Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Welcome to Thunderdome

Good Morning Readers,

     On the off chance you have absolutely no idea what Thunderdome is (which is highly likely considering it's awful, and a small blip on the the fine-art grid that is cinema), it was a movie staring the often criticized, never duplicated Mel Gibson, and,( God only knows why) Tina Turner, circa 1985. The basic premise revolves around a post-apocalyptic world where dirty-looking people with mullets fight to the death inside a giant metal cage. Genius.
     For those Readers who're already lost, I draw this parallel to lend a better visual to the recent activities of my baby boy. He's looking for a fight to the death, and although he doesn't have a giant metal cage, he's got a few square feet of wood laminate, and he intends to use it. He can't even crawl yet, but somehow, the little squish has figured out how to navigate our downstairs in one of those crazy-looking baby chairs on wheels.  Unless you place your baby right at the edge of a cliff, it's super safe and allows immobile kiddos to "walk" the house, freely gliding this way and that.

     Well, it just so happens, while he's not rolling over and trying to pull my laptop (the power source of this blog) off the table, by the cord, he's stalking the dog. Faithful Readers, you know how I feel about the dog, so naturally this doesn't bother me. But I do have to do the "grown-up" thing and make sure my son doesn't beat the crap out of him.
     Silently, my little hunter creeps around corners, and rolls stealthily, until he has the dog in his tiny sights. On tippy toes he creeps, preparing to square-off with the beast. With a sudden burst of energy, no doubt fueled by the bananas he eats every morning, the brave little boy lets out a war cry that calls up visions cowboys and Indians duking it out, Old West style. With an "EEEEEIIIIAA!!" (this is baby language for "time to die"), my son pushes off, and charges at full speed towards the dog. Sometimes the dog sees it coming....sometimes he doesn't.
     When Flea doesn't see it coming, he ends up in a corner being rammed. Or, like yesterday's scenario, is slammed mercilessly against the sliding glass door repeatedly, all to the popular tune of "Old Suzanna" as it emanates cheerfully from the little blue plastic car covered in colorful rings and beads. Ironic, since Old Suzanna would, no doubt, cry for the poor animal being flattened to smithereens on our back door.
     It's no fight to the death, mind you, but maybe it IS payback for all the times the dog's decided the bark like an idiot and ruin nap time over..and over...and over...and over...and over......again. I do care for the dog, but karma visits even the furriest of creatures?

Until Next Time Readers!