Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Happy Christmas Your Arse


Sorry for the prolonged absence. I'm sure you've felt that void in your lives because a strange, English man hasn't let you know that his son told him he has an octopus penis (that was Friday) or that his daughter pointed out that she thought it was odd that there isn't a dog food flavor based on whatever it is they lick off their own balls and anus seeing as they seem to like it so much (Saturday morning). I know I've certainly missed the catharsis of sharing the random shit that is fizzing about in my brain. I've not had the chance to mention that I taught my kids last weekend - after seeing it on television - that when an ice cream van plays music that it means they've run out (that's bloody genius on my part, that is). Nor that the worst Christmas present I can think of this year were to be if Piers Morgan released a scent for his one, adoring fan to cack all over themselves ("you too can smell like a smug, vapid twat....").

Anyway - I have been moving house to somewhere where there wasn't anything. No furniture, no accumulate shit and no little things that make a house a home. That drawer we all have that you bung any old crap in? I haven't got one of those. So when I'm fiddling about for batteries, or a pen, or antiseptic wipes to get whatever that sticky stuff is off the bathroom window I've discovered that I have to go buy that stuff. Taken me longer than I expected to get all the basic stuff done. Add I'm working now. So that gaping, portion of time in the day when everyone else used to drive off to offices and abattoirs I think those are the only two options anyway) and I stayed home with the kids, has gone. So now I get the joy of sitting in a cube, surrounded by recycled air and trying to avoid that one weirdo in the building who I think I saw gnawing off the verruca on their foot in the back seat of their car in the parking lot.

Also (and more valid for this whole blogging thing) I have no internet service. That is bar the tiny, faint whiff of it I can get from stealing it from the neighbor. And then only if I sit at the end of my driveway near where the bins are. Add to make me feel like I live in the UK (and not the customer-service haven that the US thinks it is) I'm being repeatedly told by internet providers here that I already have service. Which I transparently don't. Yet amusingly I'm being told that I will need to pay an early disconnection fee and the remainder of the old bill before getting any new service. No amount of, "if I already have service then why am I calling you?" seems to be making a dent. I have also tried, "you can all go fuck yourselves you shower of Chegwins" - but that hasn't seemed to make a mark either.

Anyhoo - being as it's Christmas I wanted to say I hope all of you feel something in the way of joy this year. And, that even if you feel sunk within the mire of life - knee-deep in shit - that you sense that everything is always more or less alright in the end. Life is made up circumstances and other people. But happiness - whatever that concept means - is entirely up to you.

So Merry Christmas and enjoy the Winter Solstice. And if you can figure out what the point of the below decoration is supposed to be then please let me know.

Monday, December 9, 2013

The Pork Cheerio

I feel like I've been dipping my anus in bleach.

I used to own a cat that was so depraved that it genuinely bothered me. It did all the normal cat things that you'd expect. Especially that thing where when you stroke it in a particular fashion it would raise it's arse way up into the air in a slightly-too sexual manner. But worse was that every morning when I woke I would find it hovering in front of me - tail raised - winking it's disturbing, pink anus at me in the hope that something very unpleasant might happen. I never became comfortable with it. Good lord the thing looked like a pork Cheerio.

Anyhoo that horrifying image came to mind this past weekend after the kids and I got back from a local restaurant and they instantly began churning out that sour, stinging, diarrhea we all love so much. And considering that I and my girlfriend have spent the weekend getting crippling cramps and taking annoyingly frequent trips to the bathroom I've decided to blame it on the restaurant. It may be a stomach bug of sorts but considering the food wasn't particularly tasty anyway I'm more inclined to blame the oddly, greasy pulled-pork for the fact my ringpiece feels like I've been dousing it with Dettol (I haven't, by the way).

Carrying on in a similar theme my ex-wife was introducing the kids to her new other-half on Sunday. Which can be an awkward and odd thing to do. Especially on this occasion as the moment he did so he'd also meet his girlfriend's ex-husband in her house. Bit odd then. Obviously I'm not a turnip so I made every effort to make it all smooth and pleasant. After all if they're happy our whole family is happy. Add the ex and my girlfriend have got on very well indeed because quite simply there's no need for it to be weird once you've divorced on amicable terms. So - my job yesterday was basically to not have the kids bouncing around naked to techno, deranged and mental when they arrived.

Amusingly though my son had been taught that a really fun game is to jump on a stomp-rocket whilst pointed at, "the enemy" (which had been me all Saturday, for what it's worth). And when they walked through the door his gift to them was to twat them in the chops with that. A nice mood breaker I thought. Of course more amusing to me was that for some random reason I thought it'd be funny to teach them to pretend to be skunks all morning. Which entailed them crawling about pretending to spray everything with their arses for hours on end whilst listening to the rather marvelous Swastika Eyes by Primal Scream. Which they proudly carried out as I was leaving. I took some quality videos of it myself in the morning. The first one I debated putting up purely because as funny as it is it does wander somewhat down Savile territory. I'm well aware that innocent stupidness can be seen by some in an entirely different, evil light. But fuck them - it's hilarious. And the second video is a must purely because it's not often you see two skunk-children attempting to spray into each others arses.

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

The Eardrum Blade and The Stinky Mistake

Son: Daddy you're a stinky mistake.

It's been snowing like a twat over the last week or so. Which I hated last winter. This year though my son is far more mobile and delighted to be out in it - so I've liked the week or so of it so far. He pretty much just wanders off into the woods, finds a spot he likes and then pokes around in the ground like an arctic truffle pig. Add he's still only three - so he's shit at throwing snowballs at me, so I always win that game. That is until five minutes in when I can tell he's getting annoyed at being battered with snowballs and I have to lie down while he forcibly shoves fistfuls of ice down the neck of my coat.

Being the third day of December means having to endure wall-to-wall Christmas songs. Every parent knows the horror. I like Christmas songs. There is something innocent and breezy about most of it. Christmas songs in moderation are pretty nice actually. But hearing Dominic and his stupid fucking donkey every ten minutes is mental torture. Now my son is three he's got his own list of must-repeat favorites as well. Primarily I'm Gettin' Nuttin For Christmas. At least at his age it's still cute how hilarious he thinks it is. I do recall years back my old mother-in-law repeatedly playing a steel-drum novelty CD on repeat of Christmas favorites. I couldn't tell any of the songs apart at all - it all sounding like an utter mess of white noise. At least though with my kids replaying the same bloody seven or eight songs I don't have to endure the turgid, shit of Bruce Springsteen's horribly out-of-tune grunting, or the utter mind fuck that is The Christmas Shoes that was beautifully dismantled by Patton Oswalt.

What isn't hilarious is what a little fucking demon he's been. He's such a good boy. But when he loses it he goes full bore. It doesn't help that his favorite toy of late is a plastic sword and his favorite activity is stabbing people. Although I admit it was fun when he filled with rage and told his mother, "I'm gonna cut your eardrum." But of course being three means he's emotionally demented, so after she asked him what on earth he was banging on about he carefully explained that he'd been going to a, "rice cutting class" and just wanted to demonstrate that. But on her eardrums - which he'd just learned about on a Cat In The Hat episode.

Still - this is infinitely better than when he started screaming, "my penis is blue!" down the stairs after his bath yesterday. I assumed it wasn't. After all it hadn't been filled with orange juice, hadn't eaten a meatball nor had it magically turned into a mushroom - all of which he's yelled indiscriminately lately. I did have a fleeting worry that either he'd got some localized hypothermia or been rubbing his bits on the weird people in Avatar.

His sister is equally as marvelous lately too. On the plus side she came top of her class for all the metrics. Her reading is astounding. As in she can read everything without skipping a beat to think about it. She's also frighteningly good at maths. Still - I did have to watch her pick up a meatball covered in sauce with a spoon yesterday, before plunging it into her glass of milk and then happily drinking her, "lumpy milk" with glee. More importantly though she turned the television on yesterday morning and it was on a weird channel that was showing a religious show called Mass For Shut-Ins. She took one look at it and then asked over her shoulder, "Daddy - what's wrong with them?" I responded that it was hard to diagnose from this distance, but I think it's called Catholicism. I did quickly turn it over before I got to uppity when she started loudly laughing at one of the people on stage she thought was a wizard.

Over the weekend my kids saw Santa twice. Once in Old Forge and once at the fire hall down the street. They were not only impressed with how quickly he could get about, but also at the astounding weight gain he'd managed in just twenty four hours. Which is a bit odd because he doesn't look particularly portly in any way. Which presumably means the Santa they saw with their mother was disturbingly thin.

Helpfully my son also remarked that, "Santa smells different." There's all kinds of awfulness I could assume with that, but instead I just sat and watched my kids stuff their fat, little faces with donut-dots while other kids tried not to sniff Santa too much.

And of course I'm biased but every time I look at this photo of my daughter with a rogue polar bear that broke in to Santa's grotto I can't help but laugh. She's not convinced at all.

Right - I'm off to snarf chocolate mini eggs before anyone notices that I bought them.

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

The Estimation

Me: Owen - eat your oatmeal.
Son: I can't Daddy. My foot hurts. 

My daughter wants to be a weather girl. By the way - that's what she calls it. Not a meteorologist - but a full-bore weather girl. So that's not me being a borish, old-fashioned sexist there. I told her that the name weathergirl was for the type that was prevalent in the 80s on morning British TV who had no qualifications of any kind to sort out weather models - but just had long hair and tits. So she countered with the point that what she wants to do is find out where tornadoes are and then send those nutters from Tornado Chasers there so she can warn people about them. When I asked her if she didn't prefer to actually drive into a tornado she responded with, "no - I want to tell people what to do." Smart girl. Clearly taking after her mother there.

My son is also evidently getting smarter. I can tell because he's spent most of this morning trying to slot the word, "estimate" into a sentence. Annoyingly it's been things like, "Daddy - I estimate that you're stinky." Fortunately for me though his sister interrupted that joy by trying to teach him the son, "He's big, he's round. His bum drags on the ground. Daaaaaddy!!!" To be honest if he comes back before I leave for work and tells me he estimates that my arse is too big I will genuinely feel pride.

Obviously with my son having spent the formative years of his life with me at home it has meant that he takes after me more than he does his mother. So instead of a solidly empirical, analytical nature he's more creative and artistic. Which probably explains why he insists on wearing his pants backwards. And it's not just some flimsy, one-layered commitment to this either. He keeps slipping his underwear off and spinning that around as well. Which looks absurd but I've let him get on with it purely because this at least gives him practicing in getting dressed by himself. Still - he looks like a turnip.

And don't try and tell me he's "cool" for doing this. Because it instantly brings to mind the early 90s pre-pubescent, shit-hop nonsense of Kris Kross. And they were patently ridiculous. After all they did actually use the line, "wiggida wiggida wiggida wack" repeatedly in that song.

Anyhoo - perhaps this will lead to an end of his feeble excuses for when he doesn't want to do something for himself. A prime example being that he can't be bothered to go and get a book or toy himself because, "my eye hurts." Actually his preference is to say his legs hurt when he refuses to finish his dinner or breakfast. Which reminds me actually of more evidence of his artistic bent. I came into the kitchen (steady...) the other morning to discover that instead of eating his oatmeal he'd painted it. Admittedly the only evidence left is one small blob of reddish-pink - but considering I caught him literally red handed I know what was going on.

To be fair to him that might have been an accident. He could have been trying to paint the table or floor and it inadvertently got into his breakfast. And I only say that because he'd done such a spectacular job of pouring paint onto both floor and table (plus the chair and his own leg) that the whole paint-on-oatmeal thing could just have been collatoral damage. But then he did confidently gloat about how he'd painted his oatmeal - so I'm going with my initial claim.

Right - I need to convince my son to stop, "estimating" that his sister is a poop.

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

The Obsessive


You'll have to bear with me over the next week. I just started a new job so fitting in things like this suddenly seems almost impossible. On the bright side it should mean I'm more concise and brief than usual. It also means I get to test just how ignorant I am at working and being a one-parent dad (when I have the kids, obviously). I genuinely have absolutely no idea what people do when they get that 9.30am phone call from school/daycare that announces that their child just puked all over the floor and they need to come extricate them immediately. Not a clue.

On the other hand my son has managed to cram in a whole bunch of nonsense into Sunday and yesterday. Principally stomping around the house and chanting, "SAFETY ON YOUR PENIS". Easily the oddest town crier I've ever encountered. I have obviously tried to see the positive in his message and assumed that he's just adding together two things he's obsessed with (those being safety rules and the word "penis") and trying to pass on his knowledge to others. Which doesn't really follow because he spent a decent portion of Sunday telling his mother that he was going to find her penis. Her being her she laboriously explained that women don't have penises. They have vaginas, a uterus and Fallopian tubes and whatnot. Obviously those facts landed hard as his two responses were firstly that he would, "poop on your peep." You should note that he phrased that as a question somehow. When his mother deliberately ignored that and repeated the whole mantra that women don't have a pork truncheon but a bacon sandwich he joyfully concluded that he'd poop on that too.

That might sound annoyingly irritating (and it is) but it still very much beats his serial-killer good-night cuddle he gave me yesterday when he affectionately said, "I'm going to cut you Daddy." Thankfully he was too tired to follow that up with the inevitable point that it was going to be either my poop or my penis that he'd cut. Because I don't sleep as it is - and I'd rather not have to schedule special watches during the night to make sure he doesn't rush me with a carpet knife.

Anyhoo - his sister is demanding a cup of moose juice and Cheerios with Money. And I must oblige.

Friday, November 22, 2013

Thomas And The Peanuts

Evidently yesterday my son was mental. After he got home from daycare (where he was mental) he continued to be full-bore off his nut. He spent a good hour after getting home singing the song below. The daycare lady told me that he's been singing about peanuts for awhile now. I had to let her know that he isn't singing, "peanut" at all. No - he's singing, "penis." So I videoed him playing guitar and singing it. He even added a line where Mr. Worm shows up and eats it.

Thursday, November 21, 2013

The Grip Of Violence

Son: Daddy I want some candy. And if you don't give it to me I'm gonna kick you in the face.

I'm not sure when my son turned into a demon. Actually that's not fair. Most of the time he's the perfect little boy. But he is a boy. And whilst I do recall his sister's rabid, Tasmanian-devil, lunatic rages, she didn't generally saunter about the place being all punchy. My son though bombs around the house looking for someone to punch. Quite often he'll get the craving for violence - run into whatever room someone else is in and twat them - and then run right back to where he was. He can be playing with a toy or watching TV - doesn't matter. When the need arises he has to go twat someone.

I'm taking comfort in the idea that this is a boy thing, rather than an early indication of arseholiness. After all every parent with boys - or who has been to a playground where a bunch of them are running around all feral - has witnessed the wanton, unbridled aggression that seems to spill out of them. I was naively hoping my sweet, little boy would hold off on all that. But then it is seemingly primordial and an evolutionary thing. Still it'd be nice if he didn't continuously threatened to kick me in the face with a cheery smile on his face. Let's just hope and pray he doesn't evolve into one of those little bastards who takes great pleasure in keeping other people in the nuts.

I should point out to that he's a sneaky little bugger. Actually that's not quite true. Sometimes he's a sneaky little bugger. But he's also three - so he's often fairly shit at that. To clarify a little while ago I found candy wrappers under his bed. For a very short period he and his sister lifted a handful of Halloween candy and would then shoot off upstairs and hide under there to eat it. They thought it was such a good plan that my son couldn't not brag about it to me and his mother. After being chided for doing that (and for getting an unnamed, pink blob of something welded onto the carpet) he stopped doing that. However his mother was redcorating her bedroom and had to move some cushioned chairs out of there to paint. During which time she pulled off the cushions and discovered a big, fat handful of candy wrappers stuffed in there.

That was two days ago. Then this morning his sister was gathering some arts and crafts stuff out of the spare kitchen cabinets (we let the kids have two - that way they seemed entirely incurious about the rest of them) and found a bunch of Twizzler and chewable Jolly Rancher wrappers in there. Not carefully hidden either - he'd clearly just lobbed them willy-nilly in there thinking his plan was genius. But again - being three when you ask him about it he doesn't flip out with faux-innocence. He doesn't even use that opportunity to threaten to punch me in the bum cheek. No instead he grins with pride at how bloody brilliant that whole adventure was, and what a cracking hiding place he'd chucked the wrappers into.

Lastly he's been wowing people lately with his amazing jokes. He evidently heard the joke, "Why was 6 afraid of 7? Because 7,8,9..." Sadly he's spun that into something that goes, "Why were the numbers afraid? Because they are eating numbers!" He thinks it's hilarious. He also thinks any "joke" that he tells is hilarious - even if it is completely incomprehensible. The punchline for pretty much anything he says lately is, "mushroom!" At which point he explodes into laughter. Quickly followed by an attempt to punch me in the face.

Little bugger.

Monday, November 18, 2013

Mr. Crabs and The Orange Juice Hose

 Son: Daddy, why are you dying?

There is that famous adage that kids say the funniest things. Generally though that's based around spoonerisms or a slight confusion of words that mean two different things. However recounting those things to other people - whether they have kids or not - is mind-numbingly dull for them. Which is a polite way of me admitting that when my friend told me the hilarious story about how their daughter pronounces juice as, "jews" that I secretly wondered if that was a cast-iron clue that their child was Hitler reincarnate. My son though doesn't just do that nonsense. He does of course do things like tell people that you can get peanut butter just by picking your ears (he's apparently keeping the source of where you can dig out Nutella a secret though). Still - my son smashed these three out over the weekend.

1) All of yesterday morning my son kept calling me Mr. Crabs. Unclear as to why, but he had an evil glint in his eye that suggested that calling me Mr. Pediculosis Pubis would have been too obvious.

2) My son randomly asked me yesterday, "Daddy, why are you dying?" I did get to ask his mother later on what on earth that was about on the off chance that my son had overheard a hit-man being booked. Apparently not though (she seemed sincere, so I believe her). I did ask him why he said such a morbid thing but by then he'd run off to scream into his sister's karaoke machine.

3) During dinner on Saturday my son sang a song that only had one line. It being, "Daddy, you have orange juice in your penis." In case you're wondering that isn't true. Not this week anyway. He thought it was an amazing thing to have said judging by how impressed he was with himself. But not as impressive as when he revealed that dumping half a can of peaches onto the table that already has water spilled on it is how you make lemonade. There was a toy teapot under them, but I think if most of the stuff doesn't make it in then it was just a coincidence that it was there rather than the thing being aimed at. 

Quite honestly I think his imagination and creative ability with words comes directly from me. After all he has been in my presence during the birth of some of my finest inventions. For example he was there first-hand when I sketched the initial design for the crotchless bra. A triumph of ingenuity that one was. He was also home last year (although not in the room) when I invented something called The Dildog. Although to be honest I haven't decided whether it's intended to be a sex aid for a dog, or a dog-shaped dildo for people who really like their dog far more than they should. If it does ever make it onto the market (I'm hoping to see it in Walmart and Target just in time to be this year's ideal Christmas stocking filler) I do want to stress on packaging that it isn't to be used for both of those activities. Not without being soaked in bleach between each use, at least.

Moving on - here's my daughter's impersonation of a moose. I should point out that strictly speaking she said it's a Minion's impression of a moose.

And lastly she wanted me to take a photo of this leaf because it has odd, little black dots on it. I innocently asked if it had measles or the pox. She preferred my suggested that perhaps a chipmunk hadn't wiped it's arse properly and had tried to spell out, "please can I borrow some toilet paper?" by pressing it's anus on the leaf like you would when painting with a stamp.

 Right - I'm off to make some Nutella.

Sunday, November 17, 2013

The Pumpkin Pulverizers

The annual pumpkin thrashing took place yesterday. Try not to be terrified by my son's raw, animal man-rage.

Friday, November 15, 2013

Friday Fluff

Son: Daddy do you want to see where I go grow cheese?
Me: Not really, no.

My son wanders the house in the mornings with a bag containing his lunch. He wont let it out of his site. It's like a security blanket - except he's clinging to it with swelling pride. He loves the idea that he gets to pack and take a lunch to, "O-school". Which I suppose is good because he's been deliberately protesting every single dinner made for him for about a fortnight now. He gets fed very well indeed at his daycare - and what with his "second lunch" that he now takes he isn't starving at all. Actually the most notable thing about his dinner-protests is how mental they are. For example he'll take one revolted look down at his plate (after pleading for something to eat for at least an hour) and then remark, "....I don't like beans..." before affecting a forced, teenage shrug and pursing his lips so as to make it clear that whatever that shit is in front of him isn't up to scratch. The best part about that of course is that he does very much like beans, and he said that when there was a plate of chicken fried rice in front of him - so nary a bean in sight. So clearly he's being a dick - but in an expected, developmental way. It took us longer to get here than I thought it would anyway.

Speaking of disaffected youth, some time ago on a camping trip the state park staff showed the movie Despicable Me for the kids to watch. At the time my daughter couldn't give two tosses about that sort of movie. She still isn't remotely interested in big, Disney blockbusters. Put pretty much any Pixar movie on and she thinks it's too slick and shiny and rushes across the room to turn the television off. Anyhoo when it came out on DVD I got it out from the library. It must have lasted about ten minutes before my daughter did her own shrug at it and turned it off. She thought it was utter garbage. Not at all as awesome as the naff movie that was made purely to sell the cheap, blinking LED shoes that she wears.

Fast forward to the week before Halloween and she started mentioning the Minions from it. But mostly in a, "my friend at school likes Minions in the same way you like sausage Daddy." Now a few weeks later and she wont shut up about Minions. Absolutely everything that comes out of her mouth is about how Minions do this and that. She was given one by a school friend and wandered about with it remarking on how it reacted to every, single situation she encountered. Think of those knob-ends that think that Twitter or Facebook statuses are supposed to be a running commentary of their life on a quarter-hour basis ("Might have some toast..." followed fifteen minutes later by, "had some toast....") and you're getting close. "My Minion is sitting on the couch! He thinks it's soft!" "Do you know how a Minion says hello Daddy? It says, "hello!" That sort of thing. She even made a bed out of cotton balls for her Minion to sleep on at night (by the way - it better be at least a decade before I accidentally find suspicious, clumps of cotton wool like this in my son's room).

 Hilariously because Minions eat bananas (allegedly a focal point of the script there - no idea myself) she's packed herself a banana for lunch today at school despite hating them vehemently for years. I might sneak down to her school and peer through the window and watch while she struggles to eat it without wanting to vomit. Her gag-reflex is likely stronger than her obsession so it'll be an impressive sight. However if memory serves me right schools over here don't take to kindly to men hanging out in the bushes and watching kids munch on phallic-shaped objects whilst laughing uncontrollably.

One last thing - the other day I went outside and heard an extraordinarily loud noise. It being below freezing at night means most of the birds have buggered off somewhere warm. But it warmed up a touch and evidently the birds were riding the warm front to wherever they were going - because there were thousands of them in the trees outside my house. The video is pretty shit but here you go -:

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Erectile Dysfunction and The Boy Who Screamed Fart

My daughter's boyfriend came over on the weekend. He then proceeded to try and impress her by constantly repeating the word, "fart".

I spent yesterday morning doing two things.

1) Listening to my son - who was shirtless, by the way - telling me over and over that he is going to eat my underwear. I believed him completely.

2) Tried to explain to my daughter what erectile dysfunction is after she saw a commercial for medication on television. And by that I obviously mean tried to avoid the issue entirely. Not ready for that one thanks. After not managing to do so (she's a persistent little bugger) I went for the nuclear option and just yelled, "who wants cookies!!?"before making an excuse to vacuum in the basement for ten minutes. Close call.

Oh - before I forget - I came across this the other day (not literally - I'm not mental). It's a thing to fit to your kid's bed/cage so that they can get a drink whenever they want. It's the sort of thing you'd put in a hamster or budgie cage. I can't tell if it's colored white or is filled with gallons of breast milk like some odd 1930s Stalinist Russian factory. I wish I'd had one when the kids were little. It would have been really useful when I was sleeping and they wandered in through the cat-flap late at night.

Also lately whenever I take or pick up my kids for school they keep screaming, "DADDY IS A CRAZY DRIVER!!!" Two things to note here -:

1) I am not a crazy driver.

2) They often start screaming this before I've even left the driveway. Car may not even be turned on yet.

Not sure what prompted them to accuse me of such a thing. Nevertheless it is somewhat fun for me to watch them flinging themselves around in their seats as if they were crash test dummies. However it isn't quite as fun to hear them recount the drive to daycare/school by telling everyone that I drive like a twat. That's the problem with kids - they tell everyone EVERYTHING that goes on - even if it's patently untrue. Fortunately this also means they tell me everything too. Can't hold it in. So I get to find out if someone's parents think I'm a dick or cute or whatever. Which is helpful. Especially as a teacher and the lady in the office have remarked on my insane driving skills.

My son though is also in that frame of mind where he tells you how he feels to the extreme. So when I came back from the girlfriend's on Sunday his first reaction was to tell me he doesn't like me anymore. This after (according to the ex-wife) he spent all morning telling anyone who would listen that he couldn't wait for me to get there and that he loved me. Ah well. At least he forgets after ten minutes and then just starts being cuddly and demanding to be held. He doesn't ever forget to get back to threatening to eat my underwear though.

Anyhoo - my daughter has a boyfriend. I'm sure she gave a different name last time I asked her (or was it several names?). But she really likes a boy in her class so her mother arranged a play-date for them. She hadn't had one of those for quite awhile. Her and her friend had a great time running around, screaming into microphones and pretending that they were being chased by a fart. Which is quite possible knowing my children. My son claimed that his friend "from the bakery" (not a clue) was coming over too. But when he/she/it didn't show he claimed he "must be stuck in snow somewhere." Yeah, probably.

Now I don't remember what feeble ways I indulged in to impress new friends. I do seem to remember actually paying someone a pound once to play with me. And then they didn't. They had a pound now you see - so they went and bought a pic-n-mix and a copy of the Dandy. I also remember letting someone take my Millennium Falcon home so that I could kiss their sister (did too). Didn't even live in the Third World at the time either - although it was Hereford, which is awfully close. But I was surprised by the force and frequency that my daughter's friend kept repeating the word, "fart." No idea if he does that at home but boy did he go nuts. Just harmless fun obviously. But after hearing him yelling, "to fart and beyond" into a very loud microphone, followed quickly by, "I'm going to fart on your face" at my son, I quickly interjected. My kids simply don't use that word. Not to say they're better or anything - they won't shut up about using the word, "toot." I just don't use it myself being that it has a round "r" sound in the US - and I don't like using words like that. Amusingly right after telling my own kids that they aren't to say things like that because it's rude my son took it upon himself to remind the boy that, "yes, it's rude." Obviously he kept it up. Got to admire the commitment and endurance at least.

Lastly I thought you'd like to see my daughter's Wall Of Whores. She doesn't call it that obviously. They're magnets that you keep on the fridge and can dress up. But she also doesn't dress them up properly and then randomly shrieks that she can see their knickers.

Thursday, November 7, 2013

The Ghost In Your Underpants

Son: Yay!! Daddy likes me!!

Sorry - I've been awfully busy. Still am in fact so this will be thankfully short.

That above was my son's response at being allowed dessert yesterday. Not sure what I'd done to give him the impression that I didn't like him. But it did remind me how temporal each particular emotion a three year old holds can be. He hasn't told me since that I don't like him, so I'm happy with that. He has, however, told me, "you have a ghost in your underpants Daddy." Which sounds like a cruelly harsh judgement of the usefulness of what goes on in there now I'm divorced. I tried to mae a, "putting the willies up someone" joke back to him, but he didn't get it at all. Probably because he's American.

My daughter has also come up with a fascinating new organic method of gluing things together. She waltzed up to me while she was eating breakfast yesterday and told me to come look at something she'd, "invented." Next to her bowl of cereal was a blob of paper being held together by what I think was an inadvertent spillage of milk. Which she had then rubbed into the paper with a glue stick. At which point she noticed how it all stuck together (more dissolved, really). She's going to market the product very soon as Moo Sticks. She thinks it'll be a real winner.

I've also made you all a brand new screen saver. Technically I just took the photograph and my daughter made the actual visuals happen. It's actually quite innocent in context as she has paint under her fingernail and wanted me to see it. Not sure what the absurd emo-posturing is about though. Still - it's a marvelous thing.

And if that sort of thing is unnaceptable here's my son and I pretending to be elephants (don't panic...).


Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Chocolate Sausage Two: Spoonfeeding Failure

So, I want you to take a look at this.

That's my son with holding on tightly to a teaspoon. It's in a mug of hot chocolate. It did have rainbow marshmallows in there - but he's eaten them. Notice anything else? Against every inclination I have to obey a modicum of decency or societal norms I want you to look at his crotch. No - I don't work for the BBC so it's okay. Trust me. See how there's a telltale damp circle? Most parents will think they know what that is. But no. That isn't urine. Oh no. Instead what I caught him doing was, "feeding hot chocolate to Mr. Winkie."

Now - I want all of you with kids to do a little exercise with me. Add up all your parenting successes and proud moments on a piece of paper. If you are so inclined go ahead and make a tally chart. If you're a full-on nutter feel free to even graph your results. Now tally all the moments of failure or embarrassments. And do some very simple mathematics and deduct that from your original number. Chances are that all in all you are still well ahead on the plus side of things. Bear in mind that a lot of those negatives are also valuable learning experiences for everyone as well. Now scribble out all those negatives so that all that remains are the wonderful plus points. Now underneath that write down, "I just found my boy spoon-feeding his penis hot chocolate with marshmallows in it."

Congratulations - you just earned minus 100 Dad points.

Monday, November 4, 2013

The Arse-Punching, Sausage Chanting, Pig Thief

Son (singing): Daddy has a chocolate sausage.
Me: Plastic, please.

My son is insane. Not in-a-mall-with-a-flamethrower,insane. But it would appear that over this past weekend something has clicked off in his brain that has veered him toward playful madness. For example - loudly declaring to a packed grocery store cashier's line that I am a chocolate sausage. Just because it's true doesn't mean he should broadcast it. In fact this sausage theme seemed to be the pillar upon which his weekend was built. Hence why he was marching around the house chanting, "Good People, Good Sausage" like a demented druid for much of Sunday. When he wasn't chanting that he was scampering from room-to-room to find out wherever I was just so that he could punch me in the bottom. And then run off again.

At one point I was sat calmly reading. His sister was pleasantly sat on the floor coloring. With a distinct look of seriousness on his face he wandered over - filled with purpose - and told me flatly, "You're out of the club." Not being entirely sure what club this was, or that I had ever been in it I asked what on earth he was talking about. He fobbed off my initial question. In fact he cut me off and repeated again, "you're out of the club." I felt there needed to be a change of strategy so I faked an air of desperation and whelped, "Really!? But how do I get back in!?" The seriousness drained from his face and was replaced by derision. And then he genuinely said, "You? You could try working..." and then ran off at full speed into the kitchen. The instant thought of, "you cheeky bastard" rolled through my mind. But considering I had no idea what he was going on about I figured I'd just let it go. Annoyingly he came back a few minutes later to attach the addendum that, "Mr. Worm is in the club." As he turned to run off again he stopped, turned and stated, "...and so is the ghost." Then buggered off again. He didn't mention any club again for the rest of the day. And even though I'm still none-the-wiser I still somehow felt left out.

I should mention in passing too that he did go see this guy over the weekend too. That sociopathic stare on his face is pure, unbridled joy by the way.

But that wasn't the real indication of descent into delirium. Rather that came Sunday afternoon as I was preparing dinner. I was going to make a nice pork tenderloin thing. But unsurprisingly the meat I'd purchased stank to high heaven. So I had to make what seems to be the fortnightly trip back to the grocery store to point out that - once again - something I'd bought there the day before smells like it had been left to fester in the sun for a week before being packaged. Needless to say I didn't take the offer to "pick out another one" and traveled a mile or so into the next town to a different store. When I got home with a pork sirloin I chucked together a dry-marinade for it, rubbed it all over and then set to taking the garbage outside.

When I came back the entire kitchen smelled incredibly strongly of garlic and rosemary. And so did the spare room. Too strongly. The real indication that something was amok was that there was marinade all over the floor. Add the pork was missing. Knowing that the dog was outside I crossed him off the list of possible suspects. My son then wandered in - face completely free of guilt - but holding his hands in such a way that told me that he had something unpleasant on them that now meant he wouldn't be able to use them for a good hour or so. So while his general demeanor suggested all was fine, his hands betrayed him.

Now my son is a very good boy. He very rarely does anything you could label as wrong. He'll test the boundaries and have the odd tantrum. Normal three year old stuff, basically. But outside of that the only thing I recall him doing that he knew he shouldn't was taking candy upstairs to his room and secretly eating it under his bed. And that was actually his sister's idea. Add "secretly" is being misused completely here because as soon as he got half way through he came down stairs to whisper to me that he was secretly eating candy under his bed. So I had no reason other than the incapacitated hands to think my son had any incling of what was going on.

So I casually asked to the room (but pointed the final part of the question toward him), "where is the pork?" To which my son, chuckling but still desperately trying to keep his hands spread wide so the fingers don't touch each other - said, "I hid it." With a big, fat smile on his face too. I was impressed with how I not only kept my calm but that I didn't weird-out at how bizarre that statement was. After asking him what he meant he went through the usual rigmarole when he has hidden something of showing me exactly where it was. And then beaming at what a great trick he'd played, and how fabulous he is for finding something so quickly. He led me out of the kitchen and into the spare room, past the old CD case that his sister now keeps all my old unwanted CDs that was lying on the floor. On top of which, by the way, was a big chunk of marinade. Then he gleefully scootched down and peeked under a pile of stuff that was on the couch in such a way as to suggest that what I'm looking for is hidden (very badly) under it. And by, "it" I mean a couch cushion, a huge coloring book, a wooden snake (presumably to ward off looters) and a seventy-six key, electronic keyboard that he'd plonked wonkily on top of the rest of the stuff. And there - squashed underneath - was the pork. Still on the little cutting board I'd been using as well. Although judging by the spatters of marinade in various places it hadn't remained on it for the entire journey.

Now he has never done anything like that. It's just too mental. So, bewildered I asked him why he'd done that. I was quite impressed actually that my mouth asked that but that my brain very loudly said, "what the fuck are you doing?" Without answering he cheerily ran off upstairs. No excuse given at all. It transpired later on in the day that his only reasoning was that he, "didn't want that for lunch." Which is a cast-iron defense if ever there was one. Thankfully though after that he didn't follow it up with anything close to as demented.

Still kept punching me in the arse though.

Friday, November 1, 2013

The Gentleman Rapist

Me: You've had the poops all afternoon. You have to have a bath.
Son: Can't I just put my bum in the washing machine?

Halloween is one of those days where all the things you've learned as a parent seem to go out the window. Everyone looks like a stranger (well - strange, at least). And you waltz about in the dark close to bedtime knocking on strangers doors asking if they have anything to give your kids. I considered ramming the oddness home by dressing as Gary Glitter or Jimmy Saville, but figured that a) that was wildly inappropriate, and b) no bugger around here would know who I was dressed as so instead I'd get paranoid that I was in some way dressing up as some sort of homage to despicable British nonces. Obviously it's up to you as a parent to not just let your kids guzzle everything down to the point of vomiting. But considering that willpower is suspended under the guise that you've bought that bag of Mounds (quite the interesting return in Google Images for that one) "for the kids" and yet they will never see a single one of them, says it all. Add considering my daughter sat in school all day long chowing down various lollipops and chewy things at her desk - a complete diversion from the norm - I should have noted that her candy intake had already exceeded 300% of it's usual weekly intake well before Trick or Treating actually got underway. Tucked in amongst that candy, by the way, were some of those God-awful Halloween Peeps things. I don't know for sure if anything in them is actually a food. I'm fairly confident if the UN chemical weapons inspectors somehow took a wildly, ridiculous wrong-turn in Syria and ended up in my daughter's classroom that those things would be the first proof that Weapons Of Mass Destruction are so commonplace in US culture that six year old children actually eat them.

Nevertheless I made the silly error of popping out to the store early to buy some ring doughnuts. I don't think that at any Halloween so far that my kids have attempted to bite them off string. They know about it (from a Curious George book principally - but also from some cartoons) but I can't recall ever doing it. Incidentally I should point out that whilst checking out at the cash register the young lady there rung up my bill and then asked, "can I interest you in a flu shot today?" At what point did that become an impulse buy? I realize that the entire front entrance of pretty much every grocery store is littered with massive signs advertising the bloody things (it honestly looks like a protest rally) but I didn't assume a flue shot would be offered up in quite such a manner. And you can tell it isn't some socialist, welfare concern for the common health of the populace either - because clearly then it'd be tests for hypoglycemia and free BMI info judging by the massive quantities of Monster and doughnuts hoovered down around here.

Having said that I did just buy three doughnuts (no Monster though - I'm not an idiot). But after I'd arrived with my snotty son to find my daughter fading fast (her turn for the shitty cold) in her classroom - plump with weird-colored candy-wrappers strewn all over the place - I figured I'd skip the whole doughnut thing. Especially as they would clearly get an entire bag of chocolate and cnady from our street alone once they went out Trick or Treating. No bobbing for apples either. Could just do that for a laugh next week though...

And obviously part of my responsibility for the evening was to be the giver of candy if anyone dares show up at my door. The past few years I had absolutely nobody for three Halloweens, and then an absolute avalanche of two (might have been three - but frankly I was dizzy with counting so high) separate visitors!! This year I got one visit. They buggered off with a handful of Milk Duds (good luck with the emergency dentist visit tomorrow...) and Heath Bars (gack). No Mounds though. Don't know where they all went. Cough.

Anyhoo - my costume this year was an homage to last year's impressive Captain Cheesestick outfit. and by that I mean I wore my normal clothes and just the mask. Then wandered around the yard in the dark so I could see if anyone was coming down the road. It might have been a reason no-one showed up. It does have a strong-air of The Gentleman Rapist about it (a title still firmly held by Jimmy Carr). Still, it kept the dog quiet so I was happy about that.

And just to tie this whole thing together here's an obligatory shot of the kid's Jack-o'-lanterns.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

My Son Has Flavored Underpants

My son has flavored underpants.

I used to get over-irritated when my ex-wife would refer to shampoo or shower gels as having a flavor. She'd never refer to them as having smells. But then I think that's fair enough seeing as they tend to come in the same colors as WKD vodka do. My son though has just had his underwear supply boosted. He's been prancing about in the same knickers we bought him way back when he was just about one year old. And considering he's the far-side of three years old that's quite something. Which does actually back-up a long held point I have that nobody I know can actually get mass-produced clothes to fit their kids. Granted I don't have fat kids - but a three year old shouldn't be expected to wear a belt with EVERY SINGLE pair of jeans he owns.

Nevertheless, he does insist that his underpants are based around food. His hunting-orange ones are Pumpkin Pants. The green ones are Pickle Pants. And the red ones are Ketchup Pants. I for one can imagine Heston Blumenthal being a pretentious, deliberately-obtuse pillock by serving a stew of my son's flavored underwear on his menu. But then seeing as he does have shows on the BBC that's probably a big clue for Operation Yewtree to pay him a visit. Obviously I'm not saying he's a nonce, but this sort of photo would get you locked up 9 times out of 10 unless you are conveniently claiming to be a chef. And that claim is clearly tenuous seeing as I have seen him dribble white-chocolate over asparagus - which apart from clearly being repulsive has way too much suggestive imagery going on.

Anyhoo - after a grim start to the day yesterday my son perked right up. It was pretty easy to determine he was better. After all he was running around in just underpants (Blueberry flavor, incidentally), with his penis sticking out of the flap-thing repeatedly yelling, "how dare you!!!" whilst stabbing things with a plastic sword. Uncanny that his favorite game also happens to be my job. Later in the afternoon he helped me clean out the basement (I did the actual cleaning out, he whacked the stairs with a ball-peen hammer).

Then later in the afternoon he helped me clean all the bedding in the house. Being as thrillingly interesting as I am I felt the need to tell him how odd it was that Americans in this area seem to have an aversion to duvets. And I don't mean the feeble, thin cack you can buy at Bed, Bath and Beyond for an absurdly high price. I mean the kind that brags it has a higher Tog rating than a Sherpa's insulated knickers. My son only knows the joys of a damn, good thick duvet so asked what Americans (how little he knows about himself...) use instead. I tried to claim it was custard at first. He didn't buy that. So I gave in and said sheets. Which revolted him. He begged me to know why. Being a dick I said that possibly it's left over from the Fifties so that simple, white sheets could be quickly converted into a handy Klan uniform. Then I added that it might be a hold over from French influence in the War of Independence because the French always need a way to quickly foist a huge white, surrender-flag at any given opportunity. He blinked a lot. In the end we agreed it was because people around here just like pretending to be ghosts a lot because that creates the illusion of a history that isn't really embedded very well.

Right. I have more basement nonsense to get on with. So here's a photo that looks like I'm making my kids dig their own grave.

And as a bonus - here's me naked in the bath. Oh yes - this blog has definitely just taken on a Baywatch Nights vibe.

And just to be clear - that blue thing is a bath-mat. I'm not leaking anti-freeze from my anus. That's just a vicious rumor....

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Weak And Feeble

Me: Okay buddy - I have to drag the garbage around front.
Son: Leave the dog with me Daddy. I want him to sit with me.

Jeez - he is sick. He's never once (in the daytime) asked for companionship when I've had to go do something in the yard for 10 minutes. He woke up (vaguely) this morning, rolled around and went to bathroom, then collapsed back in bed for two more hours. I kept popping up to see how he was and it was clear he'd tried to get up - but just couldn't. So in the end I sat next to him reading for an hour.

It actually reminded me (for no good reason) of an episode of House where a guy discovered that his illness made him not-a-genius (they'd obviously ruled out Lupus quite early on). The doctors could medicate him of all the life-threatening guff - but he'd have to take a certain medication to cure him of some brain issue that made him dumber than he actually was. But his quirk was that when he was super-smart he loathed his girlfriend because she was just too dumb for him. I suddenly was wracked with fear that maybe my own medical issues have the odd side-quirk that I'm besotted with sausage. What if I could actually be cured of all the grim shit - but it would also take away my sausage-love? What if sausage is trying to kill me!!!

He's been up for about 45 minutes now and hasn't even sat upright yet. Boy Flu is infinitely more painful to watch than Man Flu. But I had to go out and move crap to the curb. And it's officially cold now. There's a veneer of frost on everything. Anything still clinging for dear life to trees is dropping off dead. It is officially as cold as...

Right - we're gonna sit around and read. I'll try bashing through a big chunk of The Adjustment Team whilst he's too weak to pay attention to the fact I'm not reading about trains.

Monday, October 28, 2013

Tracy Emin's Vagina Candle

Son: I can't eat this yoghurt Daddy. It makes my eyes close.

At which point he demonstrated it by taking a spoonful and then laboriously closing his eyes. I asked him to show me again and he did. I kept asking till his yoghurt was gone too. Because I'm smarter than him. I win.

Actually he's been doing that a lot lately. And by that I mean lying. But in a friendly, jokester kind of way.He makes claims about the most mundane nonsense that can't possibly be true to get out of doing some things. But nicely he also does it just to be ridiculous. A common one for not being able to do much of anything work-wise is to say, "my legs hurt too much." Obviously I had to do that thing where I actually check (and worry, slightly) that his legs do actually have a long-term pain in them. Usually by picking him up after he says it and making an off-hand remark about milkshakes or some such thing. Then as he scampers off at a sprint I'm fully aware he was making it up entirely. But obviously I prefer it when he just completely talks out of his arse and claims that he can't come pick his shoes up right now because, "it makes my nose fall off." Much better than the oddly-threatening response of, "I can't Daddy because then I'll have to hurt you."

And apropos of nothing I wanted to show you this monstrosity.

It was a rather beautiful, three-pronged, massive candle that my friend lovingly cared for. It was fantastic. It's obviously seen better days. Actually now it looks like some God-awful monstrosity that Tracy Emin might have made to look like a wax model of an Oompa Loompa's vagina. Which, for some reason, someone has poached an egg in.

Anyhoo quickly moving on. I keep forgetting to mention that my son is constantly exhausted in the afternoons now. Going to daycare has really opened him up. He would have moods prior to going of being excessively shy or boisterous. Now he's just boisterous. Talks to anyone. But having a thing to go and do means that around 5.30 everyday he just crashes entirely. Which is poor timing for him because that's what time dinner is. He's been demanding to be put to bed around 5.45/6pm every day. And he'll drop off to sleep instantly too. Makes a big change from 8pm, I can assure you. Still would happily get up at Twat O'Clock every day too if his mother hadn't so diligently managed that side of things by telling both kids they can't go do anything fun until at least 6 - so don't bother getting up. The excitement dissipated quite quickly there and they often have to be woken up to get ready for school now.

I did take a bunch of photos at the Halloween party the kids went to, but they're all uniformly blurry. Especially sad as I had one where a kid was strewn upside down hanging off a fire engine, and underneath someone had spilled juice. But out of context it looked as if a midget dressed as Fred Flinstone had smashed their skull open and was dying. Which I thought was funny, anyway. Instead all that came out was this one of my son in blue dinosaur/dragon (depending on his mood) with his mother. She dressed uptoo without my knowledge. So I ended up going to a party as the only member of a family not dressed up - ergo looked like a joyless twonk. So I just told people in a very Hugh Laurie/Christopher Biggins English accent that I was dressed as an American man. I'd litter my speech with references to school killings and breakfast pizza to seem more authentic as well.

I like though how - if you just quickly glance at the photo - that it looks a bit like my son is urinating a delightful golden stream. He has the look of concentration and everything.

Sunday, October 27, 2013

The Sunday Roast


My son and I popped over to the library yesterday to get a DVD. It was only 35-40 degrees outside and intermittently raining. 45 minutes north of us it is cacking it down with wet snow. So - basically a day wherein you can go out but you get inexplicably wet now and again and ridiculously cold due to that. Whilst at the library we were told excitedly that R2D2 was downstairs. I quickly racked my brain to remember whether I'd somehow missed my meds for a fortnight. Nope - bang up to date. So the librarian must have just said that. My son doesn't have a clue who that is. So I told him there was a robot and down we went. At which point we witnessed this sacrilegious nonsense.It's such an appalling mental-rape of what I know from the original Star Wars films that it must have been sanctioned by George Lucas himself. No-one else on this planet would gleefully destroy dreams like that.I mean seriously - look at the bemused look of indifference on the kids faces as a naff looking garbage can twerks about playing shit techno-pop.

The below video isn't particularly interesting. Add it makes me look demented because while I KNOW I was pointing at squirrel nests (they little buggers are everywhere and seemingly rabid at the minute) it looks like I'm randomly pointing into the trees and honking, "look! Millions of them! Don't fire until you see the white's in their eyes!!" But the reason I uploaded it is because my son spent the entire day running around as if he was drunk. Not a straight line for hours. I think it's because an online expat friend of mine is visiting the UK and has posted photos of himself gorging pickled onions and knocking back cans of Special Brew. It's upset the cosmic balance and made my son permanently loopy.

And this is quality. Stuck in a Fire Hall with an arse-load of demented kids, past their bed-times and  fueled by synthetic sugars and expected to behave like monsters? Yeah I'll have some of that please. Especially as one is killed with a sword.

Saturday, October 26, 2013

Binge and Purge

Don't have the kids tonight. So the plan currently is...

Followed by...

It's gonna be a mad one.

The Boy With No Arms

Daughter: Ok - so you have to buy plain M&Ms for my Halloween party at school Daddy. But get ones without food coloring because the teacher says that the one boy in my class is already crazy, and if he eats food coloring he'll go cuckoo.

I did two things yesterday that seriously question my credentials as a good parent.

1 - I bought my kids two plastic swords at a thrift store. And obviously they then spent hours battering the utter shit out of each other.
2 - I also bought a pink, sparkly velour tracksuit for my daughter. While it is part of a Halloween costume I can't help but believe that if she grows up to be a bona fide hussy that this purchase has gone a long way to pushing her in that direction.

For Halloween my daughter wants to be Pinkie Pie. So her mother agreed to cobble together the bits and pieces to make that outfit and I agreed to go purchase all the bits. So after bopping around looking for a pink wig and ears that look like a horses I made the bigger mistake of stopping at Subway to get the kids a sandwich. The only reason I stopped there is because it was the place in the mall we were stood closest to when I'd had enough of my son whining about how he wanted to eat Halloween candy immediately. And the fact I hadn't let him proved somehow that when his mother and I had signed the divorce papers I had confessed to being intrinsically evil. It really does serve me right for showing him all the Halloween candy I'd purchased in the mistaken belief that doing so would buy his mother and I another whole week of not giving him any because that would ruin the big day itself.

My daughter was quite excited by the idea of eating a meatball sub-sandwich - being as she is convinced that meatballs make any meal better (I know for a fact that she'd gleefully eat meatballs and ice cream at the same time) - but my son seemed to catch the betrayal in my eyes as I stopped to buy food made of various ingredients that all smell and taste exactly the same. Having just paraded around a grocery store that smelled entirely of fresh bread it really emphasized the bewildering odor that Subway seem to spray all over the place to lure customers in. Actually I'm of two minds here. Either that smell is formaldehyde - used to preserve all the ingredients indefinitely. And as I don't know what formaldehyde smells like I could be convinced it is that. Or (and more likely in my view) it's the only smell that corporate boffins have so far found that can entirely mask the putrid, evil stench of all those weird vacuum-sealed packets of meat and vegetables that Subway employees openly flaunt when people ask for a sandwich. Frankly here I'm assuming that identical discs of meat that come in small, plastic packets that some sort of odd yellowy-urine liquid in there with them smell quite atrocious. Therefore a large proportion of Subway's profits have been pumped back into R&D to come up with some scent that can hide the piss-ham odor. I've even gone so far as to crowbar in the belief that years back whichever Del Boy was sent out to buy massive quantities of reformed, reconstituted meat parts turned up back at headquarters with the story that he's landed an enormous stash of it for 1/50th of the price - but that the only downside is that is covered in piss.

Anyhoo my daughter ate that quite happily. My son had fixated his brain so laser-like on candy that he didn't even unwrap his half. Ironically in a cruel twist ten hours later he would happily go up to bed after eating an apple for a bedtime snack whilst his sister went demented-mental because she fucking-well wants candy. Still - I did get most of the things we were after. One being a pink, velour tracksuit. To be fair it's a pretty standard outfit for girls of my daughter's age. My own perception of them is tainted by the fact that when I went to college for my Masters it was the de facto outfit for certain young women hoping to emphasize that, as modern feminists, they could accentuate their independence and intellectual worth by having their tits leaking out the top and their arse look as if the material has been sprayed on. It was quite popular then to have one-word slogans written across the back of the pants too (Juicy probably being the most notorious) - but mostly that was avoided because it deterred from the fact that then you couldn't see every crevice and bump snugly displayed across each cheek. It always reminds me of Johhny Vegas' point on TV Heaven, Telly Hell (one of the finest moments on television that also includes Vegas' legendary turn on Room 101 where he describes life online better than anyone else ever will) where he derides Sex And The City's central point that you can find female emancipation and empowerment by taking it up the arse. Add that I personally hate all kinds of tracksuits and sweat pants. Not in the, "sweatpants equals giving up on life" sense - but because I think they look fucking awful and feel uncomfortable. All that loose, saggy material feels vile. Add it automatically makes my sense of logic disappear as I imagine that somehow wearing sweat pants means that if I had to run somewhere my tallywhacker would flail about like a loose limb. It's almost as if I've transposed the clear lack of comfy knickers worn by the velour-ladies at college across gender lines and assume that if I was wearing sweat pants I'd have to go without as well.

I'm straying off the point anyway. That being my daughter wants to (and shall be) and horse for Halloween. Her brother told me yesterday he wanted to be a rock. Or a boy with no arms. Quite esoteric but here's the costume he made himself.

Luckily we went to a proper Halloween store and it piqued his interest to be something more exciting. Add also his sister put this scary-as-shit thing on. It's little touches like that over-sized mask that would make a horror movie way more chilling. None of this kids facing the corner or screaming - just put the wrong sized head on them. Nightmare fuel at it's best.

 They liked this hting a lot though. I like how my daughter instantly lay under it and pretended to be eaten, while my son grabbed it's gob and my son bellowed "I'm going to eat your bum cheeks" so that most of the store could hear him.

Now if you'll excuse me - I hear my son wombling about upstairs so I only have a few seconds to find those bloody plastic swords and hide them.

Friday, October 25, 2013

Fast Friday Fluffing

Son: (in the bath) Are you peeing Evelyn?
Evelyn: Only out of my mouth.

Kids have a day off school. And they have been up since 6am. So I'm a touch busy. But thankfully my son is still photogenic.

And as the first Halloween party is tomorrow...

Thursday, October 24, 2013

The Innocence Of Wonder

When I was twelve I woke up in the middle of the night and knew what the meaning of life was. By the time I woke up again in the morning I'd forgotten what it was. Still can't remember. You have no idea how incredibly frustrating that is.

I've used almost exactly the same intro as that to this blog before. Not just because I think it's a good one (although I think it is - I even have an unseen short story that starts much the same way). But because every now and again I realize that I while I think I'm relatively clever I don't actually know much at all. And I really did wake up back then and was convinced I had it. Mainly I'm reminded of what I don't know when I listen to a Christopher Hitchens debate or to a Stephen Fry lecture and it's clear that their genuine intellectual curiosity translated into genuine learning (I mention them over academics because they learn/ed out of love rather than it being tied to a salary). Or to John Lloyd explaining what it is we all don't know and realizing that he got to a point in his life where he genuinely decided to stop procrastinating and to actually learn about the things he had put off his whole life because he figured he'd do it later. Or when I realize that I've started but not finished all sorts of guff about Greek philosophy, about and the historicity of christian theology ( how Pope Damasus had the Bible rewritten to make it more Roman so that  you can all the clumsy editing all through both Testaments), at attempts at learning a language or biographies about Alan Watts or whatever - but given them up to go buy chocolate or watch videos of dildos in space on Youtube. To my credit though I have climbed back into the saddle and have been religiously reading novels I always thought I wanted to (on a huge Arthur Conan Doyle and Philip K. Dick trip at the minute) and have adored almost every one of them.

But over the last few days my daughter has been plowing her way through the Digestion and Reproduction book that she randomly got out of the library and it's reminded me of the fact that in my late 30s I keep putting off actually learning things I'd really like to learn. And yet she's six and is genuinely interested in this book both because of it's content about the body, but also because it's riddled with words that she hasn't learned yet. She reads the one page, then her mother or I read the other page. By the way I've made a colossal mistake there because I decided to stop last night on the page before the massive picture of a penis. Grinning to myself I confidently put the book down knowing that her mother would have to go through that the next day, and have just realized that it's me and the kids tonight - so muggins will be reading it. But the point here is that she is genuinely curious about everything to such degree that to not learn about them seems ridiculous.

I didn't see my kids for ten days until last Thursday. When I picked my son up from daycare it was as if his movement had completely changed. The way he addressed me was entirely different. When I picked up my daughter from school she seemed taller in the way that grandparents often say. Her reading comprehension - which was always good - had escalated to such a degree that she can read absolutely everything. And not only that she was behaving as if she needed to read absolutely everything she could as quickly as possible lest she go back six months and not be able to do it anymore. Hearing her joyfully singing to her self before bed about Bowmans Capsule is incredibly surreal. For goodness sake she even said she now had a boyfriend.

The point here is that while I regret that because their mother and I have divorced that we now can miss certain things about our kids development, the great thing about it is that it has reminded me of how bloody amazing being a parent is for me, and being a kid is for them. The element of wonder, the craving for knowledge and actually learning massive things like reading and then understanding things is an amazing thing. It has really underlines a Dylan Moran quote I heard once where he points out that you have children and think you have all these things to teach them, and then you realize that they are the ones who are really teaching you.

And on top of that there's pure, unadulterated imagination. I think I'm pretty imaginative (life would be infinitely boring otherwise). But my kids can entertain themselves for hours with just a coat, a stick and a butterfly net.

It's pure fucking joy being a parent.

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

I Am A Hideous Woman

My son keeps calling me Mommy.

In the past twenty four hours I made a big pot of Madras curry and a chuffing great big pot of lamb cawl (a Welsh stew, basically). Couldn't smell them at all in the kitchen. The smells must have intertwined and cancelled each other out. But when I popped out back to watch the dog (walnuts and wet, fox shit everywhere - don't trust him by himself) the entire back of the house reeked of both of them. It wasn't too bad a smell actually so I conducted an experiment. I grabbed a small bowl, plopped in a spoon of curry and a spoon of cawl. It briefly crossed my mind that I may be about to reveal a fusion-food so ridiculously tasty that I might pass out. A Welsh lamb curry - it seemed so obvious an idea. Sadly though it tasted horrifying. Even this would probably have tasted better.

Now, I'm not an ugly man. I'm not saying I'm especially handsome either. Not in the weird uber-masculine way that's quite popular in this part of the US, anyway. And by that I mean the kind that marries absurd layers of shirts (always two at a time it seems) with acres of hair gel, chugging massive quantities of gash like Bud Light at a bar whilst loudly singing/burping along to whatever God-awful country song is popular at the minute (that fucking appalling Party song is a particularly hated on of mine at the moment - and a song that I swear has a bit about an "afterbirth party" in it), only driving a man-truck and having a bash at chewing tobacco "to get a buzz on". Actually as far as the shirts thing goes I just can't get my head around the propensity of people wearing shiny, golf shirts. Any job I've held I've felt over-dressed because I'd wear a collared, buttoned shirt - whereas most of the other blokes would either wear a golf shirt that looks like your Gran's couch, or one of those hideous long-sleeved No Boundaries shirts with what seem like Norwegian Death Metal emblems all over them.

Basically what I'm saying is I do alright. And as a single man in decent shape, with an English accent wandering about central New York I could be up to my ears in Grade D muff. Oddly now I'm divorced I've started noticing people either brazenly hitting on me (mostly in bars) or kindly flirting out of habit (quite an odd encounter at Lowes when a lady asked me to say, "leaf blower" three times). I'm assuming it's mostly the accent. But there's the possibility with this being a small close-knit community that people are just being nice to the most recently divorced man in the village. Still, I'm not the kind of peculiar wherein not only do strangers frequently mistake me for a woman, but that my own kids think I look just like their mother. Just to be clear (and very thankfully for her) I don't. The lack of boobs and the fact I have a penis is the main tell-tale sign. But other than that there's the obvious fact that she looks like a woman and I look like a man (albeit a foreign one).

Still, my son has been habitually calling me Mommy and then quickly correcting himself. I don't think he's doing it to be funny either. The daycare lady that takes care of him has been jokingly calling him Fred the last few days - which I've also taken on board and have started doing every now and again. I also remember at university that a housemate decided on a whim to deliberately call another housemate Dave, even though that wasn't his name. I did very briefly consider that my brief absences from his life had forced him into a habit of his own wherein the parent who was mostly around was his mother. Therefore it could just be force of habit.

But no - I think it's just a verbal tick. At dinner last night (at which my daughter guffed Ranch dressing onto a chicken madras curry, by the way) he called me Mommy when asking for a drink. So I leaned over and deliberately whispered too loudly to his sister, "...he thinks I'm pretty!" Which he found so hysterical that it actually hurt my self-esteem. Which took a further whack when he quickly retorted that, "You aren't pretty. You're a Daddy." I don't have an especially fragile ego, but I must admit that for a second I did feel a small amount of pain that my son doesn't think I'm a pretty lady. To be fair while I'm an alright look bloke I would make a hideous transvestite. And I say that after working somewhere with an unusual number of them - one of whom looked exactly like the Amish bloke from Kingpin. Thankfully my son came back to me right away and said that, "boys can't be pretty." But then added, "but they can be pretty stinky" and gave me a look that lasted just a bit too long.

Serves me right for putting sprouts in the curry.

The Whirligig

Quite busy so have some visual stimuli. Even if this wasn't a video you'd have your eyes delighted by that winning fashion combination my daughter is modelling.

And my son felt like digging up his mother's back yard (not a euphemism of any kind, thank you). So I let him.

And just to prove that no pile of leaves is safe...

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Everything Is Drenched In Piss

Son: Look Daddy I'm peeing milk!!

I took that photo of the Moon the other night poking through some clouds. Pretty fantastic, I'd say. And I'm putting it here because the only other pictures I have are of my kids jumping in piles of leaves. Which - after three straight days of showing you - is probably not very exciting anymore. So have that.

Yesterday - with about two minutes to go before throwing he kids in the car and taking them off to O-Skool - my daughter remembered something. "Oh Daddy - I forgot. On Friday I had an accident and left the underwear in my school bag." Quite honestly I hadn't been in there so I had no idea. I opened up the front pocket of her bag and the rancid, incubated smell of three-day-old, dried piss came guffing out. I couldn't have made a smell that stale and brakish even I had wanted to. They had been wrapped in a grocery store bag thankfully. Still, I must have emptied a quart-bottle of Febreeze in there - including a few squirts of the Febreeze Scents thing we have in the house.

I should have know though. I'd already encountered two other moments that morning involving urine. Firstly I'd stumbled around at 4am only to find that the dog had kindly peed on something. But not in a shameful puddle on the floor somewhere. Instead he'd taken the time and effort (and it would seem had drafted a plan designed to be the biggest twunt he possibly could) to saunter over to the huge cricket-bag I had all my shirts in and peed into that. Still living out of a suitcase in that regards - but now instead of hiding very creased shirts under a sweater to avoid the ironing, I had to wash the smell of dog piss off them. Mind you when you waltz about reeking of dog piss barely anyone notices that your cuffs and collars aren't properly starched.

The other incident was my son telling me very early on that he needed clean pants. He barely has accidents. Probably as frequently as his sister - which is once in a blue moon. So I gave him a curosy glance over to the usual spot and instead of the tell-tale signs there was a pool of milk on his lap. "Look Daddy!! I'm peeing milk!" I have to admit that for a tiny second I wished that he was. Because if all else failed in life he'd be quite an attraction at the Barnum and Bailey Circus as The Boy Who Pisses Milk. I can picture him now wowing paying customers with fountains of the stuff. Posters lining the streets of the town the circus had rolled into.

$2 ONLY!!!
$5 FOR 2% MILK!!!

Yesterday though was really marked by two things. The first being the incredibly middle-aged way I celebrated some good news. I got a call on Sunday about a job offer. Yes - Sunday. Anyway it's a bank job and means that my time as a stay-at-home-dad is well and truly underlined and over. It doesn't actually get going until the first week of December though, so I have a month of debauchery in which to do something colossally stupid first. I think I'm adult and capable enough to avoid breaking fingers or getting a DUI in that time. Anyhoo - to celebrate I didn't pop out for a drink or buy some shiny man-toy. Instead I actually used the phrase, "fandabbydosey" whilst at the grocery store - wherein I'd gone truly nuts with celebration by spending an extra $30 on a few curry sauces, egg nog ice cream (bloody horrible - completely perplexed why I thought it would be otherwise seeing as I don't like egg nog) and some fancy cheese. There's something peculiarly English in the way that instead of celebrating some good news by getting lathered on Makers Mark and stuffing duck confit down my gullet on The Glass Boat, that instead I bought some cheese (did get rather tipsy later on though - although no Makers Mark was involved). Rock and Fucking Roll, me. 

But really yesterday was marked out by something far more grotesque. That being after grabbing a pile of ground beef to start dinner with and a FUCKING BUG CRAWLS OUT FROM INSIDE IT. Welcome back to the Vernon grocery store. I really do despair. I know I'd made a mistake by deciding to move 18 miles away from the village my kids live in - but this is hardly a welcoming return. I would have taken a photo but my hands were covered in wet, pink/red beef bits - so I wasn't about to grab my phone. Instead I instinctively started twatting whatever the bug was with the underside of a tub of Parmesan cheese. 

I did consider that in years passed - and not all that long ago - that the person who cooked the meals would have just cooked the whole thing for five minutes more if that had happened. 75 years back a funny color on beef would be green - which you'd just eat around. And as a friend helpfully pointed out - having a bug in your beef is, "just like tequila, but meat." Still I wasn't going to eat it - let alone feed it to my kids. I'm not John Gummer (seriously - with UK beef riddled with BSE, foot and mouth and god knows what else in the early 90s, it really took some deluded balls to prove how confident you are with beef by making your daughter eat a burger on live TV). So I wrapped it up - bug and all - and took it back to the store. Showed the manager (the butcher section was closed by then) and she grimaced and clearly tried to hold back the vomit. I'm glad the butcher wasn't there. Last time I took some chicken back (because it smelled like it had been dead for a fortnight and wallowed in it's own shit since) and he cheerfully told me that I could pick out any similar cut of chicken. In other words - some more rotten chicken that he'd packed at exactly the same time as the putrid guff I'd just taken back. Instead this time I got my money back.

Actually now come to think about it I should thought ahead. I should have rounded off this whole blog entry by having the dog or one of my kids piss all over it. Would have confused the grocery store manager, but it would have been literary perfection.

"Yes madam, this beef is so rancid that it has bugs living in it."
"Why does it smell of piss?"
"We all chipped in there dear, Even the dog."