Yesterday I spoke with my daughter on the phone for almost 90 minutes in total. It was spread over a couple of calls, but most of the satanic/death metal grunting occurred during the first two calls. She'd gone completely mental without seeming cause, so her mother tried the tactic of a change of angle by calling me so that I could talk her down. It's a tried and tested parenting trick wherein whichever parent is present when the child goes nuclear absorbs most of the impact before suddenly handing over the lunatic to be spoken to be the other one in a strangely cheery way. The initial call/engagement is usually a failure. But we know that. So I breezily asked her how her day was and then talked about inane, goofy nonsense before ending that call. That's quickly followed by jumping back into because the lunatic does actually want to talk, but is unable to stop shrieking to articulate that, or to control their limbs properly to avoid causing bodily harm. After that conversation she calmed down nicely as I described ridiculous things that I had planned for the weekend while she sat quietly in her bedroom with the phone. So that I was planning on making a no-bake cookie slab and using that as the new mattress on her bed. That way she could nibble her way through it in her sleep and by the time she'd made it through and fallen onto her brother on the bunk below it'd be time to wake him up anyway.
All through this neither I nor her mother had the remotest idea what prompted the whole thing. Then a few minutes after she'd calmed down I got this photo.
Basically she'd accidentally snapped a plant in half when poking it about and thought she was in serious trouble. But instead of just feeling guilt and remorse she channeled that into a really convincing impersonation of the zombies in 28 Days Later. Hilariously she had run off upstairs at some point and in mid-rage stripped all the sheets off her mother's bed. She's never done any random shit like that before. Still - calmed down in the end, I got to be the 2nd Parent this time (which is always nice when it works) and I didn't have to make a bed I wasn't expecting to. Bonus.
So this morning I made my girlfriend some unusual egg, onion and mushroom smashed-omelette-splodge thing this morning. Then made some fried bread for her as well. Then I over-egged the pudding a touch by being a bit too braggadocios and presenting it to her with the words, "time to eat your eggs, bitch." But what with being not only white, but English-white (which is about 10 stages whiter than American-white) I rapidly followed that up with the point that there is no way on earth I could pull that level of arseholery off. But in a nice, continuing theme she took the eggs and being called a bitch with gravitas. And then happily kept calling me a bitch for the rest of breakfast. And what with being American-white it was far more convincing. Which I was mildly fine with as I don't really have any words that I can't tolerate others saying. That is other than pronouncing the word, "herbs" without the obvious H sound. If that happens I usually spend far too long talking about, "erbs and pices" to ram the point home that you shouldn't go dropping letters just for the sake of it. .
Consequently I must have taken the dog outside about four times this morning. I'm not being especially nice. There are two primary reasons for it. The first is so I can release my, "private emissions" in the open air without nasally offending my girlfriend. She would have never expected a thing accept the dog has an absurdly acute sense of smell. so the moment I release a cloud into the wild the dog looks at me with a, "seriously dude, you need to lay off the eggs" expression. Also he has so little subtlety and is so big that he confidently jams his nose right up my arse whilst I'm stood at the end of the driveway. Any pretense that I'm just being an amazing boyfriend and taking the dog out frequently has been destroyed by him aggressively snout-raping my anus. I haven't really introduced myself to the neighbors yet so I'm not exactly overjoyed by the fact that I likely have an audience of people stood in dressing gowns in their living rooms watching me being olfactorily penetrated by a massive black, German Shepherd on a frequent basis on my front lawn. Quite an impression there.
Also quite honestly the second reason is to allow the missus a little room to sneak into the bathroom squeeze out some monkey fudge of her own. It's a well-worn cliche that you know you're in love when shitting around each other is a common, boring fact of life. And just to be clear when I say, "around each other" I mean when you're both in the bathroom. I don't want you to think that I mean that there is some sort of turd-based musical chairs going on in this house - as each on of us tries to complete some vile connect-the-dots monstrosity around one another before the other one does. Neither of us will be yelling, "Yay I win! I completed my turd-pentagram first!!" But I digress slightly. Rather I mean that we're still in that relationship phase where each of us still has that sliver of doubt that everything could come crashing down if we discover that the other person has, "dropped the bomb." Doubly difficult for me obviously as I am still trying to mesh together the hard-rule that I only poo in my own home, and am still adjusting to the fact that this is my place. So I've been deliberately lingering outside (with dog's nose drilling me up my whoopsie, obviously) a little bit longer than necessary to allow my girlfriend time to make any, "emergency landings" that she may need. And time to whip out the can of air-freshener and allow that to settle lest I wander in there and recoil with, "dear God woman - you said that was exclusively an exit only and yet clearly some sort of Gremlin has crawled up there, shit itself and died."
The dog is quite the jealous type too. Any physical contact between my girlfriend and I and he starts barking like Lucifer. He even deliberately grabs at your sleeve or exposed fingers (that sounds much more graphically unpleasant than I intended...) and tries to physically drag you off into a corner.Any hugging is quickly met with the kind of surprise attack that Kato would try to unleash on Inspector Clouseau. Obviously as the dog is eighteen months old I'm very much the visitor in his mind. So trying to convince him to move over in bed is nigh on impossible. In fact his sense of competitive alpha-maleness turns entirely him just lying square on top of one of us until you pass out defenseless. Which is hilarious to the missus when he isn't - for once - doing it to her. I'm not entirely comfortable with that of course. Especially when he chooses to do so with his disturbingly-awake, pink, light saber sticking out from underneath him. And even more so because he seems incredibly adept at plonking said sausage-sword right down on my crotch - with me unable to move him without the aid of a zoo-crane. I'm not naive enough to ignore the obvious smirk on his face as he "clashes swords" with the other male in the house. My old,tiny dog never did that. True he did often become trapped mid-hump for half an hour. But at no point did I see a look in his eyes that said, "Parry! Parry! Thrust!"
Anyhoo I haven't seen my kids this weekend and miss them like crazy. So I had a quicklook at some of the demented dancing videos we made last week. Here's the last one I made early last week when I went over while their mother was out of town.
See - the magic is still there.