Apparently someone has been swearing around their kids.
Not me. Although I've been listening to an awful lot of British panel shows that I converted to MP3 so have found myself cursing up a storm when taking the garbage out and other menial tasks when I'm alone. But I'm very careful not to repeat such stuff around my kids after - two years ago now - hearing my daughter telling her mother that "Daddy fuck-yelled earlier". Been good as gold since then.
Anyway - someone else at school is repeating the stuff their parents say and all the other kids think it is hilarious. My daughter has told me which kid it is but she's also said another kid does it as well. So either she's confused or that class room is filled to bursting with foul language. The one kid repeats genuine swear words. He's not telling the teacher to go F herself or anything like that. But he does say "shit" a lot. And apparently he's very comfortable with telling others they are stupid, dumb and that he hates them. Thankfully my daughter has emotionally expressed outrage that this boy has complained that he has to "put up with stupid shit" that's going on in the classroom. But there's a milder version as well from some other kids. My daughter has said things like "what the heck?" over the last week or so. She's also told me that one boy says "what the H?" - which is a really popular thing that I heard often where I used to work. But after my daughter reflexively said "what the heck" for possibly the fifth time last week I told her not to say it anymore. Bad habits are broken quickly and all that. So she - always trying to find a Middle Way - went for the made up, "what the woozzy wuzz?" Which I had a hard time explaining was wrong. Then she changed to the one below. I was actually going to post this video just for my son's response to the question asked. A simple question answered with such blunt emotion that even though he doesn't say the words you can tell he's saying that I can indeed go F myself if I think he's putting up with this stupid shit.
I think we should all take a moment this morning to remember the heroic repair job I performed on the tumble dryer this week. I sawved my family at least $500 there. I single-handedly diagnosed and skillfully repaired a broken dryer-belt - leaving my children gasping in admiration and my wife panting with sexual pride. I want you to remember this because in a completely unrelated incident the dryer has stopped drying the clothes. I should point out is spinning the drum around wonderfully. It's almost as if the drum has been stabilized by the steady-hand of a master craftsman. But - and again I'm sure it's coincidental - the rest of the dryer is performing woefully. I decent analogy would be if the dryer belt were Lucas Leiva and I was the Liverpool Football Club physio. And I had majestically healed Lucas back to an astounding condition - repaired and better than ever. But for some odd reason the entire rest of the dryer/football club were performing appallingly. Particularly the useless control switch in the middle and the hopelessly awful thing stuck out wide on the left of the machine. I'm lying there - there isn't anything on the left of my dryer but I loathe Stewart Downing so much that I genuinely do think that his awfulness is in some way responsible for my dryer not working.
And lest my wife's amazement at my ability to operate a massive hot machine diminish (I am still talking about the dryer here) I would like to point out that she came home on Thursday with a bottle of Johnnie Walker so that she can impress the old men she works with. I know what you're thinking and yes - she does work with government employees. Anyway - to make a long story short there is a period of time during the late-night meetings/hobnobbing that goes on that is almost exclusively designated as Time For Whisky. I think it's a mark of commitment and savvy that she is prepared to try and acclimatize herself to a drink that she has no interest in drinking otherwise just so that she can involve herself in certain situations at conferences. Hilariously though when I mentioned this elsewhere some men felt compelled to tell me that she and I were on dangerous ground. One man helpfully told me that she is rubbing a planned affair right in my face. I'm not sure how much success that person has had with the plans they've come up with, but if they simply involve the equation of "Drink Whisky = Sex With Old Men" then well done to them. Then it transpired that he wasn't saying "my wife slept with men at a conference" but was saying "I used to deliberately get women drunk and sleep with them at conferences." e all but told me flat out that if she encountered a man like him that it mattered little whether she wanted to do it or not - it was gonna happen baby. Evidently part of his conference luggage was a bottle of Rohypnol and a blindfold. I thanked him for his warning and stated that as long as he wasn't at any of them I'm not to worried.
More interesting than that though were the pair of guys who took an entirely different tack and warned me that she - as a woman - was too stupid to not do it wrong and will end up having an affair entirely against her will. Hilariously I was assured that this wasn't personal. No - it was testament to the fact that women think they can do man-stuff but can't. I'm actually more amused by this idea because it revolves entirely around the idea that the man-whisky will touch her lady-blood and some sort of problematic chemical reaction occurs that leads her to lose all control of reasoning. At which point the men surrounding her (the Real Ones at least) will be entertained by her doziness and chuckle along at the woman playing pretend at being a grown up. And then have sex with her. Again - that's quite a world they live in. And while I know that the old fashioned attitude to men and women persists I wasn't expecting such a brazen Women Can't Do Big Words And Man-Thinking from two people. And all based around the demon drink as well.
On an entirely different thread - I think it's safe to say that you've probably bought too much Halloween candy if you injured your back buying it. Goodness knows what I did but the kids and I went out shopping for candy while their mother took a much needed nap. Obviously I considered alternatives to most of the awful stuff you can buy. And I learned of some very good suggestions more committed friends who wanted to move away from sugary things. But in the end the stuff I was buying isn't for us so it would have had a detrimental affect. Getting an unexpected Halloween thing from someone is nice. But when you open it up and there's no chocolate, candy or whatnot suddenly a nice gesture feels more like emotional warfare. So I went out to get loads of it and some Mounds for myself. I love Mounds (chortle....). But after sulking like a little child that all of it had been nabbed already (I'm probably on a website somewhere just looking personally affronted that other people would DARE buy MY chocolate) I managed to hurt my back.
First of all I should point out I wasn't aiming to buy the Mounds for Halloween at all. No I was using the opportunity to use that holiday as a cover for my own personal gluttony. But instead the local fatties got in my way first. Secondly I was twisting to put the last bag of crap into the cart when something started to hurt really badly. I had a severe case of Candy Back all afternoon (not to be confused with Back Candy - which is that white-waxy substance that enormous people develop between their fat-folds). When I woke up this morning it hurt even more and I'm worried that I might not be able to go for a planned long run in the rain. Oddly on of my hands that I used to carry the bloody candy into the house with is hurting like a bastard as well. It's somewhat ironic that junk food that I don't even like could find a completely different way to hamper another innocent person's quest for fulfilling exercise. Now I'm genuinely having a battle not to stuff my face with Mounds (got them somewhere else...) so that I can at least try running this afternoon when the wife gets home from work (or the bar - wherever she is). It's like I'm being attacked from two completely individual gluttonous sources.
I suppose one can't hurt...