The Whoopie Pie that tamed The Scorpion

There is this alien creature living in my house that happens to be my 13-year-old daughter.  She gets herself up every morning while we lie sleeping.  If not for her intrusion into our bedroom to use our bathroom I might not catch a glimpse of her before she slithers off to school.

Her routine starts at 5:45 am with a 16oz glass of orange juice and ESPN.  She primps, obsesses and huffs, which also sometimes affords me the chance to notice her, until she jets out the front door to catch the bus.  If I happen to rise early either out of ambition or a nudge from my wife I might embark on a pre-dawn encounter with this strange being.  I might engage conversation with an offer to make a cheese sandwich for her lunch or I might get blitzed with snap finger demands like “can you make me an omelette?” or “where is my Northface?”.

So off she goes and I am left disoriented.  No hugs but only a mumbling of  “love you” in response to my “I LOVE YOU !!!” and I think maybe it’s just out of habit for her because I thought I should tell my children “I LOVE YOU” a million times a day since day one because I don’t ever remember hearing it myself  growing up.  And little girls and boys too like to hear and say “i love you” alot….but she is not little anymore.  And I realize that I don’t get my ass out of bed early enough to just be there in the morning so she is not all alone and so grown up so fast.  And why don’t I ?  Well I should because I am sure this is the stuff she will remember and it’s getting really late in the game here.

And she comes home from school and maybe I’m home that day and maybe 2 days have passed since I have last seen her.  You would never know I was in the room and she thinks that I am a plant table that someone placed in the middle of the kitchen floor and she digs right into the second half of that jar of Nutella with barely a hello.  And I realize why I was afraid of girls in 8th grade and 9th & 10th…..and so on.  And after “how was school?” falls flat on its face I get right into “when was the last time you cleaned the cat box?” and this is how I came to be known as the Dad who the only thing I talk to my daughter about is whether or not she has cleaned the cat box.  So I agreed with my lovely wife that I will not be the one to inquire about the damn cat box anymore.  Maybe I haven’t given it enough time but there have been no major breakthroughs in bonding and the fucking cat box has 5 days of shit in it.  So another good reason to get my ass moving earlier …..I’ll scoop the poop okay.

And off she goes again to cheerleading practice this time.  And it’s 4 days a week and like 8 hours on Sundays and it’s year-round because it’s not the cheerleading you’re thinking of.  So she will be home by 9:30 pm, then she will eat dinner…either a plate that I left her or she will make herself an omelette if she doesn’t like what I’ve prepared and she makes a damn good omelette by now because we’ve worked on that together.  And I’m not allowed to ask about her homework because she is a straight A student but I don’t know how she does it because she is always coming & going but mostly going.  I might get lucky or the planets may align and I can steal a few minutes with her as we watch the Food Network and she enjoys the Whoopie Pie I’ve made for her because I believe that is my way to her heart and she recharges her batteries before bed. 

And even though I’m also known as the Dad who hates competitive cheerleading because it sucks and they rape my wallet at the competitions by charging me admission to an event after I’ve already sunk thousands of dollars into gym fees, airfare, motel rooms, accessories and fucking crappy food……I support her endeavor because she loves it and she is awesome.  And she is ripped, solid muscle and beautiful.  And I don’t like to stereotype but the groupies and all the freaks that surround this whole racket make my skin squirm and the music is loud and throbbing and it goes on and on and on.  So it just seems like another roadblock,  another contrariety in our relationship.

I press on and frequently, politely beg for a hug, fearing adverse outcomes.  Sometimes I’m obliged with a one-armed sideways hug because she is becoming a young women and I’m guessing she feels uncomfortable about her maturation and it makes me uncomfortable too.  And I so often ask her out to lunch or a movie only to be rejected.  And again I realize why I was afraid of girls and all the times that I wish I took more chances looking back maybe I’m glad that I didn’t.

This past Friday she left again with her Mom to Washington D.C. for another competition and right before she left I experienced another beautiful moment in my life, that I took the time to relish.  As we stood there preparing to say goodbye, with her little sister hovering, she gave me a two armed hug, all shoulders… no chest and her little sister was so inspired that she exclaimed “I LOVE YOU!!” to her big sister and they hugged and Mom & Dad let out a huge Awww and each wiped away a tiny tear.  At that moment I realized that the breakthroughs are fleeting and I might feel at times that they will never come again.  But they do come, sometimes by surprise but often contrived or at least nudged along because relationships are hard work but if motivated by love the benefits are so sweet and so worth every bit of energy.

So I resolved to construct my Whoopie Pies and fill them with raspberry cream and drizzle them with melted Nutella and sprinkle them with powdered sugar in an effort to  tame The Scorpion.  I will take the nudgings and put them to good use….I will get my ass out of bed.  I will not however disclose that the cake was made with Guinness Stout or enforce the Bear Hug for she may become startled and strike or retreat. 

Rootbeer Floats

I thought it was a fine idea.  A petting zoo of kids.  That’s right….not for, of.  This would be a  venture that I would silently back.  I’m done running my own business.  I would support this idea of dropping your kids off at THEIR petting zoo because I need a fucking break from my kids and other kids sometimes. 

Just drop the little ankle biters off when you’ve had enough and you need some extra drink money.  Yeah, you get $$$ when you pick them up because other folks will pay major bucks to swing by and pet your kids.  I suppose this is where Mr. Perversion hijacked my concept.  Petting is a term of endearment you jackasses.  I’m getting these strange looks from the people I confide in.  Why do I continue to share my most prized revelations with them.  They’re looking at me like I’m the pervert.

I have the most adorable looking kids.  My little monsters are so god damned cute looking,  people just want to pet them.  I understand it is a partial statement, coming from me, the father but it also happens to be factual…….strangers walking by have told me many times.  They are animals though and as damn cute as they may look they sometimes need to be caged or penned….whatever you want to term it.

So, it’s a great idea right ?  I would pay money to pet my kids if they weren’t my kids or I might even pay money to pet your kids if they caught my attention.  Kids can be so freaking cute sometimes.  Mr. Perversion is not allowed in the petting zoo okay.  This is strictly reserved for the adoration in a non-perverted way of handsome children.  And yes, there is a screening process…..no fugly kids allowed…..they wouldn’t make you any money anyway as you would soon find out.  I’ll think of something else to do with them later…..maybe they could pick up trash along a busy highway.

So, I’m getting these looks from these parents that I’ve shared this brilliant idea with and they just don’t get it.  I’ve been entertaining their kids for the past 2 days and I’m a little burnt out.  The intensity level of the fun I’ve introduced them to has tipped the scales of good and clean…..I’ve resorted to holding them upside down by the ankles and dunking their cute little toeheads in the icy galvanized beverage tub.  And that was funny until one of the Moms pointed out that it wasn’t.  At this point the little monsters are all crying because they have never had so much fun in their lives.  It’s time for the petting zoo so I can go fucking ski or drink or both.  And the only one who gets it is my 4 year old…..the part about drink money….because she goes through gallons of apple juice a day.  I love that kid.

Get with the program parents.  Either we drop the chirrens off at the petting zoo and make some cash at the end of the day or Uncle makes Rootbeer Floats all day long and we play hard, laugh, cry and learn how swear with dignity.

You will eat this……and you will like it !

Why would I cook something that I prefer not to eat ?  This mostly falls into the category of meals for my children.  The oldest claims to be vegetarian yet she will eat chicken.  Once upon a time her favorite food was bacon.  All that was spoiled the day I brought home a 60 lb. pig in the back of my truck ready to be tied to the spit for 8 hours of roasting.  The middle child has the worst appetite and the least appreciation for variety in his food although he is a chicken wing connoisseur.  He basically lives on pizza, hot dogs, shells & cheddar (not mac & cheese…..what’s the difference…smack) and some kind of frozen toaster shit for breakfast, the latest being muffin tops…..oh, his fresh breakfast item is cinnamon buns….okay he’s got something there only I don’t think he would dare try one of mine.  Silly boy.  The youngest, my 4-year-old, has the most promise.  Good appetite, willing to try almost anything and of course she is a Daddy’s girl, so it may be our special bond that has influenced her love of food. 

So, occasionally I find myself throwing frozen convenience food in the oven to satisfy the children’s desires.  I have in the past blamed this dismal reality on my wife.  She is the one who does the majority of the food shopping and has developed these young pathetic pallets into what they are.  If they had never been introduced to this crap they would never have evolved into such unappreciative little twerps when it comes to real food.  I would think and sometimes say “dinner is an expression of your love for your family”.  Never went over so well.  So, after 20 years I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut…most of the time…..but my thoughts are mine to fester and rot inside my twisted mind.  Give the wife a break right ?  She has the hardest job on the planet X’s 3. 

Herein lies the opportunity to cook food that others will not eat.  I cook 2 to 3 meals per week usually on my nights off.  Yes, it is always a challenge to prepare something that we all can enjoy.  Perhaps even something different.  Fingers crossed….will they like it ?  will I succeed in broadening their corrupted taste buds, their minds.  I usually fail at the mere description of the meal…..more room to learn.  Keep it simple, “we’re having chicken” uhhh I mean coq au vin.  WHAAAT…I’m not eating that !  middle child…smack.  Well mostly I aim for an enjoyable evening with happy bellies and big smiles.  Other times…screw it……we’re having Red Lentil & Eggplant Curry,  Fiery hot Jerk Chicken,  or all day roast pork shoulder with rappi.  And there I sit, all by myself at the dinner table enjoying my expensive beer and my food while mom fires up the microwave and soothes the babes back into their pathetic state of real food ignorance. 

I will win overtime because yes, everything is a contest.  It may take patience.  It may take new tactics but I will subjugate…it is my job, my destiny, my passion and my skill.  You will eat this and you will like it !