Day 631: The Great Conversion Calamity

There are victories and there are defeats.  And then, there are those that are neither victory nor defeat – where clearly no benefit is gained, yet no loss has been suffered.  Many of the choices made for the natives result in a victory – for the tribal leader and myself.  Some of these choices  are not easy and thus yield little opportunity to celebrate victory, though in the end, a small victory is gained, with minimal losses.  Thus, I give you, The Great Conversion Calamity.

As I previously stated, the conversion part of the changeover was really the least of my worries – I had performed the operation on Tuesday’s sleeping quarters and thus, knew what had to be done.  I retrieved the proper parts for the job and late this afternoon, about the four o’clock hour, I began the construction.  Whoever put these contraptions together should be fucking beat to death with a shoe.  Honestly.  The manufacturer of said contraptions gives you two small l-shaped wrenches that are supposed to be used to loosen and tighten the bolts which hold the contraption together.  After attempting numerous positions in which to loosen said bolts, and finally settling on standing on my head, I was able to get the first set of bolts undone.  Jesus Christ.  Beaten with a shoe.  Scratch that.  Beaten with a shoe with a nail in it.  After a few more contortions and a lot more profanity, I was able to loosen the remaining bolts and affix the new lower bed rail, allowing the native to mount and dismount the bed at will.

Whilst modifying Wednesday’s sleeping quarters, I noticed that there was quite a collection of lost treasures down behind her bed: a medium-sized bouncing ball, some cereal, a stuffed bear, a sock (because two socks together would be frigging heresy), a hat and a multitude of feline hair, which really isn’t an object, but I could have crafted another fucking cat from all the cat hair I found.  Once I finished with the new bed, I eradicated the corner, where her sleeping quarters were located, of all non-toy particles by use of a mechanical dirt sucking device.  I wish to note that I did not find Jimmy Hoffa.

I put the finishing touches on the new bed with the proper accoutrements: a fitted sheet covering the mattress, a sheet, a blanket and a top blanket with Wednesday’s favorite character on it.  All that would be needed was a cushion for the native’s head and the new sleeping quarters were all set.  And now, we wait.

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The tribal leader had taken the natives to a gathering for young female natives that had a princess theme to it.  The idea, as proposed by the tribal leader in her infinite wisdom, was to tire out the natives there, so that there would be little disobedience when the natives were sent to their slumbers.  Well, at least, it was an idea.

The natives arrived home, apparently, because I was also out for the evening, wired for fucking sound.  No joke.  The tribal leader recorded video of Wednesday investigating her new sleeping quarters, which at first was not met with a favorable reaction.  Perhaps she was of ill-humor at that moment or she was being contrary, whatever the reason was, she was not fucking interested in anything having to do with her new bed.  Wonderful.  Soon, though, she was observed, climbing up onto it, on her own volition, and curling up with the new coverings that had been placed there for her with care.

Upon my arrival home, during the nine o’clock hour, the natives were STILL fucking awake.  Like wide awake.  Shit.  So, once home and settled, the tribal leader and I began the ritual of preparing the natives for their slumbers.  Of course, both of the natives had soiled their disposable undergarments (what the fuck is up with that?) and were changed and put into proper clothing for their slumbers.  Next, we encouraged both natives to consider sleeping – which was met with civil disobedience, outright refusals and other mischievous behavior.  As predicted.  Sigh.

Once convincing the natives, within an inch of their lives, that they did indeed want to go to bed (we used their toddler mind-tricks against them), we got the necessary accoutrements for both natives and turned out the light and made our escape.  Let the games begin…

Within moments of us leaving their resting chamber, Wednesday came strolling out of their resting chambers as though out for a leisurely walk about the abode.  She sauntered into the food preparation area where the tribal leader and I were expecting her.

“Hi!,” she said with great enthusiasm, as though surprised to find us.  I did not share her same fucking enthusiasm.

“Go back to bed,” we replied, sternly.

“Mo.”

“GO BACK TO BED.” a bit louder, this time adding some bark to my voice.  I got up to follow her back to her room.

“Mo. Mo.  Uh uh.”

At this point, I was done.  I picked up the disagreeable native and returned her to her resting chambers and placed her in her sleeping quarters, covering her wriggling body.  Giggles.  A fucking game.  She thinks this is a fucking game.  Well, kid, this is the game of Sorry and you’ll be sorry if you get up again.  I left their resting chambers, fully expecting Wednesday to emerge again.  Tuesday had seemingly already fallen asleep.  Good.

I returned to the food preparation area.  Soon, I could hear the pitter-patter of Wednesday’s footsteps.  A ninja she is not.

“GO BACK TO BED, NOW!” I demanded.  This is a dictatorship, not a democracy.  Lobbying your position for staying up will not work here.

“Mo.”

I went to get up and she began to return to her resting chambers.  Apparently, Tuesday was still awake for she began admonishing her younger sibling to go to bed and not wake up.  True story.  Absolutely fucking amazing.  Tuesday can’t pick up the toys on the floor of the tribal living area but she can advise her sister to go to bed and not wake up.  Sadly, however, this was not the last we saw of Wednesday.

That’s when the letters began.  Letters.  Fucking letters.  Anything but fucking letters.  Wednesday has a knack, or rather a bad habit, of saying letters with the volume commensurate with of that of a siren of an emergency vehicle.  EVERYONE can fucking hear her, no matter where she is or where they are.  Luckily, being in darkness, the letters soon subsided.  I think Wednesday is part avian because she generally quiets down when in darkness.

After a few quiet moments, the tribal leader and I determined that we had not heard Wednesday in a while and decided to investigate her whereabouts.  Lurking in the shadows outside the food preparation area, Wednesday appeared again, waiting for a reaction, which she promptly got.  She retreated.  I returned to my seat.  She returned, however, the tribal leader and I were unaware of her presence.  Her flatulence, however, gave her away.  Your farts betray you, my dear Wednesday.  Realizing yet again her plans had been foiled, she retreated.

All told, Wednesday was perhaps tucked in or sent to bed about two dozen times.  For now, I believe, she has surrendered to her fatigue and is in her new bed.  I hope.  I have not yet attempted to investigate her whereabouts, afraid that I’ll stumble upon her wide awake and greeting me with an enthusiastic “Hi!”  Victory gained.

So yeah, there are victories, and there are defeats.  Sometimes, victories are harder to achieve when dealing with the persistence of a toddler.  Sometimes.  Most times.  Sigh.

Where’s my wine…

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