Life in Queen Medb's Castle
Friday, June 13, 2003


Nicknames are funny. Take our Little Butterfly. We don't normally call the Little Butterfly "Little Butterfly" when we are talking to her, it's more of a reference than a direct name. Of course, anyone who knows her knows she flits like a butterfly and that it's a perfectly suitable name. The names we actually call her are a little different though--they are silly, funny names (derived from who knows what/when/where) that she'll probably need years of counselling at our expense to overcome. Here's a list of the ones that I can think of, right off the top of my head, that we call her nearly every day.

Fart Knocker
Fart Monkey
Melon Head
Monkey Fart
Monkey Fried Pooter
Pooter Head
Puddin' Head

I was looking at the list, showing it to Stoney, and remarking on how easy it is to know which ones he is responsible for calling her. He replied, and I quote, "Well, you can always rely on a man for a scatological reference." *sigh*

We should probably start saving for that counselling right now, instead of college.
Tuesday, June 10, 2003

That Joke

Here's that really juvenile joke I mentioned yesterday.

A string walks into a bar. It's a hot day and he'd really like to have a ginger ale. The bartender takes a look at him and says, "Hey, buddy. . . You a string?" The strings answers affirmatively and the bartender points to a no-strings-allowed sign in the window. "We don't serve your kind here."

The string sighs, walks down the street a ways and enters the next bar. The same thing happens . . . That bartender takes a look at him and says, "Hey, buddy. . . You a string?" The strings answers affirmatively and the bartender points to a sign in the window. "We don't serve your kind here."

Well, the poor string is pretty frustrated by now. He just wanted a ginger ale, for crying out loud, so he stomps down the road a bit. (Don't ask me how a string can stomp, he just can, that's all.) He stops outside another bar and sees the same sign in the window. He starts to walk off when. . . BOOM. . . he has a brainstorm

He takes the top of his string-head and separates a bunch of it, then ties a knot in his middle. He then, confidently, strolls up to the bar and orders a ginger ale. The bartender takes a look at him and says, "Hey, buddy. . . You a string?"

"Why no sir," he replies, "I'm afraid not."
Monday, June 09, 2003

Poor Little Butterfly

We have a beautiful nine year old daughter, who we call the Little Butterfly. (I say "we" though she's actually my stepdaughter, but I love her and consider her "mine" too.) We call her Butterfly because she flits from one idea/activity/place to another just like a butterfly flits from one nectar cup to the next. She's a great kid, lots of fun, even though she's so much like me in certain ways that I know God is giving me a taste of what my Mom went through. . . . Whew! She can make my head spin! But, the Butterfly herself is not actually what this post is about--it's about what Stoney and I do her, poor thing.

Poor Little Butterfly. You see, Stoney and I have spent the last few years in hiding from the Maturity Police. We didn't do anything wrong mind you, but they, blasted Maturity Police!, don't see it that way! We just forget sometimes, to act like the 30-somethings we are. . . we like to have fun like kids do, that's all. Where's the crime in that? Sheesh. We just like to play games and swing and go to the park and things like that. And tell jokes. *LOL* Really stupid jokes like my "afraid knot" joke. Ever heard that one? I'll tell it some time. But anyway, our Anti-Grown Up behavior affects her sometimes. Poor Little Butterfly.

Don't get me wrong--Butterfly fully appreciates the fact that I'll wade the creek with her or color with her or that her Daddy will play Fun Funky Fingernails with her or watch the Power Puff Girls with her, or that we'll both play memory games in the car with her or play pretend with her, but. . . Well, she doesn't like all the other Anti-Grown Up things we sometimes do. Like singing loudly in the car, or teasing each other, or the whole Weigles joke that would take too long to explain or the fact that we call her "Pooter" in public or the way we make her have to referee our mock-disputes or they way we. . . well. . . poor Little Butterfly. She has to roll her eyes a lot at us.

It's not just that we embarrass her sometimes, 'cuz what parents don't? Naturally she doesn't like it when we hold hands in public. It's kinda gross, she says. But it's the other things that really get her. For example, she really has a hard time with us when we break out into Beatles lyrics in public for, what seems to her to be, no apparent reason. She says she doesn't like the Beatles, but I think it's more the fact that it's in public places that we do this. After all she did admit to me several weeks ago that she is "starting to get used to the Beatles." Muwhahahaha! She may turn out all right after all, despite the fact that sometimes, she pretends she doesn't know us. Poor Little Butterfly,

It's not just in public that we do stuff to her, poor Little Butterfly, cause this kind of stuff happens at home all the time too. Like that night, several months ago. We had all settled into bed about the same time, the lights were out all over the house, and I could hear her snuggling into her bed. I started tugging on my pillow, you know, to get it just right. I didn't lift my head up, because then, how would I know that I had it right? So I tugged real hard, lost my grip and bonked Stoney on the nose. He yelped and we could hear Butterfly making a monosyllabic sound that translated into "What in the world are you two up to now?" Stoney yelled her name in a plaintive, pathetic, and quite loud voice, adding "your stepmama just hit me in the face" "I did not!" I rebutted equally loudly--after all I had to make myself heard all they way to her bedroom. "Well, not on purpose anyway," I clarified. I then proceeded to explain exactly how it had happened while Stoney kept yelling about how I was trying to kill him. We were interrupted by her yelling, authoritatively, "GUYS! Be quite. I'm trying to go to sleep in here!" This reduced us to gales of laughter and though I didn't actually see it, I know she rolled her eyes. Poor Little Butterfly.

Shortly after Stoney and I got married, the then seven year old Butterfly (who had known me for quite some time prior), looked from her Dad to me, heaved a huge histrionic sigh and said, "Now I've got two of ya to look after."

Poor Little Butterfly.

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