Princess Peanut and the Fairy Tale Loop

At our house we tell stories. Everyday. We spin yarns. Our kids sit rapt as my wife and I take turns telling tales to thrill and to pacify. They stop us to add their own details our even to pick up the thread of the story and weave some of it themselves.

Sounds pretty cool, doesn't it? And it is. It is. Except . . . 

Here's a synopsis of virtually every story: There is (or was, once upon a time) a Princess named Peanut and a Prince named Pumpkin Man and a King named Daddy and a Queen named Mommy. They live in a big pink castle. 

There is an evil witch named Witch Sasha (the Peanut came up with the name).  She lives in a dank cave in the dark and menacing (and appropriately named) Witch Forest. 

Witch Sasha is evil and jealous; black-hearted and cruel. All she wants to do is steal Princess Peanut's crown. Or dress. That's it. That is every story. Over and over and over again. Stories of a of a morally bereft, fashion obsessed, cave dweller with faltering magic powers and a secret hideout the location of which is neither secret nor hidden.  Versus the beloved and fabulously dressed Princess Peanut. We are allowed variation only in the methods the Princess uses to regain her stolen outfits. 

Sometimes the princess sneaks up on the witch and steals it back. Sometimes it's magic wand vs. magic wand in a battle to the owie. Sometimes it's a daring midnight raid or a spell cast from afar. One time it was a car/flying broom chase scene and ensuing vehicle-to-vehicle struggle. That was a good one.

Sometimes it's a battle of wits.

"Look, Witch Sasha, just give me back the crown and we can all--hey! What's that?"

Witch Sasha turns to look.

"Yoink! See ya, sucker!" And Princess Peanut flies off on her magic horse.

"Unicorn, Daddy!"

"Unicorn."

Whatever happens, we try to make sure it's the Princess who does the dirty work, with occasional assists from her adoring royal family. Around here, our princesses don't get saved. They do the saving, bitch.

And the Princess always prevails. With little blood shed or outright violence. Though the mental anguish our royal family visits upon a homeless 2nd rate sorceress would probably count against us in civil court. 

One time-- on a day when "sharing with her brother" meant "taking the toy he was already playing with" --I deviated from the Peanut approved script. I told a story about how the princess' anger at having her clothes stolen made her just as witchy as the witch and how the only way to solve it was to be nice to the witch, let her have the dress, and then brave the dangers of Witch Forest sans flying horse (I mean unicorn) or magically turbo charged Subaru.

Lesson delivered. Take that to the learning bank and deposit it under Kick-Ass parenting. 

The next day we were in the car and she turned to me and said, "Daddy can you tell me the story of how Witch Sasha stole Princess Peanut's dress?"

Son-Of A Bitch.

Stay tuned for part 2. Things get violent. 

Happy Independence Day. Two days ago.

They had an Independence Day celebration in my little city this past sunday.  Because we're so independent, July 4th can go fuck itself.

Except for the fire works.  Which started at 8pm tonight.  It's monday.  And they will continue throughout the week.  Fire works and flags and grilled hot dogs is what we've saved for the actual 4th.  Because our forefathers fought for the right for us to eat burnt hot dogs from a hand with three remaining fingers.

But the celebration took place sunday, so sunday is when we celebrated.

We had a little mini-carnival.  No admission fee, and rides were free, which was great.   They had a couple of bouncy castles and a fun house of sorts and a generic spinning teacup thing (the Rotating Scotch Glass.  My fave.) and some kiddie rocket ship and plane rides which the Peanut loved.  None of the rides were really aimed at anyone older than 9 or 10.

There was ice cream and hamburgers and slush and people proudly displaying their summer bodies.  Tattoos and muffin tops were de rigueur for the day.  Tattoos and muffin tops, by the way, also the name of the least popular room in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory.

Our Mayor would name his turds if he thought it would get him re-elected, so his name had been stamped all over the city for the week leading up to the big party.  And then again at the carnival.  The Mayor Carlo DeMaria Independence Day Celebration.  The Mayor DeMaria haunted house and voter registration booth.  Fried DeMariough for a snack.  He's a pain in the ass.

The best thing they had though, was the professional wrestling/boxing demonstrations.  You know, for the kids.  My city is a popular stop on the minor league pro-wrestling circuit.  There are usually one or two shows a month in the winter.  So this was a natural.

It was just desperate men who were about my height and level of physical fitness (think donut) going at each other with names like "Mr. Pokey" and "The Owie man" and "Jerry."

Saw a couple of them jogging around the grounds getting warmed up.  Sweating.  Smoking.  Eating. Already in their masks.  Which was necessary because whenever I see a couple fat guys jogging in black sweatpants with no shirt I think "Oh shit, that's semi-pro wrestling phenom The Back Brace!  And his tag team partner, Ace Bandage.  I recognize their boobs."

The kids had a great time.  The Peanut is a ride fanatic, and after I took her through the fun house, which was basically a vertical playground with a long slide at the end, she loosened up and went on all the rides she could all by herself.  The Pumpkin Man is still too little for rides, but he had a great time running as fast as he could toward the exposed gears and compressors in the backs of the rides.

Once again, we end on an unfortunately apt metaphor for growing up.

Happy Independence Day everyone!

Homemaker Man