If you don’t know what Paw Patrol is, it’s a show where the citizens apparently have no county government, so they are constantly relying on a pack of talking puppies to repair their failing infrastructure, such as when the municipal water tank fails or the traffic lights break. It can be noted that the pups also do crazy stuff like save the basket of Easter eggs when an eagle flies off with it. That’s the episode we’re watching now.
If you still don’t get it, it basically combines DOGS and CARS, two words every toddler can say and point to. Add in a slew of advertising disguised as toys and apparel, and you have the perfect storm of young obsession. One day my son may just be blogging about his ironic nostalgia on The Surfing Pizza Junior Dot Com.
Tired of being a slave to the cruel whims of whenever Nickelodeon decides to air Paw Patrol (which is all of the time, but never at that moment when the parents desperately need thirteen minutes to make dinner without a toddler trying to scale the oven), I bought a season to stream off Amazon.
I put it on the wife’s credit card. Upon seeing $25 worth of Paw Patrol charged to her card, her reaction was not WTF why didn’t you put it on your card if you wanted to buy that for him? It was: DID YOU BUY HIM THE NEW SEASON? ARE YOU SURE HE HASN’T ALREADY SEEN ALL THOSE EPISODES?
What have we become?
I can’t figure why people take pictures of the animals at the zoo, but here I am, doing it. It’s a bloodsport competing for the best spot to snap a picture. Here’s a grainy zoomed-in picture of an elephant’s butt, taken from from Elephant Yard Overlook A. I’m sure future great-grandchildren of mine flipping through the family heirloom photo album will honor this picture most of all. Your welcome.
Going to the zoo with a two-year-old isn’t exactly a relaxing stroll. It’s more like a struggle to walk forty feet while the child alternates between melting down and pointing out every water/sewer pipe lid. Then you make it to the panda, consider murdering every fucker blocking your kid’s view, and spend 10 dollars on the kid’s lunch that comes with only two chicken nuggets. Not that it matters — he will throw 75% of the chicken on the ground. A bird roughly the size of the nugget will swoop in and fly off with it, and that will be the closest to wild life that you get. The kid will pass out, you eat a slightly stale soft pretzel that still tastes amazing because it was eaten in silence, and you make it to the kids farm. The cow moos at your kid, your kid moos back. It’s beautiful and zen and makes whatever was previously endured worth it.
That, and the picture of the elephant butt. So worth it.
Dear Diet Snack Makers: This is not a brownie. Please do not cruelly mislabel your products in such a way.
He rocked it. Three days later he’s still rocking it. He tried to wear it during his bath tonight. The wife told him no because he’d get it wet, but I have no idea why she was acting like a beat-up paper hat was something we needed to protect and keep safe from bathwater. Maybe we’re supposed to fold it like some ornamental Origami and put it in his baby book, next to his first Ronald McDonald bib and Taco Bell napkin. Maybe the wife saw some idea on Pinterest. Maybe we’re going to make a candy bowl out of it for his second birthday. I would have just let him wear it in the bathtub. I’m all for 2% less toddler meltdowns in the day. He can pretty much take anything in the tub except maybe a plugged in toaster. Unplugged and I may consider it. By the way, his first BK meal was chicken fries and applesauce. I assure you we fed him fresh kale salad for a week after to make up for it. Toddlers love kale.
The other day at the “weird” grocery store (a private non-chain, the sort of stores that are treasure troves of odd items), they were selling snowball syrup! It’s a niche item that only three people in a twenty-mile radius need (the three owners of the three snowball stands.) And yet, for a moment, I NEEDED THIS.
Obligatory note in case you don’t know what the hell a snowball is: it’s a regional variation on a snow cone.
Thoughts that went through my head:
- Snowball syrup for real?
- I need this.
- Like, we’d save so much money on snowballs
- (It hasn’t yet occurred to me that I only eat one or two snowballs a year.)
- I’d have to get a ice crusher.
- I could get the Snoopy Snowball Maker
- That shit never worked.
- I could get it though.
- Remember the soul crushing disappointment in childhood over that shit?
- Okay, okay.
- I could look up the price on industrial machines.
- Alright, so $6 for the syrup, plus I’m going to need to spend another $3 to get the pump handle. And it looks like I could get a stainless steel ice crusher online for $50.
- (Suddenly it occurs to me that would take around 25 years for me to break even at the rate of one snowball per year.)
For the record, I would have chosen the Egg Custard flavor. Maybe I could open my own snowball stand and then write a a gripping first-hand account from the front lines. In some ways that’s the best idea ever.