Day Whatever the Hell Day it is: Lamentations about Applesauce

Let it be known now, for the record, that I, do in fact, not care about applesauce.  I don’t.  This statement may seem random and strange and you’re probably saying, “He’s freakin’ crazy,” but that’s ok.  It’ll all make sense in a few minutes.  The events that I shall now describe are true; only names have been changed to protect the guilty and the innocent.

The event in question occurred last week, the particular day of which is quite inconsequential to the content of this story.  The evening was normal in almost every way possible – the tribal leader arrived home at her usual time, the evening’s sustenance was provided at the usual hour and the natives were prepared for their slumbers as usual as one could possibly make it.  And, as luck would have it, the hour at which the natives decided to give in to the tribe’s established bedtime hour was usual as well.

I will be quite frank here and candid regarding the civil, and sometimes not-so-civil, disobedience of the natives refusal to retire to their resting chambers.  To put it plainly, the whole procedure pretty much sucks ass.  There’s really not much good that can be said about it.  The entire process of sending the natives to bed goes something like this:

Myself or the tribal leader:  Girls, it is time for bed.

Wednesday: Mo.  (Wednesday does not possess the ability to say “no” yet, much to our relief. However in place of the word “no”, she uses “mo” while staring us down like a rabid coyote.  Her stare is really quite unnerving; one can feel her gaze go right through you, burning like the fires of a thousand suns. )

Tuesday:  I don’t want to go to bed.

Myself or the tribal leader:  I’m sorry you don’t want to go to bed, but you must. (The first reply is obligatory and almost a formality.  It’s almost pointless wasting the breath to even mouth the words, however, it’s better than saying, “I don’t give a rat’s ass, you’re going to bed!”)

Wednesday: Mo.

Tuesday: (More irrationally) I DON’T WANT TO GO TO BED.

This exchange usually occurs each night before the actual retirement of the natives in their resting quarters.  The time of the exchange varies, depending on the night and can sometimes range from fifteen minutes to what seems like ten weeks of years.  No joke.

Wednesday is still at our mercy when being put in her resting quarters – she is for all intents and purposes caged like an animal in her crib and thank the Lord for it.  For, once down, she maintains the ability to last longer than a six-pack of Five Hour Energy and a pound of sugar.  She can often be heard, hours after being confined in her resting quarters, lamenting everything from Tuesday’s absence from the room to what she had for the morning’s sustenance that day.  And, lately, she has been heard in the dead of night, whaling and carrying on using blood curdling screams frequently found in B-rated horror flicks.  All from sweet, innocent little Wednesday.

Tuesday, on the other hand, has developed civil disobedience skills that rival protesters and picketers the world over.  Her usual MO involves claiming to want to watch a particular program on the electronic media box, however, this only holds her attention…and it’s over.  She then pretends to want to recline on the reclining tribal furniture, which again, lasts a miniscule amount of time.  She then requests a beverage and if the beverage does not meet her specifications, she throws a tantrum the likes of which the world has never seen, except at bedtime.  At our house.  Around 9 o’clock at night.

On this particular evening, both natives retired to their resting quarters at about the same approximate time, which was around the 9 o’clock hour.  Both natives, as luck would have it, were wide-fucking-awake.  They remained wide-fucking-awake for several minutes after being placed in their resting quarters.  And, that’s when the lamentations began.  About applesauce.

Both natives were, at this moment, talking back and forth, laughing and giggling, footloose and fancy free.  The tribe has an electric monitor that acts much like a glorified walky-talky – most of the time, the monitor is only used for listening in on the waking status of the natives.  Most of the time.  However, sometimes, the need arises for the monitor to be used to inform otherwise raucous natives that they need to shut the hell up and go to sleep, not in those particular words, however, but you get the picture.

Myself or the tribal leader: GIRLS, GO TO SLEEP. (Not yelling, but very stern.  The tone was set to let the natives know we meant business.  This was followed by more laughter and giggling.  Shit.)

This attempt was followed by the recitation of the alphabet, followed by counting.  To twenty.  Repeatedly.

Myself: GIRLS! GO TO SLEEP!  (My volume elevated to strike fear into the hearts of the natives, with little to no effect.  Once again, followed by more laughing, giggling and more fucking letters and numbers.)

The tribal leader:  GIRLS! GO TO SLEEP! NO MORE LETTERS, NO MORE NUMBERS, GO TO SLEEP! (She meant business, no lie, however with little to no effect again.)

A time passed, we allowed them to carry on with their incessant letters and numbers.  Soon their laughter turned to lament as Wednesday began lamenting – wait for it – applesauce.  Why applesauce?  I have no fucking clue.  Not an inkling.  However, she was lamenting applesauce as though it was her only hope and that she’d most definitely expire without it.  Yeah.  I wasn’t falling for that shit.

That’s when I grabbed the monitor.


It was almost instantaneous, for as soon as I said it, the tribal leader and I broke out into laughter that caused us to be unable to speak for several minutes, let alone reprimand the natives again.  I attempted to speak over the monitor again, however, with the tribal leader laughing, stifling my own laughter was impossible and I discontinued my attempt to reprimand the natives once more.  Parenting fail.

There was more carrying on, following the great applesauce incident, however, soon, all was quiet and the tribal leader and I continued snickering and giggling to ourselves about the reprimand mishap.  However, all was not lost.  I am fairly certain that the natives never heard our laughter, even with my failed attempts at reprimanding them because of the two-way nature of the monitor.   And for that, I am thankful.

So, there you have it.  I don’t care about applesauce.  I don’t.  And if you lament about not having it?  Well, you’re shit out of luck because I just don’t care about applesauce.


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