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Thursday, September 24, 2009

Joyce no happy: A Day in the Life

*to protect the lives and privacy of the innocent; the entire collective of all humanity aged twelve and under will henceforth and forever known as "Billy". Any resemblance herewithin to actual persons is almost entirely coincidental. Furthermore, should any person by the name or pseudoname of ede read the words within this post, the entire portion mentioning the theoretical canine is entirely untrue. So, you can still come over on Friday. We don't even LIKE dogs, much less let them into our house, or onto our furniture.

Billy been a bad, bad boy. Even Billy's doggy been bad. Billy's doggy done go pee pee on the couch that were meant to cradle a wee, early mornin' child. When that sleepy, innocent patron padded her way across the dark floor in the early, early morn, she had the great misfortune of wading straight into the slushy deposits of Billy's dog. Billy been bad.

When the day was in full swing, and time come for the daily walk, Billy didn't listen no how. Billy ran ahead of the wagon. Billy stood too close to the street. Billy begged to hold the doggie's leash; even though everyone knows that only Joyce holds the doggie leash.

When we stopped at a theoreticaly residential location to return an item that may or may not actually exist, Billy began to pout in his classic pouty way- arms crossed, shoulders slumped, lips protruding. Upon further examination, it seemed that Billy had expected to be served cookies.
That he wanted cookies. That nothing but cookies would do.

This presented an excellent teaching moment. Only children who walk close to the wagon and never threaten to run into traffic and understand that doggies like to be walked by their owners might ever get cookies. And that this might only occur annually- on a very special religious holiday known as : go outside dressed up all ridiculous-like and then go begging door to door. To strangers.

The park became out of the question. Too many street-crossings without armed policemen. Too many under-controlled intersections. Too close to main street.

Take Billy home.
Take Billy to the sand box in the safety of the backyard. Not much traffic there.

Watch Billy throw sand into his "best friend"s eyes.
Put Billy in time out.

Use words.

Loving caregiver: "Billy. Why did you throw sand into your best friend's eyes?"
Billy: "Because. I wanted to talk to him."

Understand the necessity of occasionally throwing sand in people's eyes, but decide that possibly enough communication had occured for now, and perhaps going indoors to eat and expediate nap/quiet time was in good order.

Put Billy to bed. Attempt a small rest on the couch after squandering most of "quiet time" cleaning pasta off the floor, walls, high chair, window, and inside of furnace; hunting on hands and knees in unusually dusty and mysterious corners for a runaway soother; and replacing sheets, blanket, and books in a rest spot that had clearly been pillaged by a small army of men, women, and rabid beasts. Not to mention mentioning "IT'S QUIET TIME. PLEASE USE YOUR INSIDE VOICE" roughly seventy-four-million, six thousand, three hundred, and two times to the cherubs who had unfortunately outgrown nap time.

Recognize that two hours had been taken out of the twenty-four hour clock in an attempt to save rising energy costs. Rest time is over.

Be greeted by a noxious odour at the top of the stairs. Observe Billy. Clever Billy. Learned to remove all lower garments and defecate on sleepy spot.

Billy need bathy.
Billy grumpy and angry when not allowed to linger in bath to play with bubbles and other possibly unidentified floating objects. Joyce no happy.

Joyce take Billy to play with his friends. Not outside because Joyce getting tired and no happy.
Billy take soccer medallion on a ribbon and wack his best friend in the head with it.

Billy have time out. Billy say more things about wanting to talk to his friend, wanting cookies, wanting to stay at Joyce's for a sleep-over.

Joyce begins to hope for daylight savings time, thinking that it would make evening come more quickly. Joyce begins to consider highly unrecommended methods of self-medication. Joyce begins to beg Billy to put her on a time out. In her room. With the remote control, a bottle of gin, several luscious lemons, and ice cold cans of tonic water. Maybe some sleeping pills.

yeah, dat Billy been a bad, bad boy. And dat's sumpin' because we ain't even allowed to say that anybody be a bad boy these days. Nobody been bad. But sometimes Billy make some awful bad choices.

And then. Joyce be no happy.

7 comments:

Anonymous said...

I laughed at your expense, I will admit. I see now why you don't have time for an internet addiction. It's dat Billy. He been bad.

Karla

Christine said...

oh my goodness. that was just beautiful.
i feel like printing what you wrote....
you made me laugh out loud, a lot.

what a terrible terrible day joyce.
you should ask for a raise.
a big raise.

Judy said...

Your Billie escaped to the US and changed his names again.

Joyce, you are funny.

I'm thinking I might have to host an "Ugly Billie" party. Only STORIES of Billie are allowed.

Wanna come?

lettuce said...

oh man.

jenn said...

Oh Joyce, that's a good one.
Oh that Billy...

Next time I will have cookies:)

Anonymous said...

Oh, yes, the "theoretical canine". As if I believe that, given past experience. Anyway, hilarious post!!
.e.

Donn w/2nz said...

I think that GlEE's uber-villainess Sue is right, caning works.

Since that won't be making a comeback anytime soon, I suggest you break out the ether rag
Sweet dreams Billy.