The kids and I have a new ritual since Halloween. All that spare makeup I have is being put to good use.
When bath night rolls around, I’m permitted to decorate the faces of Mike’s kids, transforming them into rabbits, cats, puppies, and even glow-in-the-dark Tyco Brahe clones.
Last night I was painting Marni’s face as a puppy dog. She had big black eyes, long ears, a white chin, and a brownish orange face with red lips.
Now, I might make an observation here. And that is that young children don’t realize makeup can be smeared off.
I might make another observation here, too. It didn’t cross my mind either.
When Marni was getting ready to head upstairs to do her bath, she wished me a good night and came over to give me a hug. Instead of a hug, she gave me a little peck right on my chin, just under my lower lip.
I didn’t know anything was wrong until she pointed at my face, said “uh-oh,†and then pointed at her own lips as an indicator as what had happened.
Now, normally you wouldn’t think this was a big deal. You would, however, if you knew that your wife was about to walk in the door any second and you had what looked like lipstick on your face.
Thank goodness the child spoke up and didn’t leave me there to face a red-head who would be more than willing to give me a hard time, even if she did suspect innocence.
I got up and went to the sink, grabbed a paper towel, and started wiping away.
That’s when the real trouble began.
Sweet Marni said in the cutest voice imaginable, “sorrieeez…†and while I was distracted at the sink by getting more water, she snuck up in the same instant and gave me a huge apologetic hug for the fake-lipstick incident.
Crotch high.
Now there was blush AND lipstick colored makeup right in the middle of my crotch. And I don’t mean a little dab. I’m talking about a smear about 5 inches long and 3 inches high. It looked like Tammy Faye Baker had taken a nap in my lap.
Did I mention Tamara was about to walk in the door any minute?
Because I know I’ve yet to mention that Mike “My Daughter Doesn’t Date Until She’s 40†Henderson was upstairs, probably reading a hunting magazine about effective techniques for skinning an animal after it’s been shot.
Should you be one of those people that believes that history will be unfolded for all to see at the Second Coming, be sure to get a good look at the panic stricken expression that lingers on my face at the exact moment I’m doing damage assessment. It alone is worth obtaining salvation for, if not just to get a gander at.
Immediately, I switch from face to crotch, hoping to that very same God that Mike isn’t walking down the stairs and I have to explain to him why me and my portable date are having a grand old time in front of his 3 year old.
Marni, ever the helpful, decides she’s going to help out. I told her not to touch anything (with my mind more thinking about me as the direct object to that imperative) and she backs away from her third approach.
She looked up and me and said, and I kid you not, “Water… duh!â€
And you know, for a moment, I almost bought into it. I swear, my head turned to the sink. However, fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
There was no way in the world I was going to saturate my lower extremities for her amusement and innocent delight. It was either going to look like I had succeeded in what it already looked like I was doing, or that I had wet myself.
Both Tamara and Mike would give me a load of grief, even if I could talk my way out of that. The only positive side to the story is that Jim wasn’t there to witness it first hand.
As luck would have it, the make up came off with about 30 seconds of vigorous abrasion, which to be honest, felt like an eternity (and pretty good if I do say so myself).
The youngster was shuttled upstairs with no concept of my turmoil, and as she hit the top of the stairs, my wife walked in with dinner.
That sigh of relief alone was more precious than you can ever imagine.