Thursday, May 31, 2012

I'm like putty

I am a massive soft cock when it comes to wrangling kids—though I should note in this sense I am using wrangle as per its herding animals meaning as opposed to noisy bickering or quarreling. 

Having been yelled at by bigger people as a child I do not wish to inflict that on children, especially my own. So I try and keep anger in check whenever I can, especially given the tendency of men in my family of being quick to anger and often excessively so (1).

So when it comes to good cop, bad cop in the house then yes I am fully the good cop. Indeed I suspect it's probably the case that other fathers of my age also wear the mantle of good cop because we've realised being a scary dad is far more counter productive.  And like a good good cop I use the threat of bad cop, theWife, frequently when trying to influence him—'Mummy wouldn't like that, Chooky...'

theBoy is not yet five but he's learned an array of techniques to manage me in order to get his way. The other day he was watching Kung Fu Panda. He decided he didn't want to watch it any more and asked me to come out of the kitchen and change it to ABC Kids. As I got to the remote he shouted out 'WAIT! I love this bit!', which was where Panda rockets up and over a wall on a firework powered chair. I was busy so I told him 'Okay, Chooky, you keep watching this then because I'm not coming back.'

I returned to the kitchen and after the chair meets fireworks bit of the movie finished he came to find me.

'Come and change it to ABC Kids!' he demanded. 

'No, Chooky, I said I was going to change it but you decided not to change it so I'm not going back. It's irritating.'

Then he played one of his manage daddy moves. He grabbed me by the hand and ever so gently pulled on it. 'Come on, Daddy' he said, grinning.

I'm putty so I gave in. 

He led me ever so sweetly and gently to where the remotes were piled next to one of his three toy pirate ships and handed me the correct remote to use. He smiled, again sweet and gentle, then walked over to the beanbag in anticipation of my switching it to ABC Kids.

He flopped backwards into the beanbag then turned in place and pointed at me.

'NOW DO IT!' he yelled.

I couldn't help myself. I laughed richly and changed it over.

Like putty...

(1) Due I think to a combo of genetics and upbringing. At the very least I can influence on upbringing. When I think back on a often unhappy childhood I suspect a chunk of my anger was situational and physiological. I was in what I perceived to be unhappy circumstances which in turn with a not great bod led to feelings of sads at a young age. Now, even wracked with an often not tremendous sense of health, I am doing better. I think it's 'cos I have a Chooky and I can give and receive as much love as each of us can handle. So fuck the world; best revenge is doing well and so forth.

Where Mikey gives up whacking theBoy's noggin with a rolled up Time magazine

Though theBoy is nearly five I still watch over him in the bath. All the literature says you should never leave a kid unattended in a bath right up until at least five years of age. The other thing is too that theBoy uses oil in place of soap and it leaves the bath’s surface extra slippery. So any time he stands or he’s placed in I hover in case I need to grab him.

He has a lot of bath toys in there to entertain himself with while I have a magazine or my loaner phone. But most of the time he will ask for a story instead and so we do a storyverse session.

Lately he’s been asking for a story involving Humpty and Stumpty being caught in a moment of acute personal danger but without the seeming ability to call for help.

The other day the lads were in a sinking boat, headed for the waterfall, and they had no phone with them to call theBoy with because inevitably when they’re in danger I have them call theBoy pleading for assistance. theBoy inevitably refuses to take the call because ‘he’s too busy’. Last night he was in his workshop building bunker buster robots—robots designed to enter bad guys lairs and grab them—for a new client—the International Court of Justice.

So Humpty and Stumpty were sinking and heading for a waterfall. All they had were themselves and a couple of paddles.

In a previous similar story I had a seagull flying above them and it just happened to have a mobile phone in its beak which it dropped, was caught by Humpty, and he then rang theBoy for him. This story theBoy wasn’t having any of it. When the seagull appeared I asked theBoy what it had in its beak and theBoy decided it wasn’t a phone but a big fat worm. The seagull accidentally dropped the worm and Humpty, having received the apparent boon of a seagull delivered mobile phone, caught it. He tried dialling the worm only to discover he’d mooshed a worm up instead, gooey worm innards dripping over his finger.

At that point the seagull, now miffed at dropping its food and some bastard in a sinking boat mooshing it, attacked Humpty.

I’m a fan of prop work in storyverse and I had my Time magazine in hand. So I started lightly battering theBoy with the magazine whilst screaming gull noises at the top of my voice. I decided I would keep lightly battering his large bath-dwelling melon until he told me to stop. Only he didn’t tell me to stop. He just looked at me grinning as I made loud seagull noises and softly whacked him on his head.

So I gave up.

Sometimes during a story I’ll pause the action and go to a guest panel for advice. Since the boys were heading for a waterfall in their sinking canoe the panel consisted of Bear Grylls, Fozzie Bear, and a Sasquatch. Bear Grylls gave sage advice about their using the paddles to jam them against a boulder on the lip of the waterfall and heave themselves out of the sinking boat and onto the boulder and then wave their paddles to signal for help. Fozzie bear was useless and made painful failed pun attempts around the subject of waterfalls. The Sasquatch simply grunted.

At that point the Seagull flew in and attacked the Sasquatch. So I started lightly beating theBoy on the head with my Time magazine again alternating seagull screaming with Sasquatch hooting as the hirsuite hominid attempted to fend off the bird. Again I decided to keep the head whacking up until theBoy told me to stop. He did not and my voice, now strained from animal sounds, croaked to a halt.

Eventually though you’ll be pleased to know theBoy stopped his working on bunker buster robots for the International Court of Justice and went and rescued his friends.

We recently had a big clean out of the shed, with our several old (and large) CRT TVs taken away by waste removal specialists to be legally and properly disposed of. theWife also took advantage of this removal to take away the dying lower half of our king-sized ensemble bed and replace it with a slatted frame. We were doing post-bath Storyverse on the new big bed when theWife hustled us out so she could finish making it. theBoy wanted to know where the session would continue—loungeroom or end room. He stood in the narrow corridor and pointed to each possibility.

‘The toilet!’ I shouted and pushed him into the separate toilet room instead. We jammed in, him next to the toilet, and me with my back against the door. We picked up where we’d left off, more Humpty and Stumpty in danger action, only theBoy kept getting distracted by the toilet and lifting the lid to run his hands along the porcelain rim. When theWife gave us the wave to come back into the big bed I had to rub his hands down with anti-bacterial hand wash gel because of all his toilet touching.

So … less stories as told in the toilet (1) next time…

(1) Well ... toilet room. That sounds weird. What do you call the room where it's dedicated to just a toilet? Water closet? It is water closest!

My Family Stickers

You may have seen the My Family™ stickers in operation. They’re the silhouette stick figure decals people stick on their back car window that in theory serve as avatars for the typical conglomerate within the vehicle. Mum, dad, two kids, the dog. That sort of thing.

You do have to hand it to the creator. They’ve been heartily embraced by middle and lower-middle Australia and to me it seems as if every second family-type car has them on their window.

I wonder too how the stickers work when the family arrangement gets more complex? 

If there’s a separation does the dad sticker peel away easily? What about the boyfriend? Does he get stuck in dad’s place? What if mum decides she likes the ladies after-all and her new girlfriend moves in? If a family later blends with another do they simply add more kids to the line? How about polygamists? Is it Dad / Mum / Mum / Mum / Kid / Kid / Kid / Kid / Kid? They’re going to run out of fucking window.

Recently I was following a car with the stickers on. The My Family family was emblazoned, left to right, on the left side of the window and seemed on the surface a typical arrangement of Dad / Mum / Kid / Kid / Pet. 

Only they’d left their previous decal—a tramp stamp like butterfly decal— in the lower middle of the window.

So it fully looked like Mothra was coming for them...

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Tele-cherry broken

Across the world various nerds are racing to design, assemble then test the fuck out of cybersex suits. Suits with receptors and tingling things that can be triggered remotely allowing lovers separated at a distance still erotically interact by literally pressing their buttons (on their control device). I'm presuming when this becomes feasible that it shall be called tele-sex or something similar.

I get a lift to the occasional nerd night from C---. I'm not too out of the way for it to be an imposition and we get to have a three minute chat about stuff on the way to and from. Genteel, erudite convos about world events, technology, and tits and shit. Anyhoo C--- pings me a text as he leaves his house and I pack my bag of nerd stuff'n'snacks and head on out to wait for him.

On the last such occasion I was sitting at the desktop computer on the Dr Evil chair when the leaving now text arrived. For some reason the chair was set to a low height and I was perched on the edge, leaning forward, my loaner iPhone in the pocket of my over-sized jumper. My jumper was so large and billowy it allowed the pocket and phone to slide over to the inner side of my leg, the phone slung against my junk and thigh. Thus it was the position of my body and the choice of attire colluded to have it so the iPhone fully buzzed the end of my nob when the text rolled on in.

So naturally I spent the time waiting for C--- by the rear of my car port texting him back to tell him the story of how he just broke my tele-cherry.

Bring on the sexy robots!

UPDATE: The alternate post title was 'Why do weird things keep happening to my nob?' This I think would also make a dandy title for the autobiography by The Amazing Mister Lifto from the Jim Rose Circus. Come on Amazing Mister Lifto, get cracking on that...

UPDATE2: The one time I tried phone sex my cat threw up. It ended the session. 

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Damn you, Wikipedia

They announced the Eurovision winner in the recent news on the entry page and I saw it.

Nuts!

Naturally I had to text my Wiki-using Eurovision potentially watching peeps and let them know to go dark on expanding their mind through wiki this day.

For shame, Wikipedia. For shame.

A day in the life of a Sunday

I like Sundays but it has that slight taint of knowing you have to go back to work the next day. And as it happened I worked anyway as a bunch of stuff landed while I was off sick and I needed to clear some of it away.

There's this seeming trend of first-time published authors bragging in their dust jackets about how they now get to wear pyjamas to work. Since I was working at home then I did the same! And they're right, it is as awesome as they said it would be. Jammy, talented cock-spanks.

As I worked I could hear the rest of the family having a normal Sunday. Craft, running around, pottering. Still as far as working went it was pretty sweet to be in max. comfort with a heater going and decorative cats lolling in the Autumnal sun.

Later theBoy had a play date with a friend from day care. They ran back-and-forth between the lounge room and the bedroom, starting numerous activities and indulging in a number of costume changes. At one point a mini-Spiderman and a like-sized Batman could be seen playing together by the light blue play table that sits over the coffee table liberated from uni all those years ago.

I finished work in time to have a slow-mo light sabre fight with the boys in our narrow corridor, complete with impersonations of the crackle of clashing "blades". They had Chinglish 'fighting glowsticks' from Go-Lo. I had a cardboard tube. They won.

Also I set myself a mission. It took three sessions in total but all up I did an hour on the TPC, the death-dealing Octonaut (1) on loan from CERN; the organisation currently headed by the mysterious yet brainy beauty Dr. Cassovitch whose bewitching presence has set many a nerd heart a flutter. As a result of my hour-in-totes on the TPC my arse and thighs are pleasantly achey. I try and cycle more on weekend days to make up for half-hearted rides during the working week. That and as far as exercise goes, like working at home was, it's pretty sweet. I had the heater on in the shed as I rode and all the while I was riding I was watching Real Time on my tablet. There are worse ways to get fitter.

So I did some work and some play and now I'm blogging from the couch bed.

I'm a fucking mars bar (drops mic.)

Some lesser notes...
theBoy came into my just after seven am. I didn't have the heart to turn him away. So he snuggled in next to me and we told stories. If you're going to be woken early on a Sunday that's a nice thing to wake up for.

I've been taking bacteria capsules to help my motility. They've increased frequency and power of my solid-state emissions. Only when I do go it's fucking painful just before and well after. Today's was ... excessive and despite its volume did not grant me the sought-after PAG. I was on session one on the TPC by 9.30 am because of it as riding the bike seems to help dial back post-poo pain.

(1) Okay, it's an exercise bike. I just wanted the chance to write death-dealing Octonaut. Speaking of which, why is the octonaut with the Panzer tank commander's hat the only one wearing a full set of fucking clothes?! His fully clothed body implies the others are tackle or fish box out... (1a)
(1a) I have no idea if the lady-equiv. of tackle is a fish box but you have to admit fish box is both insulting and funny.

Saturday, May 26, 2012

High praise from theWife

'You know one day you could be the friend of someone famous...'

Sunny times down the end room

I forget where I heard George Harrison say it but he said 'Here comes the sun' came about one day when it was Winter and he was hiding from some accountants. He just started plinking away and out it came. 

The end room gets morning sun. I nice fat sun beam sweeps across the carpet by the bay windows. So on Saturday mornings I spread the paper out on the couch bed and stick my ampleness up to catch some bathing rays. It's most excellent. 

theBoy wanted to hang with me. He turned up, his folded-up red Thomas emblazoned camp chair in hand. He then set it up in the sun where the beam was cast over his body but not his eyes. 

'Let's do Humpty and Stumpty,' he said (1).

Fuck that's funny. 

Earlier he was hiding behind the couch so just his eyes and above could be seen. He then did Alexi Sayle Dr Marten's Boots head pop ups (see from 1.28). Oh Gods how I laughed.

Last night when saying good night we did a riff on the Little Britain Goodnight sketch

Me—'I love you more than cancer!'

theBoy—'I love you more than biting!'

I reminded him about it this morning but before I did I asked if he could remember what he said. 

'I love you more than poo?' he guessed. 

Funny, funny stuff.

(1) In the Humpty and Stumpty. The boys plus theBoy were hiding under the doonah away from Rat, as Rat was hunting them for their eating his socks (story to come). Stumpty had to do a fart. I decided to make fart noises for as long as I could before theBoy interrupted me. I went for a minute then my lips went numb. I panted for breath. He started to speak and I recovered and did it some more then petered out, panting heavily. theBoy yelled 'pew' and started waving his hand under his nose. 'Get out Humpty!' he yelled, blaming the wrong brother which he always, always does. So, so funny.

A Eurovision drinking game

Take a sip each time an even smaller Babushka granny falls out of the last one (1).

(1) Yes, I am aware they're actually matryoshka dolls but for the purposes of the bit I've taken licence. Don't be all 'Disney's head be burnt not frozen' on me.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Fat Troller taunts theBoy

I fully admit I like to try and do voices whenever I can. I'm not awesome at it but nor do I bloweth the chunk. So when at play with theBoy I'm always using voices, accents, and other silly stuff. It helps in storyverse to do so because otherwise the dozens of characters that appear would all sound the same.

There's a kids' show on ABC3 called Mr Moon. It's Canadian (1).

I do not care for it. Nor does theBoy.

Sometimes when theBoy has a bath I put his toy plastic Fat Controller figure from the Thomas series on the lip of the sink. I then leave out the sliding door.

It's then the Fat Controller (as imitated by me), whom theBoy calls Fat Troller, taunts theBoy over theBoy's apparent love of Mr Moon—'You love Mister Moon! You love it! You want to make moon babies and cuddle with it!'  

I then peer around the door and see theBoy grinning at the Fat Controller.

'Excuse me, can you pass me Fat Troller?' he typically says. I of course hand it over, all the while yelling in the Troller voice 'No, he's a monster, he's going to drown me! Do not give me to him! He's a monster!'

And theBoy then drowns Fat Troller in his elephant mug and leaves his body bobbing there feet-side up.

theWife recently put a learning to read app on her iPhone. It lets the user trace the outline of a letter and, when they succeed, it bleats out a phrase of encouragement—'Well done! That's super!' However theWife found she could record over the top of the default phrases and set to work putting her own in. She invited theBoy to put a couple in too. For one of them—in a Fat Troller voice, no less—he shouted 'theBoy loves making moon babies!'

Yes ... he'd insulted himself through the medium of an iPhone kids' app.

What a Chooky!

(1) Eh?

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Now that's a lunch and Mikey can't dress himself properly yet

We had a big morning tea today and there was a lot of leftovers. So at lunchtime I went grazing. 

I came back to my desk with a jam donut, a slice of cake and a small brown cupcake. I'd stacked them on the plate, largest to smallest; a pre-Turduckan conglomeration of desserts!


Later, when we were home, theWife asked how I'd gone with my choice of pants. I hadn't any of the proper pants to hand this morning so I 'd worn an admittedly thin-weave pair of black tracksuit pants.

It was an odd question. I responded with a wary 'fine ... why?'

It was then she revealed the pants in question, which she'd purchased for me, were not in fact tracksuit pants.

They were girls' pyjama pants.

Dressing fail.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

I haz stylus and fare thee well, Kristen Wiig

I know it's prob lame to lolcat-speak by now but I still haz love for it.

theWife got me a stylus for my pad work. It's super YumYum. I don't like the way touch screens feel and this way I can avoid finger-on-glass. Plus the stylus end is all sproingy.

Also Kristen Wiig left SNL. Her work there was joy.

Collateral damage

theBoy was being cheeky and avoiding his just-before-bed wee. theWife was remonstrating.

I walked between them as she took it up to 11 on the annoyance indicating she was gifting the boy.

As I crossed in front of her I fully copped a spittle-laced mum blast right to the head.

Then I came and blogged this.

Blogging rulez. You kids ... and your Facebook. 

Earlier, we were doing a storyverse session. theBoy was in a house surrounded by a mix of pirates and animated skeletons. Various bony arms were prying their way in through nailed up boards across windows in an effort to get in. In the end theBoy, Humpty and Stumpty escaped up the chimney and got sky-hooked to rescue by an incoming plane. theBoy got the plane to circle over the now empty pirate ship—since they were still back at the house—and to drop him on the ship so he could put a hole in it. Then he fucked off with a jet pack. 

As the story kicked off, the pirates swarming as a great mob across the open grass towards the house, I cranked up the War of the Worlds theme. 

It was fully awesome. 'And then a pirate skeleton explodes in a cloud of bone splinters! Leaving just a claw...' ♪♫ DUNT DUNT DAH! ♪♫ '...a claw which is crawling across the wooden floor...' ♪♫ DUNT DUNT DAH ♪♫

Only now of course I wish I'd sung ♪♫ 'The chances of pirates crossing the lawn, are a million to one they said. The chances of pirates crossing the lawn, are a million to one ... but still they come!' ♪♫.

Monday, May 21, 2012

The seemingly innocuous section

I once saw an interview with Terry Gilliam talking about the Monty Python days. He said he loved the idea of looking at a great piece of art and then drilling his focus down onto a single seemingly innocuous section of it, like a subject's feet. He'd then take that innocuous section and animate it, creating scenes like a pair of beautifully drawn snapped off feet stomping off screen all to the sound of muddled harrumphs. Great stuff. 

Recently I read a Salon interview with a writer deciding to make a knife. In it I came across my own seemingly innocuous section.









Awesome indeed.

My mother, before she lost her mind to a tangled swirl, would have been instantly dismissive of such silliness. 'Little things please little minds' (1) was one of her parental oft-chants.

Which is somewhat ironic given her condition. 

I like to think though, deep down, she appreciated a nob joke as much as the rest of us.

(1) 'Great things come in small packages' was another. She'd say that to me because she was worried I was worried about being short. In truth being short has never been that much of an issue for me. I've never been bitter about it, though I do find it a hilarious that my brothers and my father are nearly a foot taller than me (one doctor said I was a cro-mag throwback). I was short. That's all there was to it. Couldn't change it, I just accepted it (1a). It was unfortunate, however, that I got the weight retention gene combined with a fucked-up body. Speaking of weight, I read this excellent (sourced via Longform.org) article about a one-time world's heaviest man and the fact that the man behind that weight was a sweet, smart guy who used his affliction to earn money as a sideshow attraction. The article also had some kewl factoids laced throughout. I loved this one: College students rate fat people last as potential marriage partners, behind embezzlers, cocaine users, shoplifters, and blind people. I wonder though if you combined afflictions what combos it would take for us meek hefty types start lookin' good. I suspect I'd win over a blind shoplifter but that I'd lose to a cocaine-using embezzler.
(1a) Actually my parents did consider trying to change it. A doctor had told them I'd likely top out at five feet (I'm actually midway between five and six) so they got worried about my future quality of life. They nearly enrolled me in an experimental program in the '80s that used growth hormones. They only didn't because I defied the shorty short prognosis and was on track to end up normal short. Lucky they didn't enrol me. Those hormones came from cadavers and apparently years later they found out one of the corpses harvested had CJD. Mikey dodges a bullet! 

Some scribbles during the tute

It's nearly Winter and the chill is setting in. The TPC (1)—an exercise bike on loan from the Arch Bishop of Cassentry—is in the shed. There's an old radiator bar-style heater in there too but it takes about half a ride for the cold to shed from the air ... in the shed. It's somewhat frosty in there. Nearly see-your-breath frosty (2). I shiver to think what true Winter will bring. I have visions of me in Gnome-mode rigged to the nines with a barely a Ninja-slit sliver of me left in view. I'll probably have to bring the bike into the house. I guess that makes the shed the TPC's summer pasture.

The heater on my nearly-dead car has died. I think the vehicle is now worth negative money. I have to shroud the car at night if there's a frost lest I end up having to scrape the entirety of the ice from the windows in the morning. I have no idea if the car will even be able to be driven without a working heater once the ice is scraped off. I guess it's off to the auto-mechanic!

My disabled parking permit for the recovery post the TFCWM (3) recently expired. For the most part we used the permit in the spirit to which it was intended; for example, only taking a spot if we absolutely had to. But it was a total bonus that it meant you didn't have to pay for pay-and-display parking. Though I may have to re-up to da sticker if my assorted muscular-skeletal crap keeps firing up the googlies. I'll see how my knees go and consider then.

Many years ago I fancied myself as a writin' type I did some courses and learned some  practice techniques. Yes, I know, writing in itself is both practice and performance. But there's exercises you can do as well. One such exercise is to write character sketches; what people are wearing, how they look, how they sound. I've been meaning to do this one for ages so here it goes. This is to the best of my recollection...

It was in a shopping centre when I saw them. A man and a young woman. He was older, perhaps in his forties, with a shallow, bearded face. Beneath a widows peak was an eye-patch. The proper kind, the kind a man missing an eye wears as opposed to one simply healing. He looked like a game hunter just out from hospital, still recovering from being gored in the face then left without help for a week; found prostrate and skinny as his body ate itself to survive. He wore a collarless t-shirt neatly tucked into belted jeans. In a hand was a briefcase. She was a pretty thing, dusky and plump with red hair flowing either side of her face. She was dressed in black shorts worn over black tights. Her shirt was blue, a superman symbol prominent below her ample chest. The man and woman stood there in silence, looking around. Eventually they walked into the newsagent's. 

I remember I was watching them for the longest time and right up until they walked out of sight. It was just such an incongruous pairing. I think what made the scene for me was in fact the briefcase. Sure, an eye-patch (4), I can see that (5) as being awesome, but to pair that goodness with a briefcase? And then combine all that with a pleasing looking plumpish ginge wearing a Superman shirt? That's not awesome. That's super awesome.  

(1) As a kid, at the bus stop, did you ever admire your breath on a frosty morning as it puffed out of reddened cheeks? I did. I'd augment the moment with an effete twig as a pretend cig. I know, classy. 
(2) Hi there. New to HM? Then let's peel back the vinyl on the TPC. TPC stands for The Purgatory Cart. This was the second name I'd given the exercise bike on loan from the glorious Casso. The bike's original name was The Hell Wagon because it was hellishly hard to ride. Why? Because the setting mechanism hadn't been set up properly. theWife found it was so, fixed it, and viola! Easier to ride. Thus the new name. Yes, I know The TPC is technically the The Purgatory Cart but when TPC is used it sounds weird without a the in front of it.  
(3) TFCWM equals The Fucking Catalina Wine Mixer, the name we gave my hip operation when I discovered one was needed. As taken from Step Brothers. It of course has the same problem of the doubled up the but again I tell you it needs it!  
(4) My favourite eye-patch story is the man in the Hathaway Shirt
(5) Pun!

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Zoo Weekly's zero credibility now less than zero

Zoo Weekly, a stick mag for lads too scared to buy Penthouse, has its latest issue on sale for only $1.95! I know, I suspect newsagents will be calling up for more stock when otherwise fiscally strapped men decide to splurge on some Zoo Weekly action.

Anyway I couldn't but help notice the sub-headers on the cover.

My favourite sub-header was for Scrabble Babes. Women who are allegedly, and I base this solely on the sub-header, into Scrabble but who are also physically attractive.

As you can see the clever lads down at the Zoo art section decided to deck the header out in Scrabble tiles.

Oh dear ... they got the point value wrong for the S. 

I suspect the Scrabble Babes will be reconsidering their future participation in Zoo Weekly celebrations of Scrabble.

UPDATE: They also had an incorrect value for the C. 





Move over, Victor

We were playing shops. theBoy sold a wall to a knight. The knight used it to protect himself against a rampaging giant lizard (1).

The giant lizard then bought a catapult from theBoy ... and fired itself over the wall with it so it could gobble the knight.

Yes, that's right, theBoy sold arms to both sides of a conflict. 

He's a Lad Lord of War! A mini-Merchant of Death!

He's a capitalist being a capitalist at its most pure; the only moral concern is the shareholders' fiscal interest.


Later, when we replayed the game with a new knight, theBoy refused to sell the catapult to the giant lizard. So a dinosaur came forward and bought the catapult instead ... only to then promptly on-sell it to the giant lizard. 

And that's how theBoy found out about how middle parties can break the sacred trust of their end user certificate.

(1) A gift to theBoy from one of theWife's friends who was giving away her collected desk tat over the years as she's in the final stages of a terminal disease. I love that the lizard has a fresh life of play thanks to the kind gift of a woman coping far too early with her way-out-the-door.

Did you know there's a Red Hulk?

He's also called Rulk

True story.

I made that!

It's always a little disconcerting when your body produces something that is seemingly unnatural. Then you can't help but look at your bodily produced horror with sick fascination and wonder just how it was it came to be.

Or maybe it's just me?

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Nice try...

Most of us in life experience forced associations; thrown in with others in work, rest and play. If we're lucky we get along. If we're not, then not so much.

Of course factors come into play that influence this. Power imbalance is one, which is why I can never quite trust anyone who is higher ranked than me or is in my chain of command. Because they can tell me to do things and tell me off. Or they can even ignore my advice and do things I dislike. Again, part of how it is to live in society. Almost all of us have a boss that we have to report to. It's just how it is. A side benefit of course in being in a well-ordered society is almost all our other immediate needs are met- -- food, shelter and so forth --- which affords us the time to fixate on stuff like workplace power imbalance.

The other forced association is neighbours. We physically have to live somewhere and chances are you share a wall or fence with someone. 

We've been mostly lucky with neighbours since we moved to Canberra. Probably the most annoying was R---, a dude on disability and massive pain meds and who had a seeming inability to keep his massive Rottweilers penned. He was annoying for that and for being a talky-talk; someone who invited himself to your porch just as you'd gotten home and then started rabbiting on. He got evicted from his rental house and moved on. A new neighbour moved in and all was well. Then she left.

Now we have A---.

A--- is a bit of a fantasist. He too is a talky-talk, often buttoning up theWife for discussions about house-related stuff and making continual re-promises to take our berm of topsoil acquired from landscaping in the side yard which we dumped in the front. theWife, bless her, has a good memory. And her job in the real world is an administrative investigations-style role. So it only took maybe two conversations to realise that A--- was full of shit about his real life exploits and that he retroactively changed info he'd previously said in order to fit the new story he was telling now. He also took an inordinate interest in theBoy with theBoy now quite wary of him. theWife told theBoy that A--- has 'his own storyverse' and that A--- has trouble separating himself from it.

Apart from all of that A seems harmless enough, though his partners dog occasionally fires up late at night.

The other day we were leaving for work. It was bin day, the bins having been put out the night before. I saw that our green bin lid was propped up with something bulky in it. I presumed theWife had dumped something there so I went to see if I could better get it in the bin in case the garbage lads reject it. 

In the bin were a pair of older-style low-in-width flat-screen computer monitors. 

When A--- moved in he once asked if he could put excess recycling in our yellow lid recycling bin if there was room. We're good neighbours so we said yes. 

So perhaps A--- in his ever-shifting mind of revision thought this meant he could jam e-waste into our regular rubbish. And we knew it was him because he had left boxes for large-sized computer monitors in his driveway. 

In Canberra you cannot just chuck e-waste. We have a recycling system but it costs money to put e-waste into it. Which is why outside charity clothing bins small pyramids of fat old TVs, you know old-style CRT ones, have formed over the past several months. As a result of people avoiding paying the e-waste charge by illegally dumping their e-rubbish. We have for example about five CRT TVs that we're eventually going to get rid of but we will do it legally and properly so they get disposed of in the proper manner. We won't for example dump them on a charity to dispose of, cast them aside in public space like a wooded park, or jam them in someone else's bin.

theWife wasn't having it. She simply took the pair of monitors and jammed them back into A---'s bin. A bin I might add that had the same level of rubbish that ours had. Apparently just as theWife left she saw A---'s partner drive home to get something then leave again. She didn't spot that we'd re-transferred ownership of dated computer kit back to them. 

Unfortunately the garbage peeps did not see the monitors stacked in A---'s bin and I presume they went into general rubbish and therefore A--- did not get done for trying to dropping illegal rubbish into the system. In retrospect we should have simply left them next to his bin instead of in it but well what's done is done. 

Still, the whole thing was most annoying and incredibly rude. But then given A---'s clear mental health issues maybe he just couldn't see what he did was wrong? 

At any rate I am going to make up some passive-aggressive stickers for the bins that ask people not to put their shit in our bins. It'll make me feel better at least. 

I bet you never see this sort of plot-line on the show Neighbours. Likely because actual neighbour crap is too boring, even for them.

I'm normal sick

It seems such an unusual thing to say, normal sick, but indeed I am. I have the flu. This is in addition to all the other stuff of aching bones and roiled entrails. I'm coughing up yuck business and having to blow my nose every five minutes. And of course I'm all head-stuffed as well.

I am writing this from the end room bed. The fan I use for white noise is still on and the only real light in the room is from the glow of the tablet screen and the furnace orange of the heater with three of the four bars lit. My throat aches, guts are aflame and my limbs are reporting ouchies.

Yay!

Normal sick. It's the icing on the crap cake.

UPDATE: Oh, I forgot, I massively exacerbated this. Well, the guts side. Woolworths had a special on Sara Lee ice-cream. I'm only human. I got two tubs. Before I knew it I'd consumed half a litre of vanilla and done some serious damage to the butterscotch tub. Cramping and gas pain fired up by early afternoon and when theWife came home we chucked the remnants. It was either that or one or both of us eat it.

I guess I rationalised that as I was sick I could have comfort foods. And that the dairy firing up on my guts doesn't always happen and therefore it might not happen this time. Only it did happen. It happened big time.

Ice-cream; it truly is my electrified cupcake. 

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

So I've been catching some rays...

I have a new ogre in my corner. My corner of crap! And this ogre's name is Vitamin D deficiency.

I know. Hilarious. Just fucking hilarious. I feel like utter shit because the D-man, he absent, y'all. 

So why absent, oh D-man? Why, indeed. The culprit, dear me, lies within. Within my bones. 

I used to walk everyday, without fail (1). I used to jog sometimes too. Once I even ran like two kays without stopping, even as the pain ate me from the inside. 

But then I discovered all that walking had done was simply fade away what little bone-connecting goodness I had left and that it even meant a fucking hip operation. 

And that meant the end of walking. Instead I ride an exercise bike, a chirpy little fellow named young master Teepeecee. His mother, bless her, a widow left me her son in my care. So that I may make him a man. A man that others could look at to say 'hey, now that's a man—a man's man!'. Apparently the force on my mass exits out my rectal blow hole (i.e. south between me legs) and not through my legs and thus seated exercise will not wear away the last hiss of my right-hand hip. 

No more walking meant no more being outside. And that meant no sun. And the sun, it helps begat the D-man (2).

Even though I can't walk outside any more it doesn't mean I can't get some sun. I used to eat lunch at my workstation but I don't like to do that now. I'm all cinched in and I get the heebies about people watching me. So I eat outside. Usually at a table in the courtyard next to our building, or sometimes at the cafe where I've gone and bought lunch. 

It's been a Zen-like experience lunching alone outside. I get to eat something nice, wash it down with a diet coke, and read a longform.org article on my loaner iPhone by way of entertainment.

On days when it rains then I huddle beneath the short lip of the building's roof, shivering as I mind-switch into a podcast as I eat, the steaming plate or bowl held close to my mouth and out of the wind and water. 

I do miss lunching with friends. I loved hanging with the lads back in the old office complex where I worked, going for lunchtime walks while we laughed about this and that, then going to the complex's cafe for lunch, hanging shit on the various characters that staffed the place; Grumpy, the Pirate, Hot Girl, and so forth. But when I moved complexes three years ago then I knew no-one over there and didn't wish to impose on (or be imposed by) the herd who all had lunch together. 

Anyway, the rays thing. So I'm taking Vitamin D supplements but apparently 15 minutes sun a day is also a good thing to do. It's been nice enough. And I never really liked being outside before because if I was then I was huffing and puffing like a steamy pudding on my pain-etched guilt-walking I forced my brittle-boned body to endure day in and day out. 

Just me, outside, locked in a world of good food, diet coke, and e-entertainment. 

That's pretty sweet. Suck it, haters!  

(1) Well, the one time but the day in question had had a lot of incidental walking so I felt at the time in counted.
(2)  Just an aside ... but doesn't the song 'Scatman John' imply the singer is a coprophiliac

Saturday, May 12, 2012

I guess you had to be there...

We have about eight or so large shopping centres in Canberra. You know, both major supermarkets are there and also probably an ALDI, as well as a ring of secondary standards and lesser independents. 

I'm always curious to see what these lesser independents will be. For years Kippax had the best one—an army disposal (slash) models and supplies (slash) second-hand bookshop that was never going to survive. Which is somewhat ironic because when the shit lands (aliens / ELE / rapture etc.) a store like that would be a good thing to have in order to deal with the forever-altered (slash)  last days. 

We went to two of these centres today. At the first one of the speciality shops was a non-chain-store music (slash) DVD place. The owner had added a personal touch to the art on the walls outside his shop with a collage of photos of him with various celebrities. He'd not added the year the photos were taken, but the age could be roughly eye-balled given the type of film stock and the fashions within but he did make sure to clearly label who the main celebrity in the photo was, even if it was obvious—there's no one that quite else looks like Mick Jagger, for example. Some photos were group scenes with the store owner just in shot. Some were a two-shot of him side-by-side with said celeb, with those celebs often pulling a face even as the store owner maintained the exact same expression that he had in all the photos of him on the wall.

The photo I liked most was for The Party Boys, an '80s Australian band I know nothing about, though I did have a quick look at the wiki. It tickles me that there's a section titled 'The Swanee years'.

So the photo of The Party Boys is on the wall. It was probably taken in the early '80s given the  film stock used and the clothes worn by those within. Behind the band was a massive poster shouting out in letters two feet high;
  
THE PARTY BOYS. 

And on the top of the photo, at the right hand side, was the photo's caption.

It also read THE PARTY BOYS.

You know, just in case there was some confusion.

Friday, May 11, 2012

Same thing happened to me

So Romney has been outed as a school bully who once led a pack of like-minded mob-fueled Snooty McRichos (elite boarding school boys) to cut off the blonde-tipped fringe of a younger boy. A boy that was also presumed to be gay. 

Difference unfortunately makes you a target in school. Some kids basically enter the schooling system with a giant fucking target on them that makes them attract crap like this. And sure, especially for more sensitive kids, how you react to having shit constantly heaped on you can make you a more attractive target.

That happened to me a lot. Both at the all boys private school and then at the state school I went to. At the private all boy school I was not only fat, but not able to do sport, wore sneakers (for medical reasons) and had a big mouth. While that made me stand out in stark contrast and draw much aggro in the private school when I went to the state school ... a lot of that hassled for difference crap continued.

In year 12, at the state school, I decided to grow a ponytail. It was the late '80s and ponytails were naff. Nonetheless I let a bit of length grow and I started using a rubber band to keep my tiny tail in place.

At some point during my time in the state school I'd accidentally pissed off P---. P--- was a relatively cool person, well-liked, moderately sporty and so forth. He was also tall and blonde and the girls thought he was likely awesome. He was also well-established having been there from year seven onward. The thing that pissed him off was my accidentally telling his dad I'd been lending P--- my English notes because back then I was good at English and he wasn't so much. His dad, who I believe was a major arsehole to his family, apparently ragged on him big time. I suspect maybe even violently. So from that moment on P--- treated me poorly and encouraged others to do the same. 

It was minor stuff at worst. Demanding apologies for incidental acts on my part (1) or saying stuff about me to his friends. I'm pretty sure he's also the person that found my unguarded yellow stack-hat—the mandated safety helmets we wore back then were not stylish—and drew a massive cock on it. 

Anyway so I had my proto ponytail on the grow and he saw it. He and his mates hung shit on me and I suspect I merrily told them all to go and get fucked.

So they held me down and cut it off. 

Then, years later, when had I re-grown my ponytail, when I went to the only nightclub of note in town I'd then have to endure the occasional arsehole yanking on it. 

It's years later as I recall all of these things and again be reminded of how sad I felt a lot of the time with being menaced, bullied, put upon, yelled at, and largely excluded.

Here's the thing, though. It may sound pat—and it certainly sounds like the sort of thing your mum would say when you come crying to her about other kids being mean to you—but in some ways I think they were jealous. Jealous because I didn't conform and for the most part didn't give enough of a shit to conform. I was my own weird little(large) person and while I was often sad I was excluded I didn't change myself to fit them, I stayed me. I stayed me as I left school. I stayed me as I went to uni. Hell, I've stayed me despite all the pressure not to be me whilst being gainfully employed lo these many years.

Sure, sometimes it sucks to be me. But I'd rather be me than them any day; life can't be easy being a sad, scared little sheep.

Mitt Romney was a tool as a kid. A rich elitist tool to whom conformity seems to have been an obsession. To the point he led a pack assault on another kid because that kid's haircut and presumed sexuality was threatening to him and the broader group.

But that was fifty years ago. A lot of time has moved on. Maybe he's a better man? I doubt it though given he wanks on constantly about "values" and the inherent value of conformity. 

As for his bullying ways well he became a vulture capitalist, didn't he?

(1) For example I hilariously once turned a power switch off once that had a stereo plugged into it and he stiff-armed walked me back and made me switch it back on. All in front of everyone else.

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Assisted death defying

I had to strap my knee before I left for death defying, my in-the-community-outing I am engaged in and with all the enthusiasm of a newly woken Springtime mole. Only I couldn't work out how to actually strap my knee. Naturally I googled. I googled and I found a website. I starting reading the website. Then I saw the sponsored link.






























Yes, it was a link to a website offering a medical solution to premature ejaculation .

But how do they know that men on the hunt for bandaging-a-knee-knowledge are likewise in the market for the skinny on wang droop? Is there some sort of algorithm that detects that knees means wangs?

Oh, Internet, thou art so perceptive. Wait ... er, um ... no you're not!

Anyway, RE: the knee. I gave up and waited for theWife to come home and do it. And she did! She's a good egg. And not once did she ask about any kind of ejaculate; early or otherwise.

(Sponsored Links: Holistic Cold Medicines; Mole Varnish—Varnish a Mole today then be on your way!; Aussie Hot Boys—News for the Hottest Aussie Men)

UPDATE: I outed my blog to a couple of the death defying lads, mainly as a way to explain I don't do the facebook. Anyway on the most recent session there was a game played in the break where the coordinator and another member played a psychic game and we had to guess how the coordinator was giving the "psychic" clues as to the identity of the object the psychic was detecting, e.g. a chair, or someone's shoe. We couldn't work out how they did it. They said they'd tell us if we guessed right as to how they did it. We did not guess right and they did not tell us. Furthermore they then noted we'd given them lots of other ways to now do it and ha, ha. Foiled!   

Finally able to just come out and say it

Obama has outed himself as being for gay marriage. Now back in '96 as a candidate for the state house, according to a clip on The Daily Show, Obama stated on a survey he was for gay marriage. Then his views "evolved", due in part to his re-emergent Christian faith, to a no on gay marriage. Now they've evolved (or re-evolved) back to his '96 position.

It was this bit for me, though, in a Washington Post article that stuck out.

“They are much more comfortable with it,” Obama continued. “You know, Malia and Sasha, they have friends whose parents are same-sex couples. There have been times where Michelle and I have been sitting around the dinner table and we’re talking about their friends and their parents and Malia and Sasha, it wouldn’t dawn on them that somehow their friends’ parents would be treated differently. It doesn’t make sense to them and, frankly, that’s the kind of thing that prompts a change in perspective.”

So beautifully done. 'See, the children hold no fear. Why do we? The children are not hurt? So why say no?' 

I respect that politicians have to shade their views, even conceal them at times. Though in truth that can be dangerous if it's a fanatical ideology that they wish to imprint on government (1). But I do understand it. The need to wait in the shadows on an issue then nudge it along where you think you can, then step into the light and take it the rest of the way. Perhaps he waited until Don't Ask Don't Tell was embedded and that to suggest roll-back would be retrograde? Perhaps it was Joe Biden's candid acceptance of gay marriage that forced Obama's hand? Whatever it was at least Obama's out about saying it and that can only be a good thing.

Unless, of course, you're against gay marriage. And presumably a whole host of other things too. Damn kids ... and their understanding of gender and sexual identity issues.

(1) See Joe McGinniss' book The Rogue: Searching for the Real Sarah Palin for just how terrifying it would have been for the world had Palin gotten in given her somewhat extreme dominion beliefs and the dominion ideology in relation to influencing government. Just buckets of scary stuff there. Not to mention the more mundane mind-boggling failures in governance that she committed at every single level of government she has ever been involved in. 

A morning story

Here's the distilled essence.

'Humpty and Stumpty get turned into cheese and Rat eats them! And I watch...'

Wednesday, May 09, 2012

Happiness...

is finding a hot water bottle waiting for you.

Hark, listen, who swears?

Our building can be a challenge. Stuff often goes wrong—it's an older office effort that recently underwent an internal re-fit—and when it does you log a job to get it fixed.

Speaking of logs ... the disabled toilet—which I still use as it has a grab rail I can lower or raise myself with—failed to flush when I tried to flush it. I thought it might be a temporary thing so I left it and decided to come back and try again. Only I forgot. By the afternoon I saw a 'Not Working' sign up. Which means A--- the cleaner found what I left. And I am the only known disabled in the place. I should have reported it as broken straight away but I didn't want to Chicken Little on it just in case—since had I remembered and it had flushed then I would have saved the organisation money for a prevented call out. Except of course I failed to remember about it, failed to note it was a genuine problem, then failed to put the sign up myself. It's probably because I didn't want to report it since I in fact "dealt it".

Later I was made aware there were problems in the lady department. Or more specifically the area of the building where ladies do their business. A tap wasn't working and the stall lock was broken. So I submitted a report. I got a panicked call on the tap part from the landlord's agent as they were worried there was hot water gushing forth and soaking things. All because I said 'the hot tap may come off when used'. The tap has a single spout so clearly I meant the tap turning part given I delineated it was the hot tap was coming off. But I guess they didn't know that.

Because I reported the problem on behalf of the 50 per cent of our team that is packing lady business, and I being a dude, I then got two separate emails asking if I'd been hanging around the ladies' toilet. Ha, ha. Just because in real life I fully look like the sort of heavyset unshaven thick lenses glasses man that would hang around public areas in nothing but a mackintosh... 

theWife has a now much-wrecked '60s fireman coat as passed on by her dad, an ex '60s fireman. Maybe I will wear that into work whilst wearing a shirt and shorts beneath? Nah ... I can barely bring the lapels together let alone actually button it shut. And Mikey don't wear shorts. It's just too sad for the world to see. 

Now to the swearing part. Hark, listen who swears? Probably the person that recently toppled down the stairs. The very stairs I reported nearly a year ago as a potential death trap, following the report up no less than three times, only to then be indirectly (via my boss) told to shut the fuck up about it and to report any future building fails through said boss because the person ultimately responsible for following it up thought I was badgering or menacing them.

I felt bad for the person who fell, and who fell as a likely result of the identified trip hazards. But part of me was smug for being proven right for the fact exactly what I said would happen happened. 

Our guardian man, a first aid officer who also happens to be muscularly ripped, emailed a warning to people be careful about the stairs and he also noted the stair had caused injuries in the past.

I couldn't but help email him offering my full array of correspondence in relation to reporting the initial hazard and correspondence where I followed it up several times. So far I've yet to hear back. But well these things generate investigations and if anyone turns up to ask about it then I am certainly going to volunteer my wedge'o'corro to them. 

Anyway ... 'It got me into Irkusk'-style Mikey's Tales of Occupational Health and Safety is now hereby ended. (waves censer) Dominus smugus provus rightus, amen.

Tuesday, May 08, 2012

The Office: as ever, awesome

A still from a recent episode of The Office where Gabe and Dwight were convinced to have a thigh curl contest to prove who was strongest only to fall prey to a Jim prank.

I laughed and laughed and laughed. Hours later each time I thought of it I laughed some more.

Kudos, lads. Kudos.



Oh great

I just got a 'your results have come back and can we please see you?' call from my doctors'. I say doctors' because I did the trust-exercise equivalent of throwing my medical-support for health needs backward into the arms of a conglomerate of GPs located within the reclaimed soil of mall-based shopping. Except I left my film from my MRI with the MRI peeps so have to get that first. So I put off going in for the results until tomorrow so I can talk about the MRI too. You know ... kill two birds and all dat. 

I confess I'm a little worried. But then maybe it's just actual positive pro-active doctoring?—'Patient X wanted to know if Y was a thing. Y is a thing, it's small, but he wanted to know. Please call Patient X to see me, Doctor Z, about the Y thing. A thing that's small now but something that needs to be watched. Or even probed; a biopsy perhaps? Wait, I don't want to ruin it. Just get X into Z to talk about Y. Yes, and Z is me.'

Oh Lordy...

UPDATE: It's the next day. The call was about my MRI results as well as some blood test results.  I've torn the cartilage in my right knee. I need to rest to let it heal and to potentially see a physio. Fortunately for me, because theWife strapped it for three days the knee's gotten better. As for blood I have a Vitamin D deficiency—and it turns out one of the downsides is your immune system going to the shit and making you feel generally run down. Which is now. My cholesterol level has shot up two points in six months. It's now 6.3. That's do-something-about-it-territory.

So normal worrying. Not super worrying. Though I fully amid to heart hammer before I went in.

Don't mess with theBoy

theBoy can be a tad violent when he assumes the persona of himself when he enters the fray in storyverse. Most of the stories are semi-cooperative. Sometimes they're malevolent with characters deliberately misconstruing stuff they heard, taking offence, and sparking off a feud. In many ways it's a soap opera but with chaotic ever-shifting plot lines that wriggle and wyrm like the ripples on a windswept sand dune. I must confess I do aim to annoy him within the bounds of our shared construct because he's just rocks it on out when his avatar is pissed off. But when annoyed he will often resort to what I would consider mild-to-extremely excessive violence to resolve the situation. And sez chillin' lines along the lines of They Live's  'I'm here to chew bubblegum and kick ass. And I'm all out of bubblegum.'

For example, today a doctor character told theBoy that he shouldn't go on the playground equipment in the playground universe because as it's self-powered playground the constant motion would make him, theBoy, sick. This in fact had just happened to storyverse mainstay, Humpty (a short boy-man who lives with his brother in a tree down by the river), after he'd ridden a self-powered donut ring-shaped ride where you sit on it and spins.

theBoy's response to the medical advice?—'And I kick the doctor in the tummy.'

I laughed but then tried to remonstrate but it was no use for the laugh had undermined me. He grinned back.

At Belconnen Markets there's a cool kids' playground. It's sheltered by a giant mushroom cap. There's a number of slides ringing the mushroom's stalk, a switch-the-animal-parts around spinning cylinder game that looks like the prayer wheel as spun by Eddie Murphy in The Golden Child, and spring-mounted animals like a whale and a frog. There's also a head-cut-out board with fruit and veg. on it; presumably because it represents the grocer-like vibe of the complex. When theBoy sticks his head through the cut-outs I have to do the voices. Broccoli's is a blaxploitation-style super deep voice a la Porgy in Porgy and Bess.

In this morning's tale, shared while he was successfully tunnelled in next to me (with socks on) on the couch bed, theBoy was running away from something, I forget what, and bounced into a cloud-mounted play-set above the larger ground-based playground below. Next to the cloud-mounted play-set was a vegie patch. theBoy claimed the broccoli could talk and so Broccoli's (1) voice was as per the one from the Giant Mushroom playground at Belconnen Markets. For some reason it was a WHEN A VEGETABLE ATTACKS! encounter and I claimed the Broccoli, who was normal broccoli sized, wanted to eat theBoy's finger tips. 'Num, num, num!' shouted the deep-voiced wedge-headed plant matter as it skipped over the border from veg. patch to cloud-mounted play-set.

'And I pull out my shotgun; BLAM!' shouted theBoy. 

Now given theBoy was being attacked by a professed finger-tip eater I can understand him reflexively going for his sawn-off over-the-shoulder scabbard-carried shottie. But then he "...enhanced..." the moment by adding additional complexity of detail.

'And I shoot his mouth off so he can't eat and then I eat him!' (2)

Broccoli ... you just got Rowdy Roddy Pipered.

(1) Is that right? Because the broccoli is now a personality it becomes Broccoli? Word-nerds assemble!
(2) Which makes theBoy I believe a professed finger-tip eater eater. 

Monday, May 07, 2012

It's not always wine and roses

I know I tend to blog the happier moments of parenting because to me they're the bits worth recording. The stand out moments. But there's crap times too. Frustration is an ever present part of being a parent. Frustration at not being listened to or being actively ignored. Frustration at being asked to do things you really don't want to do. Frustration with their rejecting something they normally love. Frustration, yes, frustration with incompetence ... forgetting your child is a child and sometimes they might not be able to do something they'd apparently already mastered.

We were out at Bunnings. As you know Bunnings as an almost ever-present barbecue going. It's almost like an eternal flame of cooking meat tubes. When theBoy goes to Bunnings he inevitably gets a sausage on a piece of bread with sauce, or even two of them. And he loves sauce. He will have it with anything and everything. More often than not he will go through two small dishes of sauce with an evening meal (1).

I was planning on sitting in the cafe while theBoy and theWife went cruising along the aisles, he eating his two sausage sandwiches with her. But he rejected that idea and sat with me instead. 

It was then he decided he didn't want sauce. 

So he balanced two of the sausages on one piece of bread and then ripped the sauce-free bits away from the now sans sausage piece of bread, smearing tomato sauce across the tabletop, his fingers, his shirt and his face. Then he wanted a sausage ... but no sauce. Both sausages were covered in sauce. The only solution was for me to lick the sauce off. Wrinkling my nose I did so, the taste somewhat unpleasant, then gave him his now sauce free sausage.

He dropped it about two seconds later, the sausage rolling across the floor and under a planter box. I had to painfully bend to grab it and put it with the now sauce sodden pile of napkins. 

I couldn't help being annoyed. 'Fucking hell, theBoy!' I said with angry weariness. 'You make it so hard for me sometimes.'

As is the way with such public utterances there were a couple of middle-aged ladies in earshot having a coffee (2). I'm pretty sure they shot me a 'tut, tut' look. Which is fair enough. I dislike it when parents rag on their kids in public, too. I didn't yell or carry on but I was pissed off. Especially at having to lick clean the second sausage. However, lessons learned and all, and given the first sausage was clearly unwieldy to hold I snapped the secondary back up sausage in half first which was a lot easier for him to handle. 

The anger went away quickly and by the time he was done I was pretty contrite. Instead of going to the playground he decided to push his toddler trolley along, it now actually small for his size, and go on a crazy adventure amongst the towering warren of shelves that fills the vast space. And I embraced it all, following him, giggling as he banged into things and people (I apologised on his behalf as he careened off) and even suggested places to go like the 1:1 scale model kitchen or the weird alcoves under the shelves that have hanging hooks festooned with various things. By the time theWife had stacked the goods in the car all was good, save of course for his not wanting to hold my hand in the car park as we returned to the car. 

It is hard sometimes. And I am easily annoyed because I feel like crap a lot of the time, though I am better at swallowing annoyances now than I used to be. 

Anyway I told him I was sorry a couple more times later that day but I still felt bad. I hate yelling at him. I hated being yelled at as a kid and I hate yelling now. I hate people yelling at me or yelling near me. But even while I didn't yell what I said I still said it from a place of severe annoyance and I felt bad for it.

As ever I will stride to have the anger die with me.

(1) We should cut out losses and simply give it to him on a bigger dish.
(2) It's a week later. Occasionally I re-read my posts. Call it a time machine since this is in effect what this is. Anyway I re-read it and saw the ladies were 'having a coffee in earshot'. In retrospect that was confusing. It implied there were two Grandpa-in-my-pocket-sized mid-age'sters indulging in shots of expression whilst just outside the fleshy part of my outer ear. So I have nipped in to tweak it. Hello now me! Hi. How was the cycle just then? Good, actually. I did my six kilometres and it didn't hurt too much.I watched The Colbert Report which was tremendously awesome, as ever. The guest on talked about how the war on drugs is effectively discriminating against African Americans with a far higher incarceration rate that for whites with drug useage roughly proportional across all ethnic groups. If laws returned to the level they were before Reagan's massively moronic "War on Drugs" then the prison population would be one fifth the size. God bless America.