Monday, April 6, 2009

Of Bunnies and Political Ambition

It's tough to be the Easter Bunny. You've basically got one day to shine all year, you're the secular competition for a deeply religious holiday, you're rumored to lay eggs, and millions of people bite the heads off chocolate effigies of you. Just when you think it couldn't get worse, you've got to head down to the Galleria and sit there sweating under photo lamps to make eight bucks an hour in a meet 'n greet-slash-photo op for kiddies. You get there late, and you're harangued by the little sprogs. It's not that bad since you hammered 4 Colt-45s for breakfast and can feel your big ears tingle, but there's this one kid. This one kid that has a smile on his face, is giggling and loving life, poses for the picture like it's his job, and then spits up all over your mostly clean white fur. Your inept assistant makes it worse by daubing you with paper towels, essentially making a foul smelling papier-mâché on your lap. Awesome. That time you took the egg-hunt in Phoenix and ended up hopping 7 miles in 119 degree heat? Today you're nostalgic for that gig.

No doubt you've already guessed that our hero was that kid. Way to go, skipper. I didn't know there was a blacklist for the Easter Bunny, but um, there is. And we're #756.

No, I do not have pics. Well, I do have pics, but they're hard-copy, and since somebody stored the ship's color scanner in a crate down by the bilge pump, we're without an operable color scanner. Suffice it to say Jack was ubercute. But you probably guessed I'd say that.

Saturday, El Comodoro drug an exhausted Majesty ashore for Date Night. After getting a long awaited Thai fix, we discovered the neato Waterwall by Williams Tower. We walked around a bit (okay, Melanie walked, my Thai food and I sloshed) and really felt like we were in another country. Maybe a steamy Berlin. Houston obliged, as there were probably 3 or 4 different languages being spoken around us. Naturally.

As is pretty much customary for us, we went over to El Tiempo on Sunday (shocking, I know) and tossed Jack in a high chair for I think the first time. He liked the vantage point: he could really make eyes at all the ladies around us. And boy did he ever bat those Mr. Snuffleupagus eyelashes. You could feel the breeze coming off them. Maybe we can get a renewable energy credit next year when we pay tribute to the Crown. The little smoothie really is starting to use his big smile more in public, too. In between articles on Politico yesterday he mentioned that he definitely needed to shake more hands and kiss more babies. I think he's got his eye on a 2045-ish gubernatorial run. Not one to miss an opportunity to hone his skills, he really put it to the lady behind us at church last night. She didn't have a chance what with the babytalk and the smiling. Like throwing a hunk of top sirloin to a Lion. I couldn't watch.

Our Captain has once again raised the bar: he pulled up to standing a few days back (repeatedly). I think he likes just to frighten us, so, smile still on his face, he keels over dramatically just to keep us on our toes. He's babbling a LOT now, mostly mama, dada, and "th." Yes, "th." So evidently he's prepping to say things like, "THeodore" and "THat doesn't match" and "THird world dictatorships ought never to be allowed to develop nuke programs."

Couldn't have said it better myself.


Jennifer said...

Funny. Just funny. We have to hng out with you guys before we leave. Maybe we could join you for a Sunday at El Tiempo? Talk to Stephen.

El Comodoro said...

Yes! I'll get to work on it with SBH ASAP.