There Are Fates Worse Than Death

The Daisy Scouts for example. What, you ask, are the Daisy Scouts? Well, the Daisies are Girl Scouts for kindergarten kids. Twice a month the Widget gets together with the other three rug rats that comprise her troop (pack, brood . . .whatever) and they do all sorts of crafts, and play games, and sing songs.

In theory, I just drop-and-run here. But, in the event that the assistant adult leader person doesn’t show up, I am next on the list to stay and hang out for an hour and a half. And that is a very REAL possibility. I know the assistant-adult, and I like her a lot. Looking forward to her Christmas party. But she is a mommy on the edge. Lots of stuff going on, two kids, and a husband who works long hours very far away. Her daughter is in Widget’s kindergarten class.

So, whenever its Daisy Day, or “Oh fuck me, not again,” Day (as I like to think of it), I have this little drill I run with the Widget.

“What are you gonna tell little Kim today (not her real name)?”

“That her mom has to take her to Daisy Scouts or she’ll be sorry.”

“Uh, no, that was me muttering to myself. What was that other thing you want to tell her?”

“ . . .”

Sigh. Six year olds are so stupid. “That you’ll be . . .what? What will you be, Widget?”

“. . .I’ll be seven next year?!”

Ugh! “FOCUS . . .no. . .wait! Don’t cry. Daddy’s sorry, its okay.”

“You’re an ass, Scott Wen-ger.”

“Don’t repeat your mom.”

“She says I can.”

Eventually we get to school. For some reason “Kim” always gets there right before us, but only on the days I’m super lazy and drive the two blocks to the school. As I toss Widget out the door to some person who vaguely looks like someone who might work there, and not a child molester at all, I here her yell at “Kim”, “You’re mom better go to Daisy Scouts, or my daddy said he’s gonna be sorry!”

That was close enough.

These two kids are fanatical about each other, so I know that assistant adult Mom is going to get an ear full about Daisy Scouts.

Still, I stress out the whole ride there. To day was like most days. Assistant adult Mom arrives, we all make small talk while we wait for that kid that is always late, and then I make a joke about the sacks of rotting garbage in my truck, and wouldn’t I love to stay and make patriotic foam refrigerator magnet bookmarks with the kids, but its “dump day”.

I make a point of only going to the dump on Daisy Scout day. Its always good to have a reason not to stay other than, “Gee I’d love to, but glue sticks and glitter paint make me psychotic.”

So then I book to the dump, try not to make eye contact with the Dump Nazis, recycle the fuck out of everything, because we don’t actually have a dump, we have a giant recycling plant, browse the “still good shed” even though I know nothing in there will be. And then its off for coffee and some relaxin’.

Every time I tell myself I’ll go to Santos Dumont for some joe. It’s a great place with amazing food and some of the best coffee EVER (roasted just down the street). Its set inside the old Little House on The Prairie schoolhouse, and as a pilot I get geeked out by the Dumont theme.

Aaaannnnddd almost every time (like today) I drive five feet past the entrance to Santos Dumont and hit the Dunkin Donut drive-through window for a cup of suger and heavy cream with a little coffee mixed in for color. God forbid I park and haul my flabby ass inside for some real coffee, when I can get a cup of Overweight American at the drive-through next door.

Then eventually I grab the Widget and we go home. Sorry, not punch-line to this one.

But here are some pics of my cat, Maceo. He’s missing a leg (which is why you can see his gut hanging out there), and Dorinda likes to tape his ears back for fun.

I think he even enjoys it.