So the kids are busy watching Pink Panther cartoons. I walked past them, silently, and headed to the freezer. I grabbed the chocolate ice cream and I was nonchalantly eating it, straight out of the carton, when my daughter walked in. I hid it between myself and the microwave. I leaned casually against the fridge, careful not to reveal my hidden treasure.
“Can I have something to eat?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said kindly, as if I wasn’t the meanest mom in the world holding out on the ice cream.
I stood there, patiently, while she opened the fridge and looked around. She chose a yogurt but before closing the fridge politely asked, “Do you need anything from the fridge, Mom?”
“Naw, I’m alright,” I said over-emphatically.
She giggled and walked away. As if the ice cream wasn’t enough of a guilt-inducer, how about adding a giggling little girl to really get the point across. Ice cream, unshared, straight out of the carton, as delicious as it may be, is terrible on the ego.
Meanwhile the husband is alone and unsupervised with the clippers. One time when this happened, he shaved a big “T” into his chest hair and then swooped into the living room proudly displaying himself as SUPERTIPRIN. The joke’s on him, though, because that hair grew back white. I swear. It’s stark white in a permanent “T”.
You think that would’ve taught him a lesson. But it didn’t. It only sparked more ideas. Right before the baby was born he tried to induce labor by surprising me with a mohawk.
His plan backfired. It made me want the baby to stay in there long enough for his hair to grow back so she wouldn’t be afraid of her daddy.
Well, this time, he must’ve taken the Pink Panther a little too seriously. Here’s the inspiration behind his latest rendez-vous with an electric shaver:
We’ll see how that looks in white.
In the meantime I’ve sent him to Trader Joe’s for some cherry chocolate ice cream. If you’re going to destroy the ego, you may as well let it go out in style.