Callie's Kingdom Prince Application

Callie's Royal Kingdom Alert:
Due to laws he deems unreasonable, strict codes of conduct and wardrobe restrictions, Henry is no longer interested in enjoying the status associated with being Callie's prince. He has defected to a new, more lenient kingdom. Ergo, Callie is beginning her active search for her new, more improved prince. Applicants are encouraged to apply in person at 8034 N. Seneca Rd.
Please print and complete the following application form.
APPLICANTS MUST BE AGE 5 ON OR BEFORE THE DATE OF INTERVIEW. ALL APPLICATIONS WILL BE KEPT ON FILE FOR ONE (1) YEAR FROM THE DATE OF RECEPTION. ALL APPLICATIONS ARE KEPT STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL BUT MAY BE LAUGHED AT DURING ROYAL COURT PARTIES DUE TO THEIR LACK OF SUBSTANCE, THE APPLICANT'S NERVE AT EVEN BOTHERING TO APPLY FOR SUCH AN ESTEEMED POSITION, SPELLING ERRORS AND/OR POOR HANDWRITING, INTEREST IN BORING TOYS, BOOKS OR CARTOONS.

THE SCHEDULING OF AN INTERVIEW IN NO WAY ENTERS THE APPLICANT AND CALLIE'S KINGDOM IN ANY BUSINESS AND/OR PERSONAL RELATIONSHIP. STRICT CONFIDENTIALITY RULES APPLY. PLEASE DRESS APPROPRIATELY DURING INTERVIEWS AND DO NOT BRING STAR WARS TOYS OR MARKERS.

PRINCE APPLICATION

Name:

Birthdate:

Age as of today:

Number of lost teeth:

Phone number:

Home Address:

Are you of Royal lineage? If so, please explain.

Do you like to play Littlest Pet Shop? If you and Callie were to marry in a Royal Ceremony, would you and/or your family be willing to give Littlest Pet Shop toys as a wedding gift?

Do you engage in games involving any of the following (please check all that apply):

Camping Where there are Scary Bears

Royal Wedding Day

Aliens Invade Our House

Cupcakes and Cookies Baking Class

Ballerina Princess

Puppy Doctor Office With Broken Bones

Baby Bathtime and Bedtime with Songs

In the Hospital with a Sick Brain

Locking Henry in Prison Because He NEVER Listens

Abe Takes a Long Nap and Then He's Good all Evening

Going to Bayshore to Shop

Has your mother or father ever forgotten to bring Morning Snack on your assigned day?

Do you ever wet your pants during Literacy Stations?

Have you ever been on Red Light during school?

How many late library books have you had this year?

Can you tie your own shoes?

Do you drink chocolate milk or white milk during Lunch?

How many sisters and/or brothers do you have? Are they good or naughty?

Do you like to swim? Have you made it to Level III at the Fox Point Pool?

Can you jump off the diving board without your mommy's help?

Have you ever been accused of a crime? If yes, were you convicted? If yes, please throw away this application right now because you're disqualified.

Are you a good sharer?

Do you like spaghetti? And if so, with or without meatballs?

In a brief essay, please tell us how you feel about Scooby Doo.

Does your mom bake cookies for playdates? Real ones or ones that you just put on the baking sheet?

Do you enjoy sprinkles on your cookies?

When you play Playmobil do you put all the pieces back properly in their little bins?

Do you wear clean socks to school every day?

Do you like to talk about hair barrettes, headbands and pigtails?

Do you wear Spiderman shoes during gymclass?

Would you allow Callie to draw on your arms and legs with markers?

How is your behaviour on the school bus? Please provide your AM and PM bus drivers' names.

Would you sing Happy Birthday to Callie every day of the year while she dances ballet? And then clap heartily and yell "encore, encore!!"

THANK YOU FOR YOUR INTEREST IN BECOMING CALLIE'S PRINCE. IF YOU MEET HER EXACTING REQUIREMENT AND DO NOT WHINE, COMPLAIN, PICK YOUR NOSE OR LOOK ICKY AND/OR MEAN, RUDE OR WEIRD DURING THE INTERVIEW IT IS POSSIBLE THAT YOU'LL BE CALLED BACK FOR A SECOND INTERVIEW.

CALLIE RESERVES ALL RIGHTS AND CAN CHOOSE/DISCRIMINATE BASED ON ANY CRITERIA SHE DEEMS UNDESIRABLE.

COPYRIGHT 2009 KINGDOM OF CALLIE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

FIREBALL 2000!

Let me take you far, far back in time to what seems like a lifetime ago. Before I met my husband (and we had three children in 4 years, a mortgage and minivan payment and enough Melissa and Doug puzzles to make me clinically insane) I lived in a little apartment on Weil Street (in Milwaukee's fashionable - but slightly dangerous - Riverwest neighbourhood with my giant tabby cat, Hiccup, and my Diet Cokes, books and music and all the things that made me happy. I also had a best friend, Jenny, with whom I spent most weekend days and evenings. We'd met in college at our after-classes bar/restaurant job (read as: our skip-class-to-drink-at job) and had immediately teamed up because of a shared love of good handbags, cute (and possibly drug-addicted) boys and beer. But by the day we're talking about, we were grown-ups; Jenny was a social worker and I worked for The Lang Companies. Our long-standing plans on Friday nights still stood. Always. Our reputations as Fun Party Girls were hard-won and well-earned. We were basically inseparable. And we still are - no matter the 50 miles between our homes, our children's school, napping and playdate schedules. My favourite way to start the morning is chatting with Jenny on the phone while her boys jabber happily in the background and my kids fight. And I drink Diet Cokes until I put Callie on the bus and drop off Henry at preschool. Anyhow. I adore Jenny and always have.
On Saturday nights, our habit (due to vicious hangovers) was to hang out, watch movies, have pizza and Diet Cokes and rest up for shopping on Sunday. So this Saturday night was not unlike many others; we were watching television, I got tired and went to bed, and Jenny fell asleep on my sofa. However, at some point in the wee hours of the morning (and I do mean that - now my idea of "wee hours" is, like, 10:15 pm, but then it was more like 4:30 am) Jenny was shaking me awake, mumbling some nonsense about a candle in my living room. I finally awoke (I used to be a super-heavy sleeper, but now my kids have ruined that for me forever. That and my abs.) and asked her what the hell she was talking about, and Jenny said "Jules, there's a candle sizzling in your living room." I said (really meanly) "Then. Blow. It. Out." and Jenny said I just needed to see it. I'm not going to lie here. I was really annoyed with her. I'd always considered myself the tougher of the two, and this was just further evidence of her babyish-ness. (Jenny and I loved each other to the core, but we fought like cats-n-dogs. She once leaned over the front seat of some friend's car to punch me continuously while I - totally drunk - laughed and kicked her.) So I stormed into my living room to inspect this sizzling candle on my awesome purple bookcase, and she was right: the damn thing was sizzling. In my near-slumbering state I tried to blow it out. It didn't do anything except sort of fizzle up the side of the glass votive cup, and, well, sizzle. So (because I am a genius) I grabbed a glass of water and poured it into the votive cup. In nearly slow motion it quietly sizzled again and then in a whoosh it formed a ball of fire and shot up to the ceiling. I'm not joshing. A ball. Of fire. Jenny and I screamed and hugged one another in fear. I think I yelled "Stop! Drop! Roll!!!" We were screaming and crying and hugging, and as quickly as it had formed and blown up, it dissipated and was...gone. The only evidence was greasy black streaks up the wall behind the bookcase and on the ceiling above the explosion. Jenny, clearly traumatised, began gathering up her handbag and keys, quickly exiting the crime scene, and I was alone to survey the damage and wonder what the hell had happened. I have to admit that I was scared to be there alone. I was mad at myself for being scared in the first place, but I was mad at Jenny for abandoning me! We'd just experienced a flaming ball of fire, for crying out loud! We were in this together! Anyhow, She bailed out of there for her less-combustible, non-smoky apartment, and there I was. I considered calling the Fire Department, but I didn't want them to come over (because my snowman pjs were too comfy, and I was too lazy to get dressed) and I really didn't want them to know that I'd gone to bed with a candle still burning. Seriously, isn't that something we all learned in, like, 4th grade?
I tried really hard to go back to sleep that night, but I was consumed with the trauma of the event: what if Jenny hadn't awoken? What if it had started a real fire, not just a fireball? Could the fire now be inside the wall, and if so, would I break my legs if I jumped off my balcony with Hiccup in my arms? The next day I called the fire department and explained the situation (and I might have even disguised my voice) and he calmly (and without judgement) explained that the grease from the fragranced candle had ignited long after the candle wick had been burned, and that what we'd experienced was a grease fire. I'd caused it to explode when I dumped a glass of water over it, and the next time you have a grease fire you only use baking soda to extinguish it. And yes, we did learn that in 7th grade Home Ec class, but it's possible I wasn't paying attention because I was busy daydreaming about Guess jeans and Forenza sweaters. And I earned exactly 0 credits of Chemistry in college because I was busy daydreaming about what adventures Jenny and I would have that weekend and whether I could possibly charge a new Coach handbag. So yeah, I didn't get it that it was a grease fire at the time.
When I moved out of that happy, cluttered little apartment two years later (because Craig and I rented a flat together...we lived in sin) the landlord informed me that I either had to re-paint the living room or cover up the grease stains from fireball. I sprayed it with Kilz and got the hell the outta dodge, but to this day, my husband says that one of the first things he wondered (after he wondered how much that giant cat weighed) was "What the hell is all that black crap on the wall and ceiling?"

Cussing is Scary.

This is the funniest/scariest/saddest thing that I've ever witnessed in my daughter's classroom:
I was volunteering in my daughter Callie's k4 class one afternoon, and it was nearing the end of the day and we were all having Circle Time. Mrs. Harrigan* had just read a story, and as she finished she glanced up at the clock and said "Wow, friends! I can't believe we have a few extra minutes! This never happens to us! Can you believe it, friends??" (I'll vouch for this one: as a mother of three, I can tell you we are never, ever running on time, much less early. So just imagine trying to keep a classroom of 23 four and five year olds running on time. I spent the entire year admiring the woman, frankly, because if I'd been her, I would have been hitting the vodka bottle every day before lunch.)
So she was amazed, hands on her hips while we all exclaimed how incredulous we felt that we were ahead of schedule. Murmurs of amazement went up from the crowd, and as silence settled over us again, Nathan* threw his hands in the air and yelled "Yeah, WHAT THE HELL?"
A shocked gasp erupted from every single kid in that classroom. I was terrified. My hands were shaking, two little girls beside me nearly started to cry, and DeeDee*, in a hushed and rather awed voice, whispered "that's a bad word." I thought we'd all be sent straight to the principal's office. I was scared. Would she call my parents? Would I have to stand in the corner? Would she hold me back next year? I think two little trembling girls near me wet their pants because somehow our mere presence in the face of such disobedience made us complicit in his horrible crime.
Mrs. Harrigan looked at Nathan with eyes narrowed. "What did you say?" she hissed. Nathan whispered "I said 'what the hell.'" I knew that he knew he'd crossed a line. This was an actual cuss word. This wasn't "poop face" or dummybutt." This was a real cuss word. I feared the consequences. Mrs. Harrigan, eyes still narrowed and still whispering, said "That is NOT a word we use at school, Nathan."
By now our early-finish surprise had been ruined; the time it had taken to address this awful crime had used up our precious extra minutes, and it was time to proceed on into the coat room, get our backpacks and sit down criss-cross-applesauce for bus lines and parent pick-ups. The festive and jolly mood had evaporated with the utterance of a simple curse word, and we solemnly walked out into the suddenly less-sunny afternoon to board our buses or take our moms' hands to get in our minivans. Callie held tightly to my hand, and I sat beside her on the school bus, even more determined to protect her from every cuss word in the world.

*names have been changed to protect the innocent. And the guilty.

My Life of Crime: True Tales of My Felon-Like Ways

Last night I really, really wanted to see a movie. My husband was out on the boat, and our sitters were both busy (darn teenagers! Why must they have sleepovers with their friends, water ballet shows and tennis camp? Such nerve!!) so some friends watched my entire team (for which I was both amazed that they'd volunteer and astounded when they assured me that my children were well-behaved. I think they were lying. But anyhow.) I could see District 9, which I'd been dying to see/talking about incessantly for weeks. More on that later, but I really, really wanted to see that movie.
I arrive at IPic at Bayshore approximately 2.6 minutes before the movie was scheduled to begin because I am rarely early. Immediately I had a weird feeling because that theatre sort of disturbs me for the following reasons:
1. it's too swanky, and I always feel underdressed. However, as I rarely dress fancier than yoga pants and a black t-shirt that may or may not be my guilty baggage.
2. There's a bowling alley, a restaurant, a bar AND a movie theatre and really loud music playing. Am I bowling, dining, drinking, showing off my mad dance skills or seeing a movie? I don't like multi-tasking.
3. The ushers escort you to your seat. Once, my brother and I saw a movie there and the usher selected a "cozy couch for you two to share." Such romance...with my brother.
4. They have this ridiculous "preferred seating" or general seating thing. The "preferred seats" include popcorn. The general seating means you can sit in only the first two rows AND after the movie suffer a major headache, neckache and possible hospital time because you're basically looking straight up at the screen for two hours. But anyhow.

So. This is my life as a criminal. I arrive at the theatre with all this weird action (people drinking and wearing cocktail gowns! Bachelorette parties! Bowling bags!!) is going on, so I ask for general seating (because I refuse to pay $14 for a movie ticket!!) and he says, "oh. District 9 is sold out tonight!" I was desperate, people. I'm not joshing you. It took an act of Congress for me to get to this movie, and nothing NOTHING was getting in my way. I calmly said "okay. I'll have a ticket for GI Joe instead. Thank you." (as if I would see GI Joe when DISTRICT 9 was playing in the next theatre. Bah!!) So I get to the usher, heart pounding, and I, rude and snippy, say I'd prefer he not escort me into the theatre. Sometimes you just have to adopt a different persona when you're a hardened criminal. So he shrugs and I walk away...and into the District 9 theatre!!! My heart was racing. I was perspiring. My hands were shaking. (These ailments might have been caused by gallons of Diet Coke throughout the day, but I'm fairly certain it was nerves.) I walked into District 9 and there were two ushers standing along the sides. The trailers were rolling. I was shaking like a crack-head. I chose a seat in general seating (I do have SOME standards, even if I am a crook.) and hunched down. I couldn't even enjoy the trailers and take notes of upcoming movies I'd like to see, I was so nervous. I was also convinced that the ushers would bring in the ticket guys to ID everyone (is this unlikely? yes. But at the time - in the heat of the crime!- it seemed possible!!) so I hid my very bright Vera Bradley Cupcake Pink Messenger bag (I love love love it. Wait. I digress.) because it's quite memorable ('cause it's awesome in every way.) and I thought he'd recognise it and yell "SNEAK!!" at me. So I'm guiltily glancing back at the ushers, who by now have a couple movie-goers with them and are helpfully pointing out open seats. I was sweating buckets and worrying what I'd do if I had to call Teresa and Paul to tell them I was in lock-up. Would they watch my kids overnight? Or should my one call be to my husband, to tell him he might want to file for divorce straightaway because my legal bills might be super high and he'd be reluctant to pay for my life of crime? Or should I call Jenny to tell her about it? Would they let me drink Diet Coke in the big house?
The ushers continue showing disgruntled patrons to seats, and I slunk down lower and lower in my seat. Once the lights went off I relaxed a bit, and no more people were searching for seats, being put on romantic sofas with their brothers, AND when I got up to leave I noticed two empty seats in the general admission area. My life of crime wasn't so wild after all.

Henry, my Henry

Henry is chasing Callie around with vacuum cleaner attachments, pointing them at her and screaming "ha!!" She, in turn, is sobbing (why? nobody knows, since he isn't hitting her with them, touching her in any way, and/or even allowing flecks to dust from the vacuum cleaner's attachments (which could either prove I'm an immaculate housekeeper - I even clean my vacuum attachments!! - or it proves I've never used the damned things. You choose.) to circulate in her vicinity.
I think he's trying his hand at magic tricks: Henry is simply trying to make his bossy big sister disappear. Now if Henry would like to make ME disappear, that would be fine.