Son: Look Daddy! Pork pants!
I have - in the past - often mocked and derided my wife for her complete lack of will power in the face of sour gummy candy. I cannot count the number of times that she has said that she knows full well that if she keeps eating them that she will burn her tongue/cheeks. And then - ten minutes later - she's lying uncomfortably rotund with all the filth on her belly, holding her mouth with her hand because it hurts so much.
I sort of felt like that now. I had made a huge pulled-pork thing that had been marinated in Mojo Criollo.That had been served in tortillas and drizzled with lime juice. I'd made it - after applying all sorts of herbs as well and baking it in a creuset for nearly 5 hours - at my wife's request. She loved it. I like that sort of pork - but not with that citrus-nastiness all over it. And yet oddly I managed to eat an uncomfortable amount of the fat that my wife had trimmed off it - along with chewed lumps of the actual meat itself. It says something about my own lack of sense that - even though I thought it tasted awful - I sitll managed to eat so much that I had the I-might-vomit sweats for hours afterwards. All of which was imbued with a Mojo Criolle porkyness. My wife ate loads of it. As did her son. He thought the pork was amazing. Actually he loved it for all sorts of reasons. He thought some of it looked like pork pants - which he held up to demonstrate. Then he even made pork rocket that shot off into the sky before - unsurprisingly - crash-landing in his mouth.
Not me though. Now I'm still very aware that a grotesque mixture of fruit juices and pig are still trapped inside me. I'm even somewhat grateful that my body seems to be rejecting it and causing me to feel like I've got a very light food poisoning. Imagine the Silk Cut Ultra Low version of food poisoning and you're getting close. Except with a bloating that feels like it's pushing up out of my throat, extending directly forwards out of my belly button and thrusting downward out of my anus all at the same time. I feel like I've swallowed an entire pork canoe. My wife took great pleasure from my self-inflicted pork-punishment. Particularly as I can be a gloating, insufferable twat when she's done the same thing with candy, Nutella or whatever weird condiment she's chosen to drink. So very much enjoying how perturbed I was feeling she took the opportunity to casually ask, "do you want to drink my pork sick?" to see how bad I felt. I'm sure you can all agree the woman is a monster.
I think this is actually payment for the weekend as well. My wife took the kids away for a day and a half. She got to spend quality time with them and I got to do whatever the hell I felt like doing unencumbered by child responsibilities for a little while. Obviously I used that time wisely by lethargically browsing the different curry sauces at a grocery store. And buying a really rank milkshake that seemed to be 80% ice. I did achieve a few things too. Like cleaned out the basement, completely emptied the dining room of furniture and mowed the lawn. But I didn't bother with meals, ate an entire bag of kettle chips, watched Layer Cake online, watched a huge number of weird of alarmist British public safety commercials and went on two very long lazy long distance runs at an absurd time of the day. That didn't sound as flashy and bachelor enough though. So when my wife asked me what I was getting up to I planned to deliberately not get back to her for hours. Then get back to her with a text that said, "Sorry - I got so drunk on heroin I could barely operate the sex swing I'd rented." But all of that sounds incredibly busy and annoying. So I didn't bother. Instead I just felt ill from all the potato chips, milkshake and chocolate (I'd forgotten about that) that what was a nice respite was nearly spent feeling iffy.
I wanted to illustrate how disturbed I am by the stomach grumblings and quick pulses that make me think I may puke. Just a level of discomfort and alarm that you know something is weird and wrong. Luckily one of the commercials I saw yesterday is perfect.
Spending an inordinate amount of time in the upstairs bathroom (just in case it all went wrong) actually reminded me of a comment I made to an old coworker the other day. That being that for some incomprehensible reason there is a gallon of cider vinegar and a box of feline flea medicine in my bathroom. That oddness is entirely to blame on my wife - although I could have corrected that by moving either one fo them. But not to turn my wife into the odd one I remembered that my own sock drawer is equally strange. So I took a photo. If a burglar ever broke in and went straight for that - assuming valuable may be stuffed behind the socks - he'd find the strangest cocktail of unrelated ephemera that he would struggle to comprehend what on earth was going on. Just look at it. It's tough to tell but in that photo is a roll on deodorant, a vial of dog tick medicine, some matches, a tape of me and a few mates playing awful noise-rock from the late 90s, a stitch removal tool and a metallic coffee bean (you heat it up and it keeps your drink warm) that looks like a futuristic anal probe. Combine that with the bathroom vinegar/flea medicine and I can only imagine that any prospective home invaders flee worried that whatever heinous STDs were seem to be trying to combat haven't found someone way to thrive in the house furniture and are now highly contractible through skin contact.
Actually taking that photo made me feel better just from laughing about it. But then I started singing again. Through no external stimulus that I can recall I have the appalling Patrick Swayze song, "She's Like The Wind" stuck in my head. I have no reason to have that abomination repeatedly reappearing like an unflushable turd in my head. I don't know why it's there and I can't get rid of it. Obviously I'm assuming I have brain damage. I've even tried an intense session of extremely harsh static noise music from Signalbleed (although that track has more a claustrophobic feel to it) to chase it out - but to no avail. That combined with the pig-puke, the unsettling commercials from the other night and a general sense of disappointment in US politics is leaving me feel particularly fragile.
Which is why it didn't help this morning when I was listening to a Radio 4 panel show in which someone stated they'd ruined their love life because any time they are in close proximity to a woman's pink lady bits all they can see before them is John Sergeant's face.