It is 12:37 AM. 11.nevergoingtosee75 is baking for reasons [you may know soon] with Google because I’m in bed and not talking to him anymore. We don’t have the right ingredients for anything he actually wanted to make, and we had the argument that even though the Target across the street is open until 11, we were not going to be its last patrons of the day. So he was basically just throwing crap together in a bowl making a lot of noise and occasionally cursing the oven gods for not bestowing upon him a Viking 6-burner, top-broiler, dual oven.
The product of this insanity? For context, so you know what all of this is about?
The fire alarm in the spendy, swanky high-rise went off 48 minutes ago. The 115 lb.dog went berserk (ever seen a German Shepherd lose his shit?), and dragging him along with two cats down 6 flights of stairs on leashes (because cats don’t walk on leashes, they lay on their sides howling while you drag them until that side is bald) with a screaming parrot while pretending to NOT know what loons (aka MY spawn and his Google Assistant) set off a fire alarm in the middle of a weeknight should have gotten me an Oscar. I wonder if Alexa would have told him to quit and go to bed?
We got back upstairs and I gave the spawn the maternal stare of death, and then he followed me into the bedroom caterwauling louder than than the actual cats who started beating the crap out of Drama Dog because they’d decided the whole thing with the public leash humiliation was somehow his fault. I can’t wait for the Revenge of Sir Pees A Lot.
So I put this on: https://youtu.be/
And that’s when the real fight started because clearly no good mother would ever tell a child to go the fuck to sleep and who even listens to that and what’s wrong with me? So I put a luggage lock on the plug to his Xbox and threw the key in the garbage disposal and then he started screaming, “Mommy, please stop beating me!” at the top of his lungs. And that’s about when the dog, who couldn’t decide who was on the side of the angels just ate the goddamned mess on the cookie sheet in three slobbery bites. Cause he’s helpful that way.
Now Dark Lord Cheeto and Ned and I are hiding in the bedroom while the dog vomits questionable cake on the spawn, and I’m asking Jesus and the angels and the great Cthulhu what the fuck they’re all thinking encouraging this shit show.
And then I went back to sleep until all hell broke loose, again.
It is now 5:15AM and the entire building is awake and rushing through the halls with hockey sticks and golf clubs and tennis rackets (we don’t have pitchforks) looking for whomever set off the wailing siren song of a thousand dying mermaids around 4:45. It didn’t sound like the fire alarm, so they must have thought burglars. Unwilling to repeat the cat dragging adventure and thinking they should have at least one side left with fur, I stayed in bed.
When the police and fire department showed up, though, I decided to go see if the cacaphony had anything to with the kid chef’s midnight adventures, at which point, I realized the deafening blare was from INside our apartment, and I started checking things.
And lo and behold there was the angry Dark Lord, little orange feet soaked from where he’d deliberately splashed all the water out of his fancy cat water fountain onto the kitchen floor. The dried fountain was dying of thirst as the special water filter filtered air instead of liquid at an ungodly decibel level. They did not mention it would do this is in the product safety booklet, and I need to amend my highly favorable albeit funny review of it. I also did not know that it makes for a wonderful bird bath.
Anyway, Cheeto took off in a blur of orange rage when I chased him with the child’s Zombie Killer Nerf water gun and is now in my box spring taking turns growling and grooming the side of his body that still has fur. I have a grudging respect for his ingenuity; I was expecting Sir Pees A Lot to go in the laundry or on the bed. He’s the epitome of asshole revenge peeing.
So, I unplugged the offending technological wonder, and I went out and shrugged indifferently at the panicked neighbors like I was clueless, too, because I wasn’t taking the blame for the encore. I took the kiddo’s baseball bat with me for good measure because everyone else was armed with sports equipment, and I didn’t want to seem out of place. I don’t know what the noise was or why it stopped. And that’s going to be my story.
And it’s only Tuesday. And in his defense, the spawn is an incredible young chef, and if you’re following us on Instagram or Facebook or YouTube, you will be amazed. I mean, the next day, he produced this:
We all have a bad batch of something. Usually, though, it doesn’t involve 500 other angry people in the middle of the night.
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