Posts tagged ‘RQOP’


3 December, 2014 | | 1 Comment

The Reigning Queen of Pink, Grand Duchess of Fluff, Lord High Protector of Barbies, and Baroness of the Hummingbirds just walked up to me this evening and announced that, quote, “Daddy, it wouldn’t surprise me if you were Bi.”

BUMD:  “Um, what?”
RQOP:  “You’re Bisexual.  Or at least you’re probably Bisexual.”
BUMD:  “Okaaaaaaaaaaaay…  May I ask how you came to this conclusion?”
RQOP:  “Oh, nothing.  I just have a feeling.”
BUMD:  “So, I’m setting off your Gaydar.”
RQOP:  “Well, Bi-dar, but yes.”

So, I guess I’m bi.  Who knew?  Mind you, this ties in with my theory that pretty much everyone is about 3 drinks from bi, but I really didn’t expect to be outed, while sober, by a 12-year-old whose total sexual experience is limited to The American Girl Body Book and a handful of tampons. I guess I’d better pick up some flowers for my boyfriend tomorrow.

Bi-dar?  I’ve known this little pink thing for 12 years and she can still make me say “huh?”


The Toys are Back

30 September, 2010 | | No Comment

Putting the younger two to bed last night, there was a discussion of toys lost and then found. The RQoP began singing “The Toys are Back” to the tune of High School Musical 3’s “The Boys are Back”.

Number One Son looked at her and said “Yeah, that’s just like…” and then proceed to sing the same song back to her.

“Big Man,” I said, “that’s just exactly what she said.”

He smiled beatifically, shook his head, and said “yes, but she was out of tune.”

Oh, snap!

I’ve stopped singing around him. It’s for the best, really.

Build a WHAT???

26 April, 2010 | | No Comment

Everyone should have to attend a Build-a-Bear party at least once, if only to remind those without children why they don’t want them. Hard core cases might consider working there.

The Reigning Queen of Pink, Grand Duchess of Fluff, and High Protector of Barbies was invited to a birthday party that involved bears. Having never been to a Build-a-Bear workshop, it was decided that my number was up, and off we went.

The party started like all such parties, where I walk in with the bouncingly cute RQoP and am completely invisible to members of the other gender. Since I was the only Big Ugly Man Doll in the place, I was easy to ignore. This was rectified by the mother of the celebrant, who knows me. Once she (as the party organizer) acknowledged my existence, I suddenly became visible enough for other women to talk to me. She also introduced me to a sister in law, who smiled without making eye contact and promptly left the building – that’s more like it. Once the grandmother of the celebrant gave me a big hug as well, I was nearly accepted as one of the girls.

You know, until I spoke. You make one little comment about naming your bear “Harry” and then bringing it home and shaving it bald, and everyone backs away. The mother of the celebrant asked me point blank, “SOBUMD sends you to these as fodder for the blog, doesn’t she?”


If you haven’t had the joy of attending a party where bears are built, let me tell you a little about it. First, not THAT kind of bear, though I still think mine would make for a cooler, albeit shorter, party. The first thing we do is gather up all your little darlings and report to your Party Leader. Now, I thought the Party Leader was Senator Robert Byrd or Kim Jong il or something, but in this case it’s some slob whose will to live has been so sapped by working here they run the parties because they can’t fight anymore, or they’re so obscenely old they don’t remember the schedule anyway, also like Senator Robert Byrd, come to think of it.

(“You’re very young for this decision, you know – what makes you consider a vasectomy at only 23 years old?” “Doctor, I work at Build-a-Bear in the mall.” “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. We’ll get you scheduled right away.” )

We follow our Dear Leader to a corner where she hands all the kids an empty bear skin, which at this point looks for all the world like a large furry condom. Now for my money, we should end this here with a nice new bearskin rug for the dollhouse, but it was not to be.

Next stop, organ harvesting! Dear Leader troops all the little darlings to the back of the store and everyone is issued a shiny cloth heart. The birthday celebrant then walks up and down the line, pausing for each attendee to drop their heart into the birthday girl’s fur sack, which looks like a fealty ritual straight out of old school Kabbalah: “I give you my heart, to place in your bear.” “I hold your heart in my bear, and so you are mine.”

At the end of this, you’re looking at a bear with 18 or more hearts – woe betide the hunter who runs afoul of this bruin with his rifle. (They also sell a push-button heart you can sew into your bear that makes the sound of a heart. For about 15 seconds. The downside is that when it *stops*, another bear in a Doctor outfit runs up with paddles, yells “clear!” and singes the heck out of little Cuddles. It’s a great gift for nursing students, but your average 7-yr-old might get a little freaked at having their bear go into cardiac arrest every night.)

Dear Leader then gives each kid a new heart for their own bear and takes the kids to the stuffing station. This is a large box with fluff flying and floating in it, which we can see through the large glass window.. There are buttons on the front marked Love, Joy, Friendship, and Happiness. One of the kids asked what the buttons did, and the answer was, of course, “that’s so you can add happiness and love to your bear!”

Wait, no, the answer was “those make the lights in the box change color.” Right. Your soul and your last check will be mailed to the address we have on file. Get out.

Now, I watched this part pretty closely, and it looks like a pretty raw deal for the bear. Here you are, all fondled and sticky with a brand new heart, and suddenly Wham! You’re the cover story for Proctology Today, as someone bends you over and stuffs the tailpipe from a ’72 Charger up your ass while the Grandmother of the Birthday Celebrant takes your picture.

While you’re enjoying your first proctology exam, your new owner steps on a foot pedal that operates what can only be described as the Ultimate Cotton Enema. (And you know she loves you, because it hurts so good!) By the time it’s over you’ve gone from a size two to a size 12 in under a minute, and your new heart’s in your throat – probably literally. A quick stitch up the ass and you’re on your own, and the soulless proctologist is yelling Next!

Next, once the kids have bears and the bears have had the Ultimate Cotton Enema, is that it’s time to go. Oops, nope – not time to go yet, because we’re scheduled for another 45 minutes and half the parents aren’t here. Buying yourself some time in a Build-a-Bear shop means exactly that – buying. On with the Outfits! While the children tried cute shirts on their bears, I looked through the immense outfit selection. I decided that I need to start my own Build-a-Bear Band: They have a Sailor outfit, a Construction Worker outfit, a Biker outfit, a Cowboy outfit, an Indian outfit, and a Police Officer outfit. Yep – I’m taking them home, shaving a few of them bald, oiling them up and dressing them as the Village People. (“I wanna be a macho, macho bear…”)

The RQoP eventually found a nice shirt that said something like “Why yes, I *do* do that in the woods!”

As we were leaving, I slipped the Mother of the Celebrant a spare cloth heart, just so she can whip it out should her kids ever call her heartless. I also had a chance to interview one of the bears, who spoke only on condition of anonymity because he fears reprisals.

BUMD: “So, tell me about the Ultimate Cotton Enema machine.”
Bear: “At first, it’s life, you know, it’s pain, but it’s a good kind of pain. After about 3 seconds, though, you just lay there and wait for it to be over. I’m not going to lie to you, that shit hurts.”
BUMD: “Is that the worst part of this job, do you think?”
Bear: “The worst, no, I’d have to say the name game is the worst. For example, my friend is called Raglan the Resplendent. One of these days, though, some poxy kid will walk in and Bang! His name is Brownie, or Coco, or Cuddles. We all pray for a decent name, but it’s always Lollipop, Brownie, Princess, or Oodles, or Spiderman if we go home with a boy.”
BUMD: “Any other dangers?”
Bear: “Bartholomew Bruinson got sucked into the Ultimate Cotton Enema machine once. It tore him up back there, if you know what I mean.”
BUMD: “Rectum?”
Bear: “Rectum? Damn near killed ‘im! Heh, god I love that joke.”

With that I left, for obvious reasons, following the trail of kids and the Reigning Queen of Pink, who had a wonderful time, of course. Those who rule by divine right tend to have a good time everywhere they go.

“Snow no, Mr. Bill!”

6 February, 2010 | | No Comment

The kids have wonderfully different reactions to massive amounts of snowfall. The oldest daughter (the Human Tape Recorder) tends to view school closings with the same outlook Hermione Granger had in the Harry Potter series – “Oh no! Well, at least I’ll have more time to study.”

Needless to say, SOBUMD and I give each other “well it’s not from MY side of the family” looks. But we do it very quietly, so as not to break the magic. After all, the HTR will probably be the one supporting us in our old age, assuming we live long enough to be burden to our kids – which is, of course, my goal.

Number One Son, on the other hand, is enthralled by the idea that snow has closed the schools. This will allow him more time to play with his Bionicles, legos, and video flip camera thingy. The fact that this time away will be made up on what would have been holidays is irrelevant. He’s getting better about the concept of the future – I’m pretty sure he understands things like “tomorrow” at this point – but we’re still really dealing with two senses of time: Things that will affect him this week, and “huh?” He’s got a very firm grip on the past, though; he’s been telling us all morning about how many records this snowfall has broken. All. Morning. Long. Since he woke up at something early.

You’ll have noticed by now that neither of the above examples included anything like “going outside in the snow.” Inside studying, inside playing, and (in the case of their parents) inside finding the perfect ratio of Bailey’s Irish Cream to coffee (which, for the record, is about 1 shot per 6-oz cup). I can’t blame them at all; we have at least 22 inches already, maybe more, and we’re expecting another 6 to 10 before it stops. The branches of the tree in the front yard are touching the ground. (Mind you, the ground has been doing its best to rush up and meet them – some are already buried.) I don’t want to go out there either – drifts of snow in excess of three feet are why god invented booze.

Enter the Reigning Queen of Pink, Grand Duchess of Fluff, Lord High Protector of Barbies, and Baroness of the Hummingbirds. “I can’t wait to go outside in the SNOOOOOOOOOOW!” Oh god. The RQoP is not someone who can be let out to play in this snow on her own. What she’s making up for in attitude is what she’s lacking in altitude – we’re talking about 36 inches of snow and 47 inches of little girl. Not a lot of mobility there. We’ve considered the Pam trick – just put her in her snow outfit (yes, it’s pink; yes, it’s fabulous), hose her down with non-stick cooking spray, and toss her out to see how far she slides. She herself has suggested that we try this with a rope so that we can simply haul her back in when she stops. I’m at least certain that we’d be able to see the pink patches among the white. Perhaps we’ll go out in the morning, if it’s fine. Yeah, and we’ll go to the lighthouse, too.

So, today will be spent studying, playing, drinking, baking, bitching, and in one notable case, practicing our moves for rolling over and being found again in the hope of getting outside. Bring on the snow!  And the corkscrew.

Twitter Tweens

28 January, 2010 | | No Comment

A new parent asked me the other day what they had to look forward to as their little darling grew up.  They’d heard of the “terrible twos” and all that, but what about the long view?  How are they when they’re 11, like the Human Tape Recorder, or 9, like Number One Son?  (They didn’t ask about the Reigning Queen of Pink, presumably because they can see that from where they’re standing.) 

I presented my answers with the usual caveat, to wit: there’s “9-yr-old boy” and then there’s Number One Son.   Remember, crazy means not having to sweat the details, such as clean underwear, monetary valuations, and most social graces.  That said, I can provide (and am happy to detail here as a public service) some details into what life is like living with kids aged 11, 9, and 7. 

If you don’t have kids but you’re thinking about it, and you’d like to see what it’s like, the Internet now makes it possible to simulate the, um, experience.   Just living with anyone, never mind the ADD types, under the age of 14, is to live in the bottom of a permanent, live-feed twitter well.  They’re walking twitter accounts!

First, sign up for a Twitter feed.  Second, subscribe to the tweets of every single English-speaking person you can find.  Third, for good measure, subscribe to the tweets of at least 5 percent of the non-English speaking world as well.  Trust me on this.

OK, got that all set up?  Now get a text-to-speech application, set it for automatic, and turn up the volume to just past where it’s comfortable.  Now break the knob off the volume control and throw that sucker away – like the lid to bottle of good Scotch, you won’t be needing THAT. 

Ho.  Ly.  Shit.   They talk all the time, about everything, and nothing, at FULL VOLUME.  I don’t know if it’s because they’re so deaf from listening to each other, or because they’re just trying to be heard over the din.   (There’s a reason they learned their ABCs the hard way.)

OK, if you haven’t lost your mind in the first 5 minutes of this exercise, it’s because we haven’t gotten to the hard part yet.  The hard part is that it is absolutely a matter of life and death that you pay attention to about 1.5 percent of everything you hear.  You will never know WHICH 1.5 percent it is, though, and there are very few cues  to tell you when one of the important bits is coming.  You’ll need to develop a mental low-level Twitter Tween filter to make sure you hear the word “bleeding” among the “im going to the bathroom oh my god I need to go the bathroom its my turn to play the wii I want the remote can I have another sandwich its my turn I’ll use the upstairs one shut up no you shut up ow now its my turn hey mom she hit him non I didn’t and hes bleeding no I’m not shut up oh my god I have to go the bathroom” montage of sound that assaults you every minute of every day. 

Catch all that?  Right.   As I typed this, I decided that there must be a more concise word for “mental Twitter Tween filter.”   And so there is.  The word is headache.

And in case you were thinking about being clever – forget it.  I saw you just now, you put the volume control in your pocket instead of throwing it away like I told you.  Do you know what happens these days when we try to remind them of their, um, ABCs?

BUMD:   “Would you PLEASE stop the incessant noise for one brief, shining, quiet moment?”
Reigning Queen of Pink:   “But Daddy, don’t you want your child laughing?”

OH!  She’s so good with her stiletto, I didn’t even see the blade – until it was stuck in my chest.   They say silence is golden.  Maybe I can convince her that silence is really a bright shade of pink.  In the meantime, where’d I put that aspirin?