In case you were wondering how I spent my night last night, which I’m confident you were, I’m going to tell you.
My pregnant cousin, affectionately referred to as “Squatchy” came over for dinner with the kid. Squatchy is withdrawing from her medications, since she is about to squeeze out another fetus here in a couple weeks, (plus she hates kids, and she’s not that nice to being with, but she’s super fun) so she’s like a volcano teetering on top of a gas well. I don’t know science, but in my head that means she’s not only ready to blow (her temper, not blow dudes) at any moment, but with fiery passion and the fuel to sustain her rage for eons. Like a pregnant Alec Baldwin during prohibition and stuck in traffic and with hemorrhoids, but funnier.
So Squatchy and the kid are on the couch watching 101 Dalmatians, when the kid has an EPIC FREAK OUT over the part in the movie where Dr. House and his platonic crime partner steal the puppies and put them in a burlap sack. (Like you could really fit 101 puppies into a sack.) But anyway — she’s like snotting and crying because people are being mean to puppies and she’s devastated and this fit is so dramatic, so Oscar-worthy, that we can’t help but crack the fuck up, which of course makes her cry harder. The best way I can describe it is “devastated octopus with painful tentacle herpes.” It’s the best toddler freak out ever. And we can’t stop laughing. Cause we’re terrible people. So inappropriate…
So Squatchy finally gets the kid calmed down. Hugs don’t do anything. Telling her it was just a movie, didn’t work. Explaining that the puppies weren’t really hurt did nothing. Telling her that the puppies get revenge later on is what gets the kid to chill out. The apple does not fall far from the tree.
At this point I need to tell you that the kid has a massive pre-school lesbian crush on my lady. Who looks like a boy. But the kid knows she’s a girl. Poor, confused kid. And we’re not allowed to have contact with each other. If we even stand next to each other, this kid loses her shit.
So my wife apologizes furiously and picks her up and gives her a million hugs while I’m in the background going on about how she can’t reinforce that kind of behavior and that it’s ok for someone to love more than one person and blah blah blah. I’m like a less disgusting Dr. Phil in yoga pants. Except she sticks her tongue out at me and so I end my beautiful parenting soliloquy with “besides, you’re not the boss of me.”
So my lady, who is an adult child (and I mean that in the best way possible), leaves the room and goes around the corner where only I can see her. And she starts doing this wild strip tease out of her work clothes just because she thinks it’s funny to make me blush in front of others. She’s really doing the damn thing, licking her boobs and grinding the wall and everything. Except what she doesn’t realize is that our creeper neighbor is outside the window and can see everything. Including the brief moment of full-frontal at the finale of her performance.
So she runs upstairs to change and I start making dinner, which is brinner (breakfast for dinner). I’m making gluten-free pancakes because gluten gives me diarrhea, and the kid keeps coming in to let me know that I’m “taking for too long!” And I’m like “dude, if you had magic powers we could cook these super fast so it’s really YOUR fault that it’s taking “for too long.” And she stops coming in to yell at me.
After dinner we’re watching DVR episodes of “The Goldbergs” which is the greatest show ever, and the kid is drawing pictures of my face that look like jack-o-lantern heads on top of whales and she calls them “butter-synthesis” because apparently 3 year-olds learn about photosynthesis now in school and I smell like butter. Good to know.
So they leave and we settle in to watch the 3 episodes of “Grey’s Anatomy” that we need to catch up one and we think the excitement for the night is over. I’m half asleep on her boob (my favorite napping spot) because I’m super pissed that Callie and Arizona aren’t having 3-legged sex in the shower anymore because Arizona cheated on Callie with that home wrecking fetal surgeon from “One Tree Hill” and ruined my life. But I’m snapped back into reality by my brother, who comes in with a 40 oz beer and a roll of duct tape and asks us if we can help him duct tape the beer to his hands so he can go home and play “Edward 40 Hands” alone in his apartment. Because he has some serious training to do for this year’s Dranksgiving, which is the holiday in which we give thanks for alcohol poisoning. Well, they do. I don’t drink. But it’s just as fun to watch.
Then we go to bed and I pull a muscle somewhere between the door and my bed, and I can’t really move, so all I can do it dream about that strip tease while my wife sexily begs me to pop this pimple on her back (which I refuse to do). Soon she’s snoring into my neck and I drift into a dream about me and all my family moving into the “Sister Wives” house and I don’t wake up until 11am the next morning when I get an email asking me if I thought I’d enjoy sex more if I had a bigger clit. Because apparently spam about having a bigger penis is so 2012.
And that was just kind of an average day.