Drastic Tactics

Our 15-year-old woman-child, Her Royal Highness, interrupts her beauty routine only to play hockey. Unless you count the aboriginal eyeliner visible beneath her face mask as a beauty routine. I personally find it frightening, but then again, I doll up with Chapstick.

Hockey is why, fat after Thanksgiving, I woke up in a hotel room in Butte, Montana. The princess had practice in Butte until 9 p.m. last night and then was slated to be back on the ice at 8:15 a.m. this morning. Waking HRH has never been a beautiful thing, but most especially not for early morning hockey practice.

My nice mom nudges at 7:30 were getting me nowhere. Lights on and covers off with loud cajoling were also ineffective to the point that I realized that Her Highness had bid me to transport her to Butte, Montana, put her up in a hotel room for the night, all so she could slumber through her morning practice. This did not please me.

It’s hard for me to admit that my rage was so sudden that I cannot tell you how the diabolical thought entered my mind, but the next thing I knew I was blaring the Wiggles “Wake Up Jeff” at the top of my computer speaker lungs.


She never saw it coming. She sprung from bed, her newly re-brunetted hair wild. But not  before the damage was done. “What’s that sound? Sounds like someone snoring…Wake up Jeff, everybody’s wiggling…” will be emblazoned in her mind for the rest of the day. As she shoots the puck, skates her lines, and rats …. as I drive back to Podunk. These tactics must be used sparingly.

Wiggles of Mass Destruction

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