This is not shaping up to be my week.
On Sunday I tried to be heroic and only succeeded in humiliating myself in front of Uncle Fish and the security staff at the Pagoda Hotel. Now I find I am again in the maison de chien despite the best of intentions. Oh, baby.
It started when I decided to send a gift to our two, beautiful, three-year-old grand babies. The twin girls live on the mainland so we see them far too infrequently.
I like sending surprise goodies to them. Sometimes I make it look like Max chooses the presents and writes the gift cards and that’s what got me in trouble this time.
I thought it would be good fun if Max sent the twins a couple volumes from the well known children’s series “Walter the Farting Dog“.
I mean, kids and adult men up to age 99 love a good fart story. I know I do.
I am pretty sure my son shares my appreciation of the genre. I am less certain about his delightful spouse’s taste in literature but I am hopeful.
However, I recently discovered that there are some women who do not share an appreciation for overt manifestations of flatulence. Is this common knowledge? Who knew this?
Well I know it now. I was treated to a master class on this topic over a meal of cold shoulder and tongue served by the Alpha Japanese Female who was horrified to learn that a) I purchased these books at all, and b) I had them direct shipped from Amazon to the kids’ house thus forestalling any chance of correcting my grave misjudgment before it became public knowledge.
I think what really curdled her miso soup was that I didn’t ask her wise counsel (“permission”) in advance.
I pointed out I used Amazon Prime so shipping was free but that did little to advance civility in the discussion.
My humorous gift card saying “Enjoy the books, smell ya later, Love from Max” did not go over well either.
The AJF said I needed to call my daughter in law and apologize in advance for what the little girls were about to receive. I drew a line in the sand on that.
I accept that it may not have been the world’s most tasteful present but I paid good money and those wee ones were getting farting dog stories whether Wifey liked it or not. “Like it or lump it,” I said sotto voce, emphasis on the sotto.
Well, that was a bad move and I now have a soul-deep understanding that I need to relocate the aforementioned line in the sand.
Our compromise (see photo, right) was that I would provide a fair warning to our son and his wife and let them decide if the materials were appropriate for their offspring.
I’m not too worried. My kid grew up blaming suspicious backfires on the elusive Hawaiian Barking Spider. He knows his stuff.
At worst, I figure the bottom burp literature may cause a battle royal at their house but, hey, I’ll be off the hook.
My only real regret was that I didn’t get the chance to read the series first. I should have gotten the Kindle version.
But let’s keep that between you and me.