Being A Fairy Godmother...

It's kind of like being John Malkovich. But it's not.

What is see is when you have a friend of little religion but huge on all things woodsy and sprite like. A friend who believes in fireplace demons and that chickens should walk amongst us. A friend who home schools, I mean non schools her children but feeds them home made caramels for breakfast. This is the kind of friend whose children you get to be a fairy godmother for. There is no real ceremony for the child but the friend puts you through all kinds of tests. She makes you drive around NYC to every different Whole Foods there is so she can find a candy bar. She waits until there is dead silence in the most boring of anatomy lessons ever given to a group of people til she leans over and says, "Raise your hand. Ask her (the teacher) what kind of body part cooks up best." she does this to see if your laughter can go unheard and unseen. She makes you balance on tightropes and drink out of a trailer park wine bucket all in the name of are you worthy of my children.

I'm not, but I'll take the job anyways just so I can feed them even more candy, get them hopped up on orange juice that has little or nothing to do with juice and ply them with parting gifts.

Scene One:
Twist, Steroid Tom, miniature Twist and the most precious little boy who is pushing three walk in the kitchen. Twist has taught her children and they really believe it that my first and last name are all my first name. It is how they address me every time and with a little British accent even. "Amyshromm."
Precious little boy of almost three points up on my counter to my Grateful Dead psychedelic cookie jar and says in the sweetest little oddly accented voice, "Amyshromm may I please play with that truck?"

so we go up in the playroom to find him some trucks. His tiny little self is following me up the stairs. "Amyshromm it is so quiet up here, I take off my shoes?"

There has never been a politer almost three year old and I thought mine had been good.

Scene Two
There is a big huge sandbox with jungle gym bars in my back yard. I hate it the sand. It was supposed to be rubber mulch. It's stupid.
"Amyshromm? Amyshromm, why does the sand look so odd?"
"Here baby. Eat some more caramel."

Here is the wrapping of the bottle of moonshine Twist brought as a treat. I guess regifting this bag is out of the question?

Here is the lovely packaging of breakfast caramel. Word to the wise: Only put a couple of pieces of salt on it. It should be a warning on the label like when a waiter hands you a hot plate. This isn't one that's fun to figure out on your own. Thanks for that Twisty.


Me perfecting the tight rope walking part of the test


Steroid Tom lying around doing nothing AGAIN


This is what you do when you are wearing a skirt but decide it's time for handstands (please take note, I had on grey). Because this is a totally normal thing to do when you're...ten.



Just for the record, Mickey was a perfect angel. He smelled great! There is no proof otherwise.

Om Om Om Namah Namah Namah Shivay Shivay Shivaya. Three down. One hundred and five to go.