Monday, June 18, 2012


As will often happen during an impromptu cookout with friends, last weekend's gathering resulted in discussions about bath salts, "safe" words, mocking Marlee Matlin, and some inappropriate comments about Yeti's ass (verdict: he could go up against David Beckham any day of the week).

One of the guests was Jeff Cockey, who brought over five movie-theater-sized boxes of candy for my daughter, continuing his tradition of always bringing gifts for her. (Note: By "movie-theater-sized" I mean the size of the boxes sold at the movie theater concession stand, not that the boxes of candy are the size of a movie theater. Actually, that is exactly the same thing.) I thought this was very sweet until I received a text from my next-door neighbor (who had met Jeff Cockey for the first time during the cookout) a few days later inquiring, "why is your Hollywood friend at my son's little league game?" So I texted Creepy Creeperson to determine whether or not I needed to worry about him buying gifts for my young daughter and it turns out his best friend is a coach for another team so Cockey was there to support him. (Though we are still unsure about why he drove there in a windowless van with "Uncle Funtimes" painted on the side...)

My daughter totally appreciated the gift of assorted candy and like the hostess that the is, placed each type of candy in it's own dish and served it up to her friends. And they all went through the motions of pretending to eat their dinners so they could scarf down about a pound of pure sugar each. Which made for a very relaxing evening for the rest of us. Much like the one my husband experienced in New York City earlier this year, after I had spent a day on Long Island, leaving Avery in the capable(?) hands of her father, hanging out in Manhattan for the day. At one point during the day, I listened to a voice mail they had left me (before losing my phone like the responsible wife/parent I am), and it sounded for all the world like my daughter was on meth. And she was. Kid meth. Otherwise known as the jumbo pixie stick. This was the message, which was parlayed with not a single breath taken between words:

Which took me back to my own childhood memory when a relative (Uncle Funtimes?) had given me a jumbo pixie stick, which my parents put NEXT TO MY BED IN MY BEDROOM and then told me I'd have to wait until the next day to eat. (Come on! Of course, I woke up in the middle of the night, ingested the entire thing (probably by doing lines, I wanted it so desperately) and then got in so much trouble the next day for not waiting as instructed.

Worth it? Totally. Especially at this moment when putting this post through spell check and having the checker highlight the words Cockey, Creeperson, Funtimes and meth.



Christian at Point Counter-Point Point Point said...

My four year old has reached a whole new level of hyperness recently and I've been finding myself thinking, as I watch him play after having a cookie or something, that this must be what people are like after taking PCP.

Dilettard07 said...

I hope you realize that the sole reason I do not shower your daughter, or the children of any of my friends, with gifts is so that I can avoid being referred to as "Uncle Funtimes" in a blog somewhere. Good to see my strategy has been vindicated.

Brutalism said...

Christian - PCP is a lot like balt salts, actually. I mean, that's what I've heard.

Tard07 - No worries, Uncle Buzzkill.