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.
COME SEE THE BOY WHO MICTURATES MILK!!
$5 FOR 2% MILK!!!
$10 FOR CHOCOLATE!!!
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."