Ponies Don’t Suck

Dino Spouse is an admirably engaged and affectionate father. That being said, he let the kids watch a three-DVD boxed set of “Beavis and Butthead” cartoons repeatedly this weekend. As a result, Skinny Dino and Juicy Dino spent the other parts of the weekend test-driving their newly expanded vocabularies. Shudder. Father Protosaur is driving up tomorrow from Florida to watch Eeeevil Seeeeestor gestate and then take me, the Dinos, and Mouse to West Virginia to see my grandfather and great-aunt for Thanksgiving. I can hardly wait to spend five hours each way in a giant land yacht with my kids calling each other “fart-knocker” and my father screaming alternately at them and at me for exposing them to such nonsense.

Babushka, sated by her monthly visit to the slots this Saturday, may be preparing two of her famous “sand cakes” for me to take to Papaw. Tomorrow she will be attempting to make the many baked dough layers of this amazing confection and, if they turn out to her satisfaction, she will cement them together with a blend of condensed milk, grated nuts, grated chocolate, and honey, then stick them in the fridge to steep for two days. She has declined to teach me the recipe many times, likely out of fear that I will set her adrift on an iceberg the second I have this information. My grandfather loves this cake. Okay, he taciturnly allows as how it’s a pretty good cake – but Papaw is a man of few words.

Mouse spent a lot of the weekend playing in her room, so I thought maybe the “Beavis and Butthead” marathon was passing over her head. But at bedtime, when she was “reading” me an art book called How To Draw, I learned the error of my ways. She held the book open proudly to show me the pictures and announced, “This story is called ‘Ponies Don’t Suck.’”