Me: We're having a bath tonight!
Daughter: I know why daddy.
Me: Okay - why?
Daughter: I'm having one so I can find all the cuts on my body. You're having one because you smell.
I think it actually means more when a five year old tells you without prompting that you smell. Bath night it was then. My son also chimed in and asked why he would be having a bath. He did so with a wide-mouthed goofy innocent grin on his face - much like the Overly Attached Girlfriend meme of late. Did I mention that he was wearing a piece of bread and butter on his face as well? I might have forgotten that part. So yes - he was having a bath because he been wearing butter like it was Paula Deans' warrior face-paint.But me - it's because I smell.
Before I get into the meat and two veg of this post the below exaggerated woe-is-me pose my son has been radiating all day long. No - that's not accurate enough. It's more an, "oh when will the criminal injustice metered out to me by an uncaring overseer end? The only one who comes close enough to understanding my pain is Sysiphus - and even his tribulations are utterly dwarfed by my struggle" affectation. Purely based on the fact that he can't breathe through the mushy peas style gunk that's clogging up his nose. He literally will refuse to play games or even move from his martyr-pose because then it won't be obvious that he has been hand-picked to endure the worst injustice of all. Moan, whinge, complain.
Anyhoo - there are a few things in life that trigger an feral rage in me. I get angry at some things. But some things are so indefensibly evil that the torch-paper is lit and a volcanic eruption gushes out of me. I'm not talking about injustice, cruelty or being witness to brutality. Oh no - I mean small moments that make me snap. Like today - when it was 41 degrees AND SNOWING and a wasp emerged from nowhere and started beating on my driver-side car window whilst I was doing 55 mph. The level of immediate anger at the very notion that the little bastard was a) somehow still in the area, b) magically holding on to the car somehow, and c) threatening to figure out a way inside my window had me genuinely seething with anger. That sort of heathen witchcraft has to in some way be linked to foulness that is John Terry. This is Level One of Illogical Blistering Rage and sits snugly alongside not being able to scrape food off a frying pan regardless of tool used or brute force applied (which is scientifically impossible, by the way). A worthy mention at this level should also be given to the feeling reached on the fourth consecutive day of making your child oatmeal that they won't eat despite begging through tears for you to make it for them.
The next level of illogical anger is the wonky cornflake. I can recall moments of violent screaming as I poured milk innocently into a bowl of cornflakes only for it to hit a wonky flake and somehow the entire stream was funneled out of the bowl and all over the table. Again - a Noel Edmonds-level of nefariousness is afoot here based around an implausability or complete inability to explain what ton earth is going on. Like seeing Stewart Downing's name on the team sheet. Or another marvelous example being that in the last fortnight I've encountered something that makes no sense in any way. My son discovered on the ground where I always park an unopened tampon. He held it aloft his ahead like a tampon trophy as if to exclaim, "what a prize!" Two weeks later I found another one - unopened and pressed into the ground. Nobody parking anywhere near there has anything to do with tampons. So their presence is completely and totally bewildering. Are the squirrels (I'll get back to those bastards in a minute) using them? For bedding I mean? Shudder....
At the top of this list is the realization that a bee/wasp is in my home (All Shall Be Murdered). Also upon hearing my children repeatedly screaming from another room for me to come look at something inane - but absolutely refusing to either come to where I am to show me, or stop screaming about it. Or the fact that my dog seems to think a fun game is dragging pieces of masonry out onto the grass and shoving them into the dirt a little bit so that I can't see them - and then I consequently damage the lawnmower. Add the oft mentioned exceptionalist attitude of people who don't believe parking rules apply to them. Or when your nose starts to run like a fully turned on hose with no prior warning. Or when you're talking to someone and you inadvertently gob on them - giving the impression that you do this all the time because you have a lazy mouth. I also have a special accelerated-rage based on the ultimate in back-seat driving mentalness of when my wife screams/jumps/grips the inside of the car because she is certain we are all about to die - but we are driving at a leisurely 30 mph on an open road with no traffic in sight.And nesting atop this pile is - of course - using clingfilm.
But today I added a new one. But there's a surprising ending to it. And that was finding a squirrel sat on the window ledge of my living room window and not giving a single toss that I was stood the other side of the glass. I saw what the little red bastard was doing as well. I'm not claiming to have intimate knowledge (cough) of squirrels but the fact is it jumped up on the ledge - left a walnut in the corner - then buggered off to get another one and came back to eat the second one. Meaning - it thought my window ledge was a cracking place to keep a walnut for a later time. Now - I have a special place tucked away in the dark recesses of my soul just for hating squirrels. On a species-level I don't hate/fear/plan-their-joyous-genocidal-death anywhere close to the scale that I do of bees and penguins. But the fact remains that the house I live in was - for a decade - the abode of tens of neighborhood squirrels. And they hate me and my family for moving in. And - like a pathetic child - I hate them back solely for that reason. The little bastards try and get in the attic. They run around on my roof. They bury arseloads (that an imperial measurement calculated by the Queen herself and - in American - would approximately equate to a 64 ounce cup of Mountain Dew) of walnuts all over my yard. I haven't even mentioned the black-magic insanity of seeing a neighborhood squirrel a few days back dragging a half-eaten slice of pizza up the road.
But the worst is that they yell offensive things at me and my children (yes - you heard me). Take this this is where the red squirrel lives. It's one of the many suspicious lumps I've had around my property over the years.
Basically it's a collection of felled trees and half of the flooring from my old dining room that failed to get burned because it seems to have rained pretty much every day since it was taken outside. Into which moved a very happy but very gobby squirrel. Every time I venture outside it stands atop it's castle - that it appears to think it defeated me to win somehow - and chirps angry, screeching noises at us. I can't speak squirrel but I know a swear words when I hear one. I will admit to covering my son's ears when it gets particularly colorful.
All of which leads up to the moment when I not only observed this same mouthy bugger sat on my window and the realization that I was about to transform - like being possessed by Cthulhu - by the sheer audacity of it all. I felt the rising tsunami of anger swell up as I could see the little red fucker turning his back at the same speed as to match where I was stood behind him. But then - nothing. The red mist evaporated instantly and I didn't care at all. In fact I realized that while I had now added this instance to the pantheon of weird irrational rage - it had completely dissipated. The weirdo-level of contentment, happiness and blissful love that I've been bathing in non-stop for a good 8 weeks or so now is impenetrable - even by cheeky red squirrels dropping their nuts on my window ledge.
Do your worst Google - I've already won.