Tagged: FAIL

The Potentially Perilous Piglet/Pluto Party Paint Predicament

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. After a particularly long morning, the Twins’ 3rd Birthday Party was finally in full swing. Food was served, Piglet and Pluto cupcake towers were constructed, and while kids of all ages darted across the house hopped up on sugar, our adult friends and family tossed back a mimosa or two, occasionally craning their necks to check on their offspring.

Yep, it looked like we just might pull this thing off after all.

Piglet and Pluto birthday cupcakes - Twinfamy

The Twins’ favorite stuffed animals are Piglet and Pluto, so that became our theme.

It figures that on a day meant to be all about them, my son and daughter decided to make the entire morning all about them with constant, unnecessarily melodramatic whining, thus hindering the actual preparation for their party. The plan had been for me to head to the grocery store for a few last-minute food items while my wife stayed home to get things ready, with help from her sister who had graciously volunteered her mad cupcaking skillz. My wife–an überplanner–had dutifully procured party game supplies to be assembled, festive popcorn boxes to be filled with Orville Redenbacher-y goodness, and goodie bags to be distributed to the under-ten crowd. However, as I witnessed the Twins’ heart-wrenching, Oscar-worthy disapproval of changing from their pajamas to their party clothes just before I left, I had a feeling my wife’s überplans had become an endangered species. Sure enough, the moment I re-entered the house with groceries in tow (30 minutes from Go Time), I was met with a frantic Honey-Do-all-of-this-before-I-Hulk-Smash-somebody’s-face List. Despite my deft popcorn-box filling and spirited backyard dog-poo extraction, our guests began to arrive way before we were able to accomplish Operation: Meet The Wife’s Unrealistic Pinterest-Fueled Expectations.

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Don’t Have a Happy Turkey Day (Deluxe Digitally Remastered Edition)

It’s that time of year again, O Loyal Reader. The most important holiday of the year is upon us–the one people wait for all year with bated breath. It’s just a mere few days away, and I can hardly contain myself. I just can’t believe it’s almost Black Friday again!

Just kidding. I couldn’t care less about Black Friday or Cyber Monday or Max Out Your Credit Card Tuesday or Buyer’s Remorse Wednesday. While in my mind Christmas will forever be the King of All Holidays, there’s still a lot to be said for Thanksgiving.

Of course, I haven’t really had a moment to say anything about it because I’m: 1) in the middle of (FINALLY) running a research study for my dissertation; 2) organizing another study as a research assistant; 3) battling a terrible viral infection that has struck my entire family (including my dog and this one scorpion I found blowing snot-rockets in my backyard); 4) fathering the Dynamic Duo; and 5) trying to figure out where I can get a good deal on a partridge in a pear tree on Max Out Your Credit Card Tuesday.

It’s no secret I’ve been a little short on blog posts here lately. I am reminded of this every time I leave my house when I have to shoo away the protesters who stand constant vigil on my front lawn with signs demanding, “More Crappy Stick Figures!” and “What do we want? Mildly clever pop culture puns! When do we want them? Now!

Luckily, I happen to have written one of my favorite Twincidents about Thanksgiving one year ago. While I’ve never done the whole reposting thing before, I feel like this one has a message worth repeating, so I decided to carefully dust off the text file character-by-character and present it to you in this newly-restored, digitally-remastered, platinum edition, which now includes an afterword with B. A. Baracus himself, the one and only Mr. T. With this more-than-sufficient amount of ado, I give you:

Don’t Have a Happy Turkey Day (Deluxe Digitally Remastered Edition)

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The Wife Shoe Wiki

It was date night in the land of Twinfamy, and with the Twins in the more-than-capable hands of my parents, my wife and I were ecstatic. With a whole night completely devoid of anything having to do with tiny people spread out before us, we were out on the town doing the wildest, craziest, most psychotic thing imaginable–picking up a few things at Babies “R” Us while we waited for our restaurant to open at 5 pm.

My wife always does this. We finally have a moment to ourselves to do something awesome like pound tequila shots just before bungee jumping off the Washington Monument and making love midair, but just as I’m getting on the phone to book the private jet, she’ll say something like, “You know, we really need to go get more paper towels at Target.”

And the worst part is, she’s freaking right. We do need more stupid paper towels.

Sigh.

Anyway…

As we exited Babies “R” Us with our deeply exciting date night purchases (toddler socks and Balmex), my wife suddenly turned to me and asked, “So, did you notice my new shoes today?”

I instinctively looked down at her feet for the first time that day, because, well, of course I hadn’t noticed her new shoes. I’m a guy, and I barely care about my own shoes. I’m especially not sure how–as someone with literally four pairs in my rotation–I’m expected to keep track of all 47 of hers and ascertain whether the currently worn pair is a new addition. Perhaps I should maintain a Wife Shoe Wiki.

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The Snack is Open

Aside from the classic catch phrases “no” and “I don’t want to,” there are few words I hear from the Twins more often than “snack.”

It doesn’t matter what time of day it is or even if they’ve just finished a meal–if they’re awake, it’s snack time. In fact, it is not uncommon for either of them to scowl for 20 minutes at the meal we’ve prepared them–adamantly refusing to take even one bite–and to then make a beeline for the pantry door as soon as we let them down from their high chairs.

They each have their preferred methods for snack requests. My son, for example, likes to hang a single hand from the doorknob like a shaven ape and ask with a sort of singsongy Gregorian chant:

“SnaaaaaAAAAAaaaaack. SnaaaAAAaaAAAAaAaAck. Aaah-men.”

My daughter, on the other hand, is much more direct:

“Something else for eat. Open dis door. Snack. Open dis door, Daddy. Pleeeeeease.”

My wife and can expect these performances at any moment, all day, every day.

I’m not sure what it is about the snack that makes it the perpetual Disneyland that it is for them. Perhaps it’s because on some level we give them a choice. (“Sure, you can have those peanuts or those raisins, but no cookies.”) Maybe it’s the idea of not having to sit at a confined table and being able to eat while simultaneously playing Legos, doing puzzles, or body-slamming a sibling. Or maybe it’s just the independence toddlers crave–the ability to recognize and remedy their hunger all by themselves (with just a liiiiittle help from Mommy and Daddy).

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