Wednesday, you asshole. You make out you are oh, so damn relaxed and family friendly. You are all, 'Yay, school's out, do your chores and then have fun with your gorgeous kids! Partaayy! '. Yeah, right, Wednesday. Do I LOOK like a taxi, Wednesday? Well, do I?
No, this isn't working, is it. You see what I tried to do there? Crap, wasn't it? Start again with the normal Belgian Waffle whiny wordiness about my terrible, terrible first world problems.
Wednesday is totally hateful. Some stupid bastard (probably Napoleon) decided that children in continental Europe should have Wednesday off. EPIC ADMINISTRATIVE FAIL, NAPOLEON (god, I can't shake it, can I?). In Belgium this leaves parents with three choices:
1. Ignore it, leave children in gulag, prepare yourself for The Soulcrushing Guilt as you arrive at 6pm to find your children, alone, sitting at a sad little wooden desk with a four piece wooden puzzle and 2 brown crayons;
2. Pay some feckless arse student to collect them and rummage through your knicker drawer, then sit around eating your food while the children dismantle your house and kill each other;
3. Take Wednesday, or at least Wednesday afternoon off.
So here I am, as a long time proponent of option #1, testing option #3. Newsflash: it is pretty awful. First I do the shopping, which always casts me into a soup of expatriot despondency. Oh, Belgian supermarkets, so sad, so strip lit, so full of offal, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways. No, let me not. Today I amused myself by trying to find the worst meat product possible after the fanmail Thierry the Tapeworm received. I think it has to be the neat rows of greying tongues packed in polystyrene trays, though the stir fry packs of gizzards were also appealing. Next time I take the camera.
Of course shopping also means driving, and I drive with all the skill and road sense of a crackhead spider monkey. I cannot judge my own width (a little like being pregnant, I find), I often get the sides of the road confused, and priorité à droite sends me into a terrifying spin. Add into the mix my fatal attraction to skips (they exert a magnetic pull on me when I am behind the wheel. I have lost three wing mirrors to their siren song), and you have a fairly terrifying scenario. The CFO has been watching 'Belgium's Worst Drivers' recently, a programme which gives him considerable amusement, but which is squirmingly near the knuckle for me.
Qui dit driving, dit parking. Ha! Just, no. Not ever, and especially not now when the Belgian Hole Digging and Filling Committee have designated the whole of my area a "Big Fuck Off Hole Zone" (yes, that's the technical term). Even when I am the only sober person in a car, the drunkards will not let me park, and I agree with them. Last week a complete stranger outside the bank stopped traffic to assist me parking. I have no spatial awareness at all and my bumpers are testament to that.
Then, add in the spawn. Two choices: allow them to run feral at home, or corral them into some improving activity. Clearly, the second option holds out the enticing possibility of child free time, and so I seize at it. Only, the spawn cannot agree on a single activity, and must do different things at different times. Cue MORE DRIVING, this time to the accompaniment of helpful commentary from the back seat. Things I must do, apparently, while driving:
- mental arithmetic courtesy of Lashes (douze fois trente deux maman? MAMAAAN?)
- constructing Kinder toys courtesy of Fingers
- explain why the man whose route I am blocking is making that gesture with his middle finger
- provide a constant supply of in-flight refreshments
- remove packaging from said refreshments
- select music (particular tracks, not merely albums) even when passengers are not remotely in agreement over which tracks they want.
Add in today's freak hailstorm and you have a recipe for endless joy. You might, just for variety, add a dog that trails its scrabbly claws in puddles making a noise like a slowly deflating balloon and then leaps all over you when it (sensibly) takes fright at the sight of a tram. A CFO who comes home early in order to hide in the attic complaining about the noise and send you emails requiring translation and asks you what day the 20th April is and where the Yellow Pages are and how the conditional tense works as you try and write your goddammed blog post (that, in a fit of OCD self-imposed cruelty you have decided you must do every single day UNTIL YOU DIE). You should almost certainly have leaking shoes and cold icy feet. Your children are skreeeking and shrieking at each other over their expensive video games until your ear drums puncture. It is nearly 7pm and you have not thought about dinner and your 1950s spouse is standing over you pursing his lips and narrowing his teeny tiny eyes as you type, and type, and type.
This, my friends, is Wednesday.
Fuck you, Wednesday.