My Filly in Three Acts

I don't have any mildly clever alliteration for my Friday post title. Sorry. You can make one up if you like and mail it to me somewhere in the future where I might be interested in such things. I can pick your suggestion up from my holographic mailbox as I'm pretty sure those would be available about the time I cared. I thought I'd pop in real quick and share three amusing stories from my 8 year old filly. She's a spirited gal and one never knows what she'll say. She's called a department store Santa fat to his face (to be fair, he was), constantly tells her brother he smells like cheese (the family dog apparently smells of spaghetti), and seems to have a mild form of hair Tourette's, in which she feels compelled to loudly express her opinion about the hair style of everyone she passes. Mostly negative groaning with a taken aback, crinkled face.

She's the wild card in the family. Go out in public, you don't know what random stranger you'll be apologizing to.

But she's also pretty sweet as illustrated in this series of one act re-enactments of recent true life events.

Scene: Living room, 10 PM, ordinary night, post Filly bedtime.

Filly comes bopping down the stairs and stops on the fifth step from the bottom.

Filly: Hey, I saw a rocket ship out my window.

Me, perplexed: You did?

Filly: Yeah, it went zoooom across the sky. (Making a horizontal sweeping motion with her arm.)

Me, destroying her childlike wonderment: No, that was probably a shooting star.

Filly, disappointed: Oh.

Me, to the rescue: Did you make a wish? You are supposed to wish on a shooting star.

Filly, pausing in reflection: Um, no, I like my life how things are.

And back up the stairs she goes.

Don't think her mom and I didn't share one of those pursed lip, tilted head sighs of parental satisfaction. We did. Youda thought someone sprayed us down with lemon oil the way we were lip pursing. That alone made up for at least ten hair related public verbal assaults.

Scene: My basement (i.e. office), yesterday, mid-afternoon.

I'm busy attempting to solve the country's BIG GOVERNMENT health care related payment crises. Filly is busy trying to stuff a one-armed Aragorn, the future Middle Earth king (her brother's old "action figure" - not a doll!), into a red convertible with a perky gymnast Barbie. Aragorn, even minus an appendage, is just not fitting. His scabbard keeps getting caught on the door handle. (I hate when that happens...huh, huh...double entendre! Can a fella get a rim shot?!)

Frustrated, Filly flings (<-- alliteration!) him aside.

Filly, in Barbie voice (which is higher pitched and more needy, for some reason): I'm breaking up with you!

Callously discarded Aragorn lies there silently offering no resistance with his one arm.

Filly, still in Barbie voice: C'mon, Ken, you're my boyfriend now.

She stuffs him in the car and off they go.

Warning to future boyfriends: You better fit in the car.

And finally...since I'm now working from home and the kids don't have to go to summer camps, the kids have been spending a lot of time together. And that means one thing: Fights and general disharmony. After a particularly hard day of my Filly comparing the Colt to various aroma's of Wisconsin's finest, she says to me:

Scene: Home, morning.

Filly: When I have kids, I want a girl and a boy so I can ignore the boy like Colt does to me. I won't play with him.

Me: You're not going to play with your own son?

Filly, emphatic: Nope! I'm not going to love him.

Me, stunned: Ooooo-kay.

Later that night, Filly, apparently conflicted over this comment, pulls me aside and whispers:

Filly: If I have a boy, I really will love him and play with him. I was just kidding.

/Curtain.

Yes, Spray me down with lemon oil cuz I was a lip pursing motherfucker once again.

If I were to go four acts, I had another amusing tale of her diligently taking care of a fledgling bird fallen from its nest one ENTIRE day. But that one ended with me flicking its ant-riddled corpse off the end of a spade shovel into the bushes late at night and then lying to her about how it magically got better and flew away in the middle of the night.

I'll stick with the three acts and all the lemon your lips can purse.

Have a great weekend!

Happy trails.
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I may have another 5k coming up on Sunday. I failed to pre-register so I will wander in on Saturday hoping spots are still available. If not, no sweat off my back (literally). The age group prizes are a coffee mug. I already have two of those and have no need for any more. I'm the only coffee drinker in the house.

However, I am pre-registered for a 5k coming a week and a day from today. If you're lucky, you'll get a long-winded, overly detailed duo race report....sometime. This one sometimes gets political because the race is put on at the TCFF which is run by this guy. Plus, the race is a movie costume race though the only costume I'll be wearing is that of an obnoxiously handsome man with a generally sarcastic disposition and unusually sensitive nipples. Mrs. Nitmos will be running as Mrs. Potts. Ever see an over-sized polyester tea kettle get phenomenally sweaty?