A few weeks back S attended a campaign watch party for her friend and took along PK as a guest.
The party was hosted by the largest campaign contributor and "backer" of the candidate who lived with his wife and family in a ritzy house on a ritzy street in a ritzy part of town in a ritzy part of the state.
S came back from the party with two things on her mind...1) she was convinced even more that the politics of her friend and the party he represents are no where near her political leanings and 2) an entire Hannah Montana bedroom for little girls is entirely possible given enough time, money, and parental indulgence...um, support.
PK came back from the party obsessed with hermit crabs.
Seems the 5-year old little lord Fauntleroy of the house had an Aaron Spelling size habitat full of healthy, happy and hyperactive hermit crabs that PK couldn't keep her eyes and hands off of.
I know, I know, the same red flags that start waving when I hear the words "fresh sushi" and "Oklahoma" in the same sentence were sparking up a storm in my mind when I thought of getting the girl's a set of hermit crabs of their very own.
But, summer was winding down, and their back to school stuff had all been bought and paid for, so what could the harm be in few little exoskeletoid friends to depend on us for their very existence?
We buried the first one a week to the day after we brought him...her...it home.
PK had named him/her/it "Don't Kilpatrick," since it had Patrick Star painted on it's shell and every time the girls would spot the Kilpatrick Turnpike sign as we enter the toll road nearest us they'd merrily chant out, "Don't kill Patrick!"
We buried the replacement for the first one a few days after it arrived to ease the suffering of my 5-year old in crab-mourning.
We then buried the second of the original pair (named Miley, as in Cyrus) a few days later.
What's discouraging the most is that I read every dad'gum website there is on how best to care for and provide an ideal environment for those dopey little crabs, and still they popped off on me like I was intentionally waiting for them to just die.
I mean, we can keep a $.39 goldfish alive for over 7-years running, and our dog is approaching her 2nd birthday relatively unscathed (we did find a big ol' nasty tick on her the other day and enjoyed pulling it out and scorching it to death via the hot Oklahoma sun and a 4" magnifying glass), so why did our crabitat become a rectangular plastic biodome of death?
School has provided a welcomed distraction for PK who still seems to be sidelined every now and then with PTCDS (post-traumatic-crab-death syndrome). Oh, the tender heart of a 5-year old.
The 8-year old? After she watched me pull the rotting crab carcasses from their shells and put them in the ground for their burial rites, she commented that it had been several months since we went to Joe's Crab Shack and wanted to know if we could go sometime soon.