Tuesday, 9 November 2010

Tuesday, the new Wednesday

A tiny catalogue of Tuesday fail, before I return to my own personal gulag for the evening. Tuesday went all bitchy and vindictive on me this week. It's usually better behaved than this.

1. The fire extinguisher repair man came round today (the only thing my landlords have done here, to my knowledge, in my year of residence), and I airily waved him in the direction of the landing, pleased I even knew where the extinguisher was, and went back to work. Five minutes later a crystal clear mental image appeared fully formed in my mind, making me gasp, of the pile of dirty washing I had dumped in precisely the spot occupied by the fire extinguisher. Not just boys t-shirts, mind. "Delicates". A pile of my knickers, basically, maybe the odd greying bra for variety. It was too late to go and retrieve them. I pretended to be the dogsitter, unconvincingly. I felt judged, and rightly so.

2. I arrived at school after a fraught day of being a fucking moron, to find my first born embroiled in some sort of Situation, involving him having possibly called someone "une grosse conne" (VERY rude). The words "he must have learnt that at home" were bandied about, with the cat's arse face of judgment. I had many esprit d'escalier type thoughts about this after the event, most of them exceptionally rude. I don't think he said it, myself. He could very easily have learned how to say "fucking hell", I concede, but I wouldn't say "grosse conne" (nor would his father, who as we know limits himself to a manly "shackass", possibly rising to "oh bordel" if he's doing DIY). Unfair. He was weeping and indignant at the injustice of it all, which meant I didn't even shout at him for losing his glove, new that morning. Swings, roundabouts.

3. I fell into a pothole filled with water on the way home, it was raining apocalyptically for the 73rd consecutive hour, one child was weeping with injustice in my arms, and the other was telling me a long, involved story about words beginning with "S".


"Er, no"


"Not that one either"


"Not exactly"




(Brightly, with just an edge of mania) "Shall we do this when we get home, darling?"

Then suddenly I was calf deep in rain water, my cherished, ancient Chloé shoe buggered. You win, Tuesday.

Thankfully, M has cheered me up by mocking me and my phone phobia, which was particularly bad today.

M: You can get over it. With some laser focus!

E: You reckon?

M: Come on. Focus. FOCUUUUUSSSSS.

E: I can't. My head hurts.

M: FOCUUUUSUSSSSS. Did you just blow up a paper clip with your laser eye beams?

E: Maybe a little.

M: Oh shit, I just blew up a co-worker.

E: Ooh, I should turn my gaze on the dog then.

M: Start with a warning shot. Blow up something near his paw.

E: If this were slightly earlier in the day, that would be the 500 gramme pack of butter he liberated from the kitchen and ate on the doormat.

I await Wednesday with interest, and a degree of terror.


M. said...

I so want laser focus dude to be amazing. I want to be a believer. I WANT TO BELIEVE!

WrathofDawn said...

I need that laser focus. NEED IT NOW.

soleils said...

I am seething with anger at the injustice of the gulag swearword situation. I would have turned into a shivering ball of anger and frustration, as I invariably do when one of my boys gets a glimpse of how shiteous the world can be.
Don't you just wish you could tell the bastards to piss right off?
Lots of cuddles to your boy.

The pile of delicates incident made me laugh uncomfortably, as I once stood like a lemon next to the plumber as he casually removed a bunch of delicates from under the sink, where they were quietly waiting to be handwashed. I don't have a dog, they were obviously mine and I wanted the earth to swallow me.

Here's to laser focusing.

Waffle said...

Thing is, M/WoD, I think the idea is that HE is laser focussed upon your fucked upness, rather than somehow magically giving you, you know, laser beams for your eyes. But no matter. Laser focus is laser focus, I suppose.

Detoured Girl said...

Best thing ever for never-ending Brussels rainy days (a.k.a. as "normal days") are wellington boots. I am currently living in Tokio for a couple of years, but I used to work in Diegem (horror of all horrors) and I had to jump over muddy puddles every morning and evening en route to the train station.

About the school swearing situation, regardless of whether your son did say those words or not (I have an incling to believe he didn't, poor boy) don't take any crap from those people. I firmly believe that teachers, specially in Belgium, where you have a lot of work protection if you are a teacher) most of them are a marginally superior life form than planarias. So laser-blow them without any remorse.

TheOtherEmma said...

Feed the dog some sugar and flour and make some arse biscuits. No?

Margaret said...

Oh, I am PISSED about the swearing incident. They made him CRY? Fucking assholes! If you give me their phone number, I'll call them and unleash a torrent of New York-style cursing that will curl their hair. Motherfuckers. It's like 19-fucking-43 there. Who talks to children like that these days?

Artichoke Queen said...

M., speaking of laser focus, GET BACK TO PACKING!

Telephonophbia Guy said...

This is what I seem to have noticed with those suffering from phone phobia,They are always very good writers.I guess they developed this skill as soon as they discover their weakness on the other site.

frau antje said...

Tears and indignation, at least they're finally teaching them something practical.

Anonymous said...

Everyone, absolutely everyone, knows that you learn swearwords from other children, not from adults.
I for instance gave my son the task to teach his sister all the English swearwords he knew. This in order to avoid a repetition of the very embarrassing situation where my son called a duck "You bastard" in front of an elderly English lady of my acquaintance, not realising how bad a word it is.


kath said...

My belge cm is wistful for Belgian education and thinks we are potatoing them. she does much extra homework for mine and hers and they like it. wretches.

kath said...

they are FIVE

Grit said...

i console you over the laundry and offer this moment of sympathetic pain.

we bought a flat previously occupied by a particularly unpleasant couple. (they later came back and stole garden items, but that is not the point.)

the boiler of the flat needed replacing. the gas man came to call and required access to pipes under floorboards, where he uncovered a stash of empty dvd boxes with explicit picture covers of hardcore porn.

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