The Wrath of Fleck

02-29-00

Hey, get this, it's leap year. What are all those people with "year ago today" links on their journals going to do now? I used to try to convince my mom that, 'cause of leap year and all, we should celebrate my July birthday one day early. I never got away with much with Mom. She calmly informed me that we'd been celebrating my birthday early for the three years preceding leap year, and maybe we should wait an extra day from now on.

My mom's child-rearing techniques were simple. Her favorite practice was to wig out over something that wasn't such a big deal, so I wouldn't have to do something bigger just to get a rise out of her. When I was in junior high, I used to paint my nails in funky designs and neon colors. Hot pink stripes on bright blue sparkles, etc. Back in the eighties, in the suburban Midwest, it wasn't too common to see a kid with blue nail polish. Mom thought it was funny, and she bought me most of the polish. She used to put on like she thought I was an idiot, and she'd make a big fuss over my nails like I couldn't mutilate my body in any worse way. She rationalized this: if she didn't freak over my nails, I'd have to do something worse to shock her.

As for my nails, I outgrew it. I went through a hippie stage in college where I didn't put any unnatural things on my body. After a few years, I started playing around with nail polish again, but in a lower-maintenance way. I paint my nails while I'm waiting for slow pages to load on my computer. I'm typing this with purply-silver fingernails. As cool as the color is, it sort of clashes with my yellowy-gold wedding ring. Nobody around to care but me and the dogs, I guess.

Didn't do much today, as planned. I did practice and play tennis, and I baked a cake. I got creative with the icing and invented a recipe—cocoa cinnamon. I never was a fan of confectioner's sugar icings, and I'm still not. I don't like the way you can always taste the powdered sugar; it gives me the super-power of feeling my teeth rot. I won't be marketing my new product. Ick.

Fleck has grown so quickly. Just a few months ago he was tiny enough to fit in one palm, and now he's the size of a full-grown cat, I'm guessing around eight pounds so far. He's going to be a big boy. His little squeaky duck toy has asthma, and laryngitis. (And a hole in his head.) I think Fleck has scared the voice out of Mr. Duck. He takes the duck in his teeth and flings it into the air, then chases it down and kicks the shit out of it. Thing is, when he used to throw Mr. Duck, Mr. Duck would fly about a foot away and bounce on the ground. Now, sometimes Mr. Duck lands on the bookshelf, or on top of the couch. Fleck's games span the entire household. No trinket is safe from The Wrath of Fleck. If it rolls, bounces, flutters, or simply looks at him funny, it gets a sound beating. If it squeaks, it's history.

Mr. Duck: Eeep!

Fleck: What Do I Hear?

Mr. Duck: Eee-ee-eep!

Fleck: That's IT.

Mr. Duck: eep?

Fleck: SO, Mr. DUCK! We meet AGAIN!

Mr. Duck: ....

Fleck: FOR THE FIRST TIME! FOR THE LAST TIME!

Mr. Duck: eeeeeeee....

Don't ask me why Fleck says that first time, last time crap. John does the voice at that point, and I just don't understand it. It's funny as hell, though.

Oh, yeah! When I print these Fleck conversations here, they've mostly really happened. Somebody else has to speak for him, of course, since he's not adept at English yet. But we have a blast making up words for him. We decided that Fleck must have a Southern accent, being from Fort Valley, GA and all. He probably calls Julia "Miss Julie," in a little redneck twang. She just calls him bitch, we're pretty sure.

two hours later:
We had a sweet .wav file of Mr. Duck squeaking and John reciting that first time thing. Turns out it's from Spaceballs. I had no idea. The file was too big, though, and I'm too tired to work on compressing it tonight. Oh well. There may be .wav files in the future of this page. Hang with me.