The Littlest Necromancer Rides Again

19 08 2015

I read a story once. 

I won’t bore you with the details but let me just say this: There were three brothers who worshipped a filthy god. One was a warrior of impressive skill, one was a powerful wizard, and the third was a beast; a great hulking thing that bore his siblings into battle atop his mighty shoulders. 

Oh and if the big one ate you alive he would pass you out as a twisted demon. 

Details, I know. 

Anyways the necromancer approached me the other day in her usual manner. Her expression was perplexed and her gaze was far off. Building my courage I asked her what she was thinking about.

“If I were a bug I think I’d be a mosquito.” She said.

“Okay. And why would you be a mosquito?” I asked.

She thought on this a little longer before continuing with a very matter of fact tone. “Because they suck blood and its okay. People don’t hate them because they suck their blood, just because they make you itchy.”

“Well, I guess that’s true. The itching is what people focus on.”

“I wouldn’t be like a regular one though.” she continued.

At this point I think most people would be a little surprised that their child didn’t admit to wanting to be more like a regular animal, say a lion or a pony or a unicorn, something you might see on National Geographic you know? I was expecting there to be more to this story and as always, she didn’t let me down. 

“I would be a really big one so that I could suck all the blood!”

Then she put her arms straight out to her sides flapped her hands at the wrist and rushed off making buzzing noises, stopping every few feet to make awful slurping sounds. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she sounded like a bumblebee. At least I think its because I didn’t have the heart to. I may have said it because I was still in a little bit of shock from the exchange I just had. 

In the end it doesn’t really matter. The weird keeps on keeping on around these parts. 


The Littlest Necromancer’s Ultimatum

29 08 2014

So to the casual observer probably thinks our daughter is kind of creepy.

If you’ve been following along with the rest of this week’s posts you probably know what I’m talking about. Hell you might even agree. I think I’m a little excited about it to be honest with you. The world needs more interesting characters in it and by the power of Greyskull, I think we’ve got one.

The girl child expressed her thoughts to me the other day on what had recently happened, with the funeral I mean. Do you want to know more?

I was sitting on the couch with book in hand enjoying another quiet afternoon with the kids. I was making great headway in my current read when the world’s smallest, blondest necromancer approached me.

“Daddy, are you reading?” she asked, peering over a sheet of paper longer than her torso. (She loves to draw and sometimes I think they may even be normal people drawings of dogs and butterflies and stuff. Not diagrams of the levels of hell.)

“Why, what’s up?” I ask.

“Did Grammy really die?”

I put my book down and pat the cushion beside me. She accepts the invitation and plops down, frown and all.

“Yes she did. Do you want to talk about it kiddo?”

No sooner had I finished my question than she lit right back up, a toothy smile replacing her momentarily distressed face.

“No, that’s okay, I’ll just go see her later.” She says as she hops up and heads out of the room. I stop her and try to refocus the conversation.

“You can’t actually see her later, she isn’t around anymore.”


“Do you remember what we did when the dog died?” I asked her, trying to frame this in a way she would understand.

“We put them in the ground.”

“That’s right. And we did the same thing with Grammy; we put her in the ground kiddo. She can’t run around or talk or play or anything anymore.”

I thought that might do to trick. It didn’t of course; she just cocked her head and looked at me sideways for a minute. (A lot like her mother does come to think of it.) She smiled.

“That’s silly Daddy. It’s okay if she’s in the ground I can just play with her later just like the puppies.”


“You can still play if you’re in the ground. It’s okay Daddy, I’ll just go play with her and the puppies later.” She repeated.

Then she turned and headed for her room. I didn’t stop her that time since I was having a difficult time trying to make sure I understood what she was telling me, the implications of which, lead to the same conclusion.

I think I’m raising a Necromancer.


D’awwww. Even death can look adorable.

The Littlest Necromancer Draws Your Doom

27 08 2014

The saga continues as the tiniest wielder of magic both dark and terrible continues to make her powers known to the world.

Mondays are usually days of great bonding and adventure in our household. The kids and I watch movies, run around outside, and all manner of other fun stuff. I’ve been putting quite a few hours into a sketchbook recently so the girl child at least has decided that perhaps she should do the same. She already loves to draw so it is no surprise really.

I was sitting on the floor at the end of my bed listening to music on the record player, phone nearby waiting for my wife to call and tell me how work was going. I had my bag of pencils, erasers and tiny metal sharpener on the floor beside me and was scrawling away at a page in my sketchbook.

Enter the necromancer.

“Hi Daddy.”

“Hi weirdo.”

“What are you drawing?”

“A face.”

“Is it a real one?”

I had to stop for a moment here. Not because I didn’t know how to answer but because I was afraid of how this conversation was going to expand.

“Well no. It isn’t of a real person; it’s more of a cartoon you could say.”

“Oh.” Ponderous head scratching follows for a few silent moments.

“Are you going to draw the skin?” she asks.

“Well I’m drawing it with skin on, yes. It would be a skull instead of a face if I didn’t draw the skin.”


I couldn’t help myself. “Why do you ask about the skin?”

“Last time I drew a person he didn’t have any skin. He had a helmet and a horse and a big shield but no skin.”

“Why was there no skin?” I asked.

“I’m going to go finish this picture; you’re really going to like it.”

Dodging the question. Slippery little speaker of the dead. I tried my best not to think anything of it and went about my own sketchy business (tee hee). The peace lasted about six minutes before she returned again with a large piece of paper in tow that looked like it may have been used to clean up blood splatter at a murder scene.

“Daddy, look at this, look at what I drew!”

I look. I can’t make out what I’m looking at, but I look.

“That’s very elaborate kiddo, what all did you draw here?”

“It’s you and your doom.”

“Oh. Wait, what?”

“It’s you daddy. See? There’s your beard.”

“Okay, sure I could see that. What’s all the red stuff though? Is that a spear in my chest?” I really start squinting at this thing because…damn.

“No that’s you and you have all the stuff you were drinking that’s red like blood and that thing (indicating what looks to be a spear) is your wheel and this (pointing to what looks to be a horrifically jagged metal cube) is your doom. You’re going to go fast too because that’s what it does.”

I stare and stare at this picture hoping that something that makes an ounce of sense is going to pop out at me but it’s just not coming.

“Doom?” I ask.

Sadly the conversation didn’t go any further. She ran off back to her room screaming “Doom doom, dooooooom.” So you know, that’s over with I guess. Up until the time I’m typing this nothing has happened to me yet. There has been no indication that any sort of doom is coming my way. I’ve stayed away from elevators and spears, batons, javelins, and any other pointy thing I can think of. Hell I even tucked the letter opener at work into a drawer in case she was drawing that and just screwed up the perspective in the picture so it seemed huge.

Thanks for the comforting thoughts little friend of dead things.

I’ve got my eye on you.

The Littlest Necromancer Strikes Again

25 08 2014


So I may have mentioned the Vixen and I having a couple days of funeral activities with the girl child in tow. Oddly enough I thought I’d discuss it some more. Now, much like the last post that explored the recent death in our family, this one really isn’t that sad either. How is that you might wonder?

Well, because we had a child with us of course.

The day after the casket-licking incident was the day of the actual internment in the ground. There was a catholic mass held before hand. This would be the scene of the second incident; calling out the clergy.

I cannot say that I have been to a lot of specifically catholic events. There were a good many years that I was an active participant in the Christian scene, regularly going to church and other religious functions throughout the week. As you may have guessed from the unconcerned usage of profanity and the referencing of Sesame Street themed lubricants, I don’t really do that these days.

That of course is an entirely different discussion for an entirely different day.

At any rate, I am unfamiliar with Catholicism’s rituals and practices but there are a few things that this particular flavor of Christianity seems to have in common with its cousins. The one that is most important for this story is the practice of communion. I have seen it done a couple different ways in a couple of different churches. The idea is the same though. You eat the wafer, you drink the juice, and you listen to the ditty about the blood and the body being broken and eaten and stuff.

This happened toward the end and the clergyman stood in front of his altar and dispensed the wafers to the long line of attendees. This is where the Necromancer in all of her diabolic glory stepped in.

After studying what was happening for a few minutes she felt comfortable enough to announce this holy man a fraud with the declaration of “That’s not a body!” And you better believe that as a fractioned of the dead arts, that girl knows a real live, uh, well…dead maybe? She knows a corpse when she sees one.

The Vixen even had the audacity to try and silence her damning cries.

I prayed for the first time in a long time that night that my wife would be saved from the adorable yet lethal vengeance of the littlest necromancer.


Profound Thought Ahead!

2 11 2013

I’ve had a terrible realization. Just yesterday. Well, terrible might be a bit strong. Inaccurate? Unexpected? Painfully obvious? I’m going with all of the above.

Years ago I wondered why the parents I knew (other people’s not mine) always went on about how they were so busy with their kids and there was always so much to do. I would look at my son and wondered what the hell was wrong with everybody else. My kid was low maintenance. I didn’t feel any significant impact on what I was able to accomplish in a day because of the presence of my spawn.

Yesterday I figured it out.

I work in the inpatient building of the largest hospital in my area. It’s a 24/7 sort of a gig no matter where you work in the big house, with a few exceptions of course. Those smug cafeteria people go home every night for instance.

Anyways, lately my department has been looking to plug some holes in our schedule due to vacations and pregnant women finally getting over their short term disabilities. Naturally, being a giant sucker for punishment I’ve been happily gobbling up some extra shifts.

Are you ready for the eye opening kid bit?

I will be working overnight on Sunday, getting home Monday morning. I might be there in time to take Tango Sierra to school at eight. Sleep would be delayed so I could bring Terminally Cute to school at nine.

Then sleep will be had.

Until one when Terminal needs to get picked up. And then a little more will be had before Tango needs exfil at three.

That’s every single week day. When I was younger I never took things like school into account. Then there are doctor visits, various holiday shenanigans, and who knows what else. Now I’m thinking ahead to extracurricular activities. Sports! Debates! Petty Larceny!

The possibilities are endless. I suppose that most of that is going to be taken care of once the oldest learns to drive. But that’s a whole other can of arthropod invertebrate animals.

Regardless, to you parents that I never used to understand, I’m sorry. I get it now; overwhelmingly so.

To you I tip my hat. I just wanted you to know.

Going Jekyll In The Kitchen

30 12 2011

Yesterday was a day. Well, of course it was a day. Every day is a day obviously. You know what, let’s start over.

Yesterday was a wild day. Why was it wild you may ask? It’s because the Vixen and I got crazy in the kitchen! It started much like any other Thursday might. The kids were hungry, we were hungry. All around the place the roars of angry stomachs cried out, making it sound more like a jungle of primal beasts and monsters then a home.

At least a home for someone other than pygmies.

Which, since we’re talking about it, I’ve always wanted to be able to shrink heads. How great would that be? I’d never run out of Christmas ideas for my sister. I think it’d be fantastic. And that reminds me, I should tell “The Naked Gun” he needs to do a Beetlejuice review.

But I was talking about getting wild with the Vixen. In the kitchen. With BATTER!

No worries it’s not what you’re thinking. Or maybe it is and I’m the strange one.

Had enough suspense yet? Here’s how it went. She asked me, out of the blue, while I stood there at the stove if I would Tempura pickles for her. Didn’t even have to think about it. I responded with a smile on my face and my hands in the air.

“Absolutely!” I cried, and there was much rejoicing.

So I went about my work. Flour, egg, water, baking powder. As usual it yielded a fantastic batter with excellent crisp and puff enough to make a rapper jealous. (Bit of an exaggeration. This batter lacked its usual puff. Measuring cup is faded. I think my measurements were off.)

Meanwhile, two feet away on the other side of the kitchen, (Our counter space is rather limited where we currently live) the Vixen lay pickles out on an angelic bed of paper towels. Basic, quilted pillows of joy. Covered in pickles. Bread and Butter style.

I broke out my trusty wok, filled that beast with oil and started battering and then frying each pickle until golden. We’ve done this before. The tempura pickle is a staple of some afternoons in which there are NO PLANS. Afterward we usually feel like taking a nap, it hits you in the gut most of the time.

And then it got crazy. We had chopped up a bunch of veggies and presented them to the kids with some French onion dip already. So of course she got the idea to grab some cauliflower and subject that to our vat of ambrosial batter. It was delightful.

The she grabbed olives. Then string cheese sticks. Then lobster and steak and DOVE CHOCOLATE BARS. True love my friends, true love. Battered and deep fried meat and chocolate. Every once in a great while brilliant ideas come to life. They crawl forth from the primordial soup of raw unfiltered thought. They explode from the fiery depths of the imagination, those harsh, magmatic angels who carrying forth the essence of divine inspiration born aloft serving platters of cinder and brimstone, lined with the sweat and blood sacrifices of artists come and yet to come.

You may think it’s not that big of a deal. A bit too much excitement for something as common as cooking. As frying. But that’s about as primal an activity as it comes. Your presentation doesn’t matter. Not at a basic level. Not at the level at which you are actually doing the cooking. When you put metal to fire, flesh to hot iron. Those are primal actions.

The flowers and fancy sauce drizzles and decorative wedges of whatever looked nice next to that particular bit of meat, are for the refined and evolved part of your brain. The bit that seeks to cover up the things you used to care about. Survival. The primitive man.

So yes I do get excited. There is a lot of emotion, unexplored, in the art of cooking. At least in the way I see it. So the next time you’re in the kitchen think about what I said. Look around you at the sheer number of things in your that could kill you if properly used. (‘Properly used’ for killing, not cooking.)

Or is it just me? Am I the only who feels this way? Has there ever been a time when something else ever made you feel this way?

Disappointment With A Side Of Fries

24 12 2011

/target soapbox



I have to do it. It’s unavoidable. Let’s blow some steam shall we?

The Vixen and I went out to lunch today. We thought to ourselves, “It’s oddly nice out for an upstate New York winter, why not go out for lunch somewhere greater than par?” And that is precisely what we thought we were doing.

As it turned out you can’t actually trust all the reviews you read on those thing. The general ones I mean. Those quotes that lack a source. As you may be guessing already, this place has a number of positive quotes printed on the back of their menus. There was even one by “she who names olive oil silly things” right smack at the top.

Which, speaking of Rachael Ray, I would appreciate a $20 a day show a lot more than $40. Or a 16.75 sort of a day. And how in the world do Food Network stars make money off of things that they didn’t really do anything to create. Rachael Ray calls the extra virgin olive oil E.V.O.O. and somehow sells her own brand, translating a goofy name for a common kitchen item into sales with exactly 0 effort.

Or Emeril who mixes together a concoction of spices and yells whenever he throws it about his food like some sort of coked up pixy. Yeah, a mixture you could easily make at home in a ziplock bag that he has somehow mystified by selling it in a plastic container and associating a magic phrase with it.

Sorry that tangent kind of took off.

Back to Rachael Ray though. Her quote was overwhelmingly positive. She claims that there is one particular appetizer item that you simply must try. After today I’m thinking that the place hired a real chef to cook for Rachael Ray and then fired him shortly after.

Our total for lunch was $73.00. It took an hour for soup to arrive and the food was not as it had been hyped. Granted some of it was okay. “Yummmm, this fish tastes like Disappointment!”

The soup is one thing that really stood out. The poor server that we had been assigned attempted to explain it. She was rather unsuccessful. But from what I could gather from the broken description and the taste of the soup, I’m guessing someone thought it was a good idea to use Aunt Jemima as a base. If that doesn’t make you cringe…

This stuff drives me nuts. I used to work in a restaurant that required you be drilled before work on the specials so you would ideally not stumble or  have to repeat yourself and trust me there wasn’t a lot of repetition there. The bosses made sure you knew what you were talking about. Which is why a break down in some of the most basic restaurant practices like that drive me nuts. If we can find reasons to merit a visit by Robert Irvine, somethings wrong.


Oh and for $73.00 I expect that at the very least you know how to boil pasta until its done. Though since it was for Terminally Cute’s mac and cheese, it wasn’t so bad. I’ve seen her eat things that fell out of the garbage and into a shoe.

Don’t think the pasta not being al dente bothered her that much. But hey, this is one of those things I hate. Don’t set your prices based solely on the town in which you operate. Tourism is one of the biggest parts of the economy in the town in which I live. For some reason the businesses in town think that the tourists are here year round . Prices never go down… 

And sometimes, it’s just not worth it.

/jump off soapbox