The Dog Did My Homework

As always - The Cast of Characters

Me (The Daddy)
The Bean: Age 8
The Butterfly: Age 6
The Darling Wife

The Buffett Puppy

 

The DW and I were watching Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution last night.

I do a mean impression of Jamie Oliver.

"I'm a chef.  I have an accent.  You should listen to me."

I actually have the impression down pretty good.

The DW and I are watching how the Fattest City In America deals with The Naked Chef.  And are actually interested.

But then The Bean comes down the stairs.  She has forgotten to do her homework.

It's math.  About using big numbers between 300 and 200.

She has to write a story about an ambulance driving past things.

We settle on dogs, cats, birds and people.

The Bean doesn't know how to spell 'birds'.

"B-i" she says, and trails off.

"What letter comes next?" I ask.

She isn't sure.

The Buffett puppy barks.  "Ruff", he barks.

"Is it an 'r', Daddy?"

I smile.  "Yes, Bean, it is."

Beach Music

As always - The Cast of Characters

Me (The Daddy)
The Bean: Age 8
The Butterfly: Age 6
The Darling Wife

The Buffett Puppy

 

Just so you know, the Buffett puppy is a Golden Retriever.  His real name is Beach Music.

He has never been to the Beach nor has he shown any particular affinity towards Music; however it is all a matter of time.

So last week, we loaded the Minivan (yes, a Minivan - sorry if that shattered your impression of me) and took Buffett to the Beach.

Crate time for 6+ hours went better than expected.  The Bean and The Butterfly were watching a kid movie called Hotel for Dogs on the Minivan's DVD player.

I suspect Buffett was watching as well.

Buffett did not know what to make of the Beach.  He walked close to the water, then retreated as the tide came in.

Kind of like one of those birds.

But after a short while, he caught on.  He dashes out into the sea and emerges minutes later covered in saltwater and sand.

Happy Puppy!

Dirty Puppy as well.

When it's time to leave, our Puppy is filthy.  His lustrous toasted-marshmallow coat is awash of brown sand.

And he smells.  A lot.

So we have to give him a thorough bath when we return to Beach House.

And those dreaded Georgia mosquitoes are out in force.

For those of you who don't know, Georgia has two types of mosquitoes - the kind small enough to navigate through a screen door, and the kind big enough to open it.

And they bite.  The DW and I end up covered in red welts as we dry him off.

But we have a very Happy Puppy.  And that's all that matters.

About The Doughnut

As always - The Cast of Characters

Me (The Daddy)
The Bean: Age 8
The Butterfly: Age 6
The Darling Wife

The Buffett Puppy

As I wrote in Ballet Hair, I am utterly useless when it comes to anything hair related.  All of my her fled my head prematurely (at least in my eyes), and the cool coif I used to wear is now about six inches short of a Comb Over.

That's right.  Even if I wanted a Comb Over, I couldn't grow one.

But still.

So, I wasn't exactly looking forward to Ballet Hair and Make Up Day at the Studio.

Where in my Daddying contract does it state, that I should learn how to put make up on my little angels?  Certainly, this falls in the Mommying category.

Yet still, there I am, sitting on the floor learning about bobby pins and rouge and covering up eye brows so that they can be drawn back in.

This doesn't make an awful lot of sense to me.  But then I'm a Daddy.  A lot of things don't make an awful lot of sense to me.

There are Ballet Doughnuts.  Two kinds it turns out.  Those that are rubber and those that are foam.  God help you if you buy the rubber kind.  Apparently, that causes Worst Hair Ever.  And seeing as how I have a head start on Worst Hair Ever, I'm a Foam Man.

The Butterfly is not so sure.  She raises her hand.  "About the doughnut," she asks.  "Can I see it?" she asks.

The doughnut is passed around the room.  To The Butterfly's disappointment, the doughnut has nothing to do with actual doughnuts.

Probably a good thing to.  I wouldn't want a Krispy Kreme in my hair.  Then again, I don't have any hair.

The Bean's class is entirely different.  It's about make up.

There are eyebrow pencils.  And rouge.  And mascara.  And eye shadow.  Everything needed to "tart up" my 8-year-old Bean.

I'll admit it.  I kind of glazed over this class.  Didn't pay attention much.  Entertained The Butterfly.  Basically, watched the clock.

The Bean loved the make up.  So she put on her own.  

Mascara.  Only Mascara.  All over her entire face.

"Do I look beautiful?" she asks.

"Not especially," I reply.

She pouts.  "Well, if you'd learn to do this, then I would not have tried myself."

Point made.  

But I'm still way in over my head.  And I don't even have any hair to shield the blow.