A Tribute to Grumpy

Grumpy is my favorite of the Seven Dwarves, mostly based on his moment of glory:

"Wimmens! They've got wicked wiles."

"What wicked wiles?"

"I don't know, but I'm agin 'em."

I am not sure about the wicked wiles, but wimmens have this shoe thing going on. Even our otherwise rational St. Blog's wimmens are going ga ga and posting photos of their Easter shoes.

These patient wimmens have tried to explain to me what it is about shoes, but I don't get it. Me, I have the blacksmith nail an iron "U" to my foot every so often and that does it. When I run really fast, sparks fly. Fortunately I never run really fast, or at all, except once in a great while. The other day I had to run, and it was not nearly as bad as I remembered.

But my Easter shoes will be no different from my Christmas shoes, my Lent shoes, my any given Sunday shoes. Wing tips. Brown or black, depending.

I heard someone tell the story of Richard Nixon going to the beach and walking in the sand in his wingtips. Right then and there, I knew that Nixon wasn't all bad. Just the image of that dork walking in sand with his wingtips on made me suddenly feel the humanity there. Satan would not have had on wingtips.

All of a sudden it hit me: Richard Nixon was not so much evil to the core, just a clueless dork.

Dork. A good word that you don't hear much any more, but it explains so much. Nixon thought that the Dems were laughing at his wingtips so he resorted to dirty tricks, even when facing an unelectable candidate. I have no problem with a fair share of dirty tricks: statecraft requires a good repertoire. But deep down, I have to say that Nixon resorted to them because he knew that he was a dork and that everyone really was laughing at him.

It would explain why he had my hero Spiro on board: to provide a clown to take the focus off the sandy wingtips.

So, I will proudly wear my wingtips on Easter, in tribute to Richard Nixon. Mark Sullivan calls it getting in touch with my inner Milhous, and he is right. As I have said before, never elect me President. Even though I would aim for a Washington, an Adams, a Teddy Roosevelt even (although I do hate that name Roosevelt - feel like I should wash my mouth out and spit on the graves of Stalinists whenever I hear it), I am quite sure that I would be Nixon 2.

If you ask Amalia, she would tell you that I am more of a tyrant than Nixon. I made her take a nap today, in a startling move that underscored daily tradition for something like two and a half years. Can you imagine the horror? Nap.

If some absolute authority figure commanded that I take a nap every day, I would pay him homage in a big way, say a bottle of some of the really good stuff. Amalia, so far, has yet to deliver the bottle of the really good stuff. I do get plenty of hugs, kisses, and those smiles that just scream, "pick me up and hug me, because with that one look I completely control your every move." It is hard to be a domestic tyrant when your subjects give you that look.

"I want fruit!"

"That's nice."

"Frooooooot!"

"Amalia, how do we ask?"

"Can I have fruit please, Babbo?" [the look]

[paralyzed by the look, not lecturing on how we shouldn't have to be reminded to ask politely, but not daring to pick up toddler to give her the big hug that the look demands because, well, you heard the girl, she wants a piece of fruit] "What kind, sweetie?"

Ugh. Toddlers. How can I take over the world and subject all of you to my insane micromanagement when I have this one to tame?

Posted by erik at April 2, 2004 12:03 AM | TrackBack