday.   Truthfully I don’t really like holidays at all, but I did get a bit excited about the boys hanging out with their cousins, the visit with my family, the opportunity to get away from the looming dissertation even if just for a weekend, and the chance to do all this where it wasn’t 100 degrees was an added bonus. 

 

The camp site was beautiful.  Nestled between a canal and the Uintah River, the spot was mostly shaded by pines and aspen.  My sister had driven up there mid-last week to pitch a tent and psych other campers into thinking the spot was already taken.  It was sort of the camping equivalent of butting in line, but it worked.  My sister brought her camp trailer complete with running water and a flushable toilet that I willingly pitched in $10 so I could use. 

 

On the drive I realized what city children my boys were.  First when Riley saw a herd of cows and remarked, “What’s beef called again?  When it’s alive?” 

 

This was followed up about 15 minutes later by Casey seeing a horse and remarking, “Giraffe.  See it giraffe.”  I realized my kids had seen giraffes at the zoo more often than they’d seen horses. 

 

Riley played, got dirty, got bitten by mosquitoes, went fishing, caught fish, choke down the fish (a rainbow trout) and pretended to like it though he admitted it wasn’t as good as blue gill (his first catch.)  He got to bond with his Grandpa and with his 13 year old cousin J.  J’s mentorship was so cute, and resulted in such great conversations to overhear such as the following:

 

Riley and J. lit a lantern around 9:30 PM to go find a willow branch to make into a s’mores tong. 

J. “Come on Riley, lets go find a willow.  We might be awhile, I don’t even know what a willow looks like.

Riley, “Should we bring the axe?”

 

Later that night, Riley was trying to fall asleep in his tent with J. but was too worried that the fire would start a terrible forest fire if he fell asleep instead of watched it as it went out.
J.  “Riley its okay.  Just go to sleep.  The fire is almost out anyway.”

Riley “Should we just go put some water on it?  I’d feel better.”

J. “Don’t worry, Riley, I’ve been doing this for YEARS.”

 

 

Casey didn’t so much love the camping.  He realized early on that camping was really just a series of “no nos.”  Walking to the canal brought the cautionary “Danger.”  Heading to the river brought a similar response.  Pulling the dogs tail was also not allowed.  Getting in the way of horseshoes and goofy golf was off limits.  Playing with the door to the camper got him yelled at by his Auntie.  Don’t get too close to the fire.  Don’t get too far away from camp.  Don’t play behind the vehicles.  Don’t play with the bow and arrow.  Don’t touch the axe.  Was there anything he could do?   Saturday afternoon Casey found play dough in the camper and tentatively asked if he could open it.  I said “of course” to which he replied, “Oh thank God.” 

 

Anyway, Kim, Casey and I slipped away Saturday night to drive to town for a hot shower and a bed at my parents’.  We let Riley stay a second night and we returned Sunday to retrieve him.  He was dirty and exhausted but loved every second of it.

 

Casey, however, kept chanting, “Casey go home.”

 

Sunday, just before we all left to scatter to our various homes, my Dad said to the travelers, “Drive safe.  There are going to be a lot of tired hung-over assholes on that road.”

 

My brother replied, “I know.  I’m one of them.”

 

 

 

The weekend is over but my headache is not

The weekend summed up by what we didn’t do.

We didn’t go to our neighborhood barbeque to meet out neighbors.

We didn’t go to our friend’s going away party.

We didn’t go to the Ani Difranco concert.

We didn’t go to our friend’s game night.

We didn’t do laundry.

 

The weekend summed up by what we did do.

We took Casey to the doctor with a 104 degree fever.

We bought a new washing machine to be delivered tomorrow.

We hung out with Grandma Jo with our fingers crossed that she doesn’t get what Casey has.

 

The weekend summed up by what Casey did.

Casey puked.

Casey coughed.

Casey slept.

Casey watched Dora.

 

The weekend summed up by what Riley did.

Riley went to a friend’s birthday party all by himself. 

Riley went camping without his Mammas. 

 

What we’re going to do now:  SLEEP

Peeing Like a Princess

What a weekend.

Kim and I attended the Utah HRC Gala at Bruce Bastian’s house on Saturday. This guy made a little something called Word Perfect and now he’s the richest person I know. Not that I know him. But maybe I do. I mean, I’ve been to his house. This house mansion is amazing. We got VIP tickets which allowed us to tour the house and have a few drinks on the house. It was a beautiful and amazing event. In fact it was the kind of event that makes me really really want to be rich so I can throw a gala of my own. I’ll attach a few pictures, but first I have to just rave about the bathrooms. When I arrived, I thought it was a little tacky that there were port-a-pottties at the fancy schmantzy event, but then I got to thinking, what exactly is a person supposed to do when they host a gathering for over 800 of their closest friends? But then I got a good look and these potties were classy - running water - fresh flowers - a mirror - mints to freshen up the lots-of-vodka not-very-much cranberry breath. Royal Restrooms they were called and I highly recommend them. No this isn’t a consumer review. No, they aren’t paying me to say this. But when I find a portable pisser that’s good enough for me, I feel the need to share. Maybe Pride can rent them next year.

I’m even wearing a dress.

My friend Vee in the middle of a Kathy Najimy and Joe Solomonese sandwich.  Kathy Najimy was the keynote speaker - one of my new favorite straight people.  And Joe Solomonese is the President of the HRC.  I cornered him with my friend Joni and we chatted about HRC and ENDA and the need for an inclusive ENDA bill.  He seems like a great guy.  I mean, he didn’t go running - screaming - the other way.

It’s midnight, but we can’t seem to bring ourselves to leave the property.  The big classy gates will shut us out for another year and allow us to return only with the $300 entrance fee.  Nobody should have this much money, but since people do, I’m glad Bruce is one of them, and I am glad he’s on our side. 

A Note to White People

Hello there White People, 

The sun is not your friend.  Please wear sunscreen.  Please require that your children wear sunscreen.

Thank you,

Qweirdutah

PS Bright blistering red does not look good on you.  Or you.  Or you. 

 

Seriously, I spent the day at a local amusement park yesterday and I noted the following:

99% of smokers stayed in the “sit and smoke” area.  (I LOVE these smokers)

The 1% of smokers who did not stay in the “sit and smoke” area tended to not wear sunscreen. (And in one case did not put sunscreen on the toddler who not only gets a head start on lung cancer thanks to Mommy and Daddy but is well on her way to skin cancer too.  I need reigned in on my judgment here because I can’t keep my opinion from overflowing.)

Is this smoking/no sunscreen occurrence a coincidence? 

Or is this a general disregard to all things cancer?

 

New Do In 1000 Words

New Do

So going to get my hair cut right this minute.

Will I get shorty bangs or will I chicken out?

Photo to come

Not a mullet-friendly household

One thing I did not mention about the dance competition the other night was that it was hot. As the night progressed, the bodies of the hundreds of spectators became stickier and smellier. Casey was sweating profusely by the time he threw the temper tantrum – screaming that he wanted “bopple jue.” Apple juice was nowhere to be found. Riley too was a ball of red-headed sweat.

That night before bed Riley lamented that he did not want to continue to grow out his hair, that he wanted short hair, and that he was tired of having a sweaty neck. He cried. He was so sad. He wanted to be able to donate his hair to Locks of Love but he just didn’t have it in him any longer.

We spent Saturday morning canvassing a neighborhood getting folks to register to vote and while we walked, we talked about the different ways he could cut his hair. He liked spikey so Saturday afternoon when we walked into the salon, I fully intended him to tell “the lady” that he wanted a short spike. However, he had changed his mind.

I was busy with another “lady” trying to assist her in getting my toddler to hold still enough that she could take a stab at his head with her clippers when I overheard Riley describing the cut he wanted.

“I want it short and spikey on the sides and the top. And I want you to LEAVE IT LONG ON THE BACK.” And as I was processing the fact that my son had just requested a mullet, “the lady” called me over.

“Umm. He wants a mullet. Want me to give it to him?”

Now my parenting style is intentionally lax. I very strongly believe that children should be able to make as many choices about their lives as possible. That’s why my son is known to wear size 4 black and pink stretch pants in public. “Let them make as many of their own choices as possible. Children already have so little choice. Let him have choice where he can.” I heard the voice of my past echoing in my ears. But I just could not allow a mullet. I couldn’t. It wasn’t just the teasing I thought he would face. It wasn’t just the footage of Cleve Pike ordering a hot breaded veal that flashed in my head from 15 years ago. What it was, I can’t quite name. But it was wrapped up in its own (internalized) homophobic package I’m sure. Something having to do with people thinking I’m mulleting my children in an attempt to “turn” them?

As I was going over the pros and cons of allowing the mullet, I was flashed back to the present by my son’s insistence, “YOU’RE NOT LISTENING TO ME.” Turns out, he just wanted a little piece of hair left long in the back. A tail. Short on the sides and top and a tail in the back.

You don’t have to like it. But you do have to acknowledge that it is better than a mullet.

Ry’s “not a mullet”

Blog Reactions

 

Mom:  “Write more about the boys and less about all that other stuff.”

 

Sis:  “Stop writing about the boys and write more about the other stuff.”

 

Dad:  “Who knew you could be funny when you wanted to?”

 

Sis: “It’s not the highlight of my day or anything, but I do look every day.  I check my e-mail.  I read your blog.  I read the local paper.  Then I get to work.  It beats you calling me every day to harass me for not reading it.”

 

Riley: “You made a bad choice.  You have to stop putting pictures of me in my underwear on your website.  It’s inappwopwiate”

 

Grandma:  “It’s not that you say what you think that’s the problem.  It’s WHAT YOU THINK that has me worried.”

Lesbian anyone? Go ahead, litigate me.

 

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/7376919.stm

 

If you’re lazy like me and you don’t actually click on the above link, you should at least know that there is now a lawsuit underway to stop a gay rights organization in Greece from being able to use the term “lesbian.”  If successful, the next step is world de-lesbianization.  See, it causes daily problems to the social life of Lesbos’s inhabitants.  Imagine the confusion.

 

Lesbian:   I’m a lesbian.

 

lesbian:  Me too.  I have a U-Haul.  Your house or mine.

 

Lesbian:  No, really, I’m a LESBIAN.  As in, an occupant from the Isle of Lesbos.

 

lesbian:  Oh, never mind. 

 

Lesbian:  Have you ever considered how YOU PEOPLE violate our human rights and disgrace our good name around the world?

 

lesbian:  oh, um, sorry.  Maybe I should start calling myself a Sapphist.