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

Morning.

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...).


Fantabulous.

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.