Saturday, October 20, 2012


It's Saturday. So you get the random bits and bobs that didn't make it into a bigger point. Like verbal hor'derves basically.  

- I caught my daughter this week telling her brother that Thomas the Tank Engine's belly is under his funnel and that's where he stored the oatmeal. The oatmeal in this instance being the one that was "missing". To clarify further my daughter ate the oatmeal that was intended for her brother and then blamed Thomas for it. And to make the lie more believable she made up a digestive system for Thomas. My son looked confused but still clearly liked the idea. I haven't had the opportunity to ask him where he thinks Thomas keeps his testicles yet, but I will.

- Speaking of which my son has given his willy a title. If and when he feels the compunction to refer to it he calls it Mr. Winkie. Which makes it sound like a butler or how a rural farmer insists on referring to the vet in All Creatures Great And Small - especially the television version. "Please - call me Siegfried." "Don't seem right Mr. Winkie. Not with you elbow-deep in my old heifer."

- My daughter has also started repeating a fanciful story over breakfast that she - and only she - can see an invisible bee that is stirring the milk of her Cheerios with it's arse. Actually she started off saying it was plopping honey into the bowl but - after being told that sounds awful - now says it's stirring her milk with it's stinger. Her brother has also developed such a fancy for honey that he complains that I won't put honey on his Honey Bunches Of Oats. I've repeated to him that the very first word in the bloody cereal name is Honey - but he still has a moan about it. So now I tell him I'll call his sister's bee friends over to dip their bum-cheeks in his breakfast. At which point he starts to panic and doesn't want any honey. Good Lord I'm good at turning nonsense into bollocks. This is why I should run for President. I'd give anything to be stood on stage with the current two choices and be asked a question about making the US energy independent just so I could say that surely we could make some use of the sunshine that their supporters seem to think shines out of their arses.

- I don't get excited by many things. I don't crave a fancy television or a smart phone. And I drive a Dodge Minivan without the slightest hint of shame. And I'm content not to buy into the cycle of consumerist shit that many people swill through. But before you suggest that I'm dead to the true joys of life (that being "stuff" you can show off) I do crave a good coat and a nice pair of shoes. And I mean I already own eight coats. Five of which are very nice. And yet I find myself thinking up reasons why this one isn't absurdly priced. Or for that matter why I shouldn't skip getting my brakes changed and snow tires put on my car and instead blow money on this delightful thing (I'm alright with the outer coat - but that inner red one gives me the Chris Matthews up and down the leg). So far the horrendous costs, torrent of ridicule from people who claims to be friends and the fact I already own a wall of very nice coats has kept me from doing so.

And I could easily buy every decent pair of Redwing/Timberland/Teva boots that are available if not stopped from doing so. I bought a very nice pair of Timberland Pro's last Fall - boots that are intended to outlive at least one of your kids - so there really is no justification for buying other pairs. But if I find any at absurdly cheap prices I'm all over them. But my only other pair of very decent shoes were 8 years old and failing. So this week I spent good money on a new pair of running shoes (the cat sullied the last pair) and a pair of nice shoes. Then yesterday I stumbled over a pair of old cowboy boots (yes - I did just write that) at the local thrift store that they were practically giving away.

- I have mentioned that - due to running a lot and not eating like horse - I have lost a lot of weight. One thing though that I didn't ever really give up was an insatiable appetite for chocolate. Which is good because it's one of the few sources of fat and crap that keeps me at a respectable enough weight (135 pounds) that I don't look horribly thin (if I drop below 132 something odd happens to my face and I look horrid). I've certainly lessened it but I still eat quite a bit. In the past I'd go get some actual decent chocolate (from Aldi) and hide it in the cupboard. Actually that's nonsense - I'd bring it home and then immediately eat it till it was all gone. But that store is a long way off so frequently I'd settle for Hershey's chocolate chips and perform a skillful dance of trying to eat them periodically throughout the day without my kids seeing me and then demanding some. It wasn't good chocolate - it was Hersheys after all. But in chip form it was tolerable. But it still had that undeniably bad flavor that I couldn't place. That was until another expat revealed to me recently that the flavor is butyric acid. And to make a long explanation shorter - it's the same flavor you get left in your throat after you've been sick. So Hershey's literally tastes like vomit. Now I can't eat it at all. I am going to wither away and die.

- After picking up walnuts yesterday with my kids I told them that some people still use them to dye clothes. Then I held my hand up to show them that my hands were stained brown. Which they were because I was holding dog shit in my hand. Both my kids were quite confused by that. So I re-explained and - like a tit - started rambling on about how a long, long time ago around The Dead Sea people there would crush up shellfish and rub that on their bodies to smell good. At which point my daughter looked at my stained fingers and wondered if the filth on it was related to that clearly nonsensical story. So I assured it wasn't. But I bet in this day and age I could sell a perfume/scent called Dog Shit. And why not - all the trendy ones these days have ridiculous names. Like Cumming: The Fragrance (good Lord...). Or Earthworm. Or Solar Donkey Power. There's even one called Funeral Home. So it's not absurd to suggest I could market and actually sell a product of dog feces-smelling perfume infused with the rancid odor of black walnuts. Except I'd have to make it edgy for the kids to buy it. Maybe Diarrhea. No - Urban Diarrhea. They'll be eating that out of my hand.

- This is the paradox of my next door neighbor. From what I know he's been on worker's comp for some time already. And shall be for the foreseeable future. He spends almost his entire time tinkering under the hood of one of the three almost-identical vehicles he has strewn about outside his house. All three are moved around like a concert to keep them in shade, off a spot of grass for too long and to make sure the engine ticks over. One for winter (the A/C doesn't work), one for Summer (the heating doesn't work) and a station wagon for when he wants to look flashy. The non-station wagon ones look dated and dinged up. The neighbor spends large quantities of time trying to keep the temperature inside them at a stable temperature. Opening windows and doors - then going outside to close them when it ALWAYS rains at 1pm. It fits in with his eccentric nature. Everything about him is pragmatic, simple and cheap (jn a good way I guess). But once every fortnight he changes out of his very practical but clearly old clothes and puts on nice slacks and a dress shirt - sneaks a Corvette that he hides under his house out and takes it for a ten minute sprint up the road. Then he comes home - hides it under the house - and then drives one of his battered, old cars around the block to make sure it runs.

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