Day 69
I continued with the decorating today but this time with a little more care.
However, before I report on this I’d like to address an issue that has been the source of some puzzlement to me.
Prior to Small Child arriving into my existence, there was a steady stream of visitors to the house, all eager to have a few drinks or break out the poker chips.
Although the frequency of guests has not declined, they now consist largely of Mrs. Snowman’s friends who take no interest in anything other than bouncing the kid up and down on their knees and making goo-goo noises at it.
During these nauseating scenes, their husbands and boyfriends sit quietly with pained looks on their faces and gaze longingly at the liquor cabinet. It’s usually at this point I play the “dizzy” card.
This is essentially an escape plan where I inform Mrs. Snowman that I’m feeling unwell and need to go out and get some air. This is completely believable as infants emit a pungent smell that seems to be detectable only by bored men. However, I also point out that it would be prudent if I obtained this air with the company of a colleague in case I faint or my potential ailment develops in to something more serious.
Without any prompting, the pissed-off husband will spring into action and offer his chaperone services to ensure my safety. As the women are still transfixed with Small Child, no objections are voiced and I am able to make a miraculous recovery from my condition by taking in a lungful of air…coupled with several beers at the local pub.
Although this is quite cunning, it’s nowhere near as infuriating as some of the things Mrs. Snowman gets up when she wants to get her own way. Every man who is reading this, regardless of his country of origin or social background will nod his head in understanding when I say…The Silent Treatment.
At this point I shall move on to other matters before I delve into areas that will be dangerous to my continued health.
And so to the decorating, or more precisely, the cleaning.
Armed with a mop and bucket, a few packs of cleaning cloths, the vacuum cleaner and a bottle of disinfectant I ventured into the room and commenced my duties. Firstly I removed the dead bird (or rather the carcass, as by the looks of it the thing has been gone for a couple of years) and then set about taking all the cardboard boxes outside.
By lunchtime, I had created a workable environment and by early evening I was more or less ready to start the preparations at the second attempt. Not particularly inspiring or interesting for purposes of this diary but I wanted to include it as I can look back in years to come and see I managed to complete a full days work without seeking the assistance of a beer can.
Even having completed a day of honest toil I still managed to play a freeroll. Mrs. Snowman wasn’t especially happy with this as it started just after dinner was served so rather than eating at the dinner table; I sat in front of the television with a laptop on the arm of the chair and a plate full of food on my knees.
The occasional snide remark didn’t help my concentration but I still managed to finish in the top 100. I’m getting closer to the cash every time I play.
One particular comment caused a very awkward silence when she moodily said:
“You think more of poker than you do of me”
I was very convincing in my denial but can only be thankful she didn’t include beer and Southern Comfort in her remark.
That would have been very tricky to answer.
After dinner I also caught the tail end of a discussion in which Mrs. Snowman was trying to convince her mother that God is a woman.
For those of you (unlike myself) who hold religious beliefs, I can offer three convincing reasons why God isn’t female: Women would have orgasms that last a week, they’d be born with pre-paid credit cards and sperm would taste like chocolate.
Starting bank: $0
Current bank: $0
However, before I report on this I’d like to address an issue that has been the source of some puzzlement to me.
Prior to Small Child arriving into my existence, there was a steady stream of visitors to the house, all eager to have a few drinks or break out the poker chips.
Although the frequency of guests has not declined, they now consist largely of Mrs. Snowman’s friends who take no interest in anything other than bouncing the kid up and down on their knees and making goo-goo noises at it.
During these nauseating scenes, their husbands and boyfriends sit quietly with pained looks on their faces and gaze longingly at the liquor cabinet. It’s usually at this point I play the “dizzy” card.
This is essentially an escape plan where I inform Mrs. Snowman that I’m feeling unwell and need to go out and get some air. This is completely believable as infants emit a pungent smell that seems to be detectable only by bored men. However, I also point out that it would be prudent if I obtained this air with the company of a colleague in case I faint or my potential ailment develops in to something more serious.
Without any prompting, the pissed-off husband will spring into action and offer his chaperone services to ensure my safety. As the women are still transfixed with Small Child, no objections are voiced and I am able to make a miraculous recovery from my condition by taking in a lungful of air…coupled with several beers at the local pub.
Although this is quite cunning, it’s nowhere near as infuriating as some of the things Mrs. Snowman gets up when she wants to get her own way. Every man who is reading this, regardless of his country of origin or social background will nod his head in understanding when I say…The Silent Treatment.
At this point I shall move on to other matters before I delve into areas that will be dangerous to my continued health.
And so to the decorating, or more precisely, the cleaning.
Armed with a mop and bucket, a few packs of cleaning cloths, the vacuum cleaner and a bottle of disinfectant I ventured into the room and commenced my duties. Firstly I removed the dead bird (or rather the carcass, as by the looks of it the thing has been gone for a couple of years) and then set about taking all the cardboard boxes outside.
By lunchtime, I had created a workable environment and by early evening I was more or less ready to start the preparations at the second attempt. Not particularly inspiring or interesting for purposes of this diary but I wanted to include it as I can look back in years to come and see I managed to complete a full days work without seeking the assistance of a beer can.
Even having completed a day of honest toil I still managed to play a freeroll. Mrs. Snowman wasn’t especially happy with this as it started just after dinner was served so rather than eating at the dinner table; I sat in front of the television with a laptop on the arm of the chair and a plate full of food on my knees.
The occasional snide remark didn’t help my concentration but I still managed to finish in the top 100. I’m getting closer to the cash every time I play.
One particular comment caused a very awkward silence when she moodily said:
“You think more of poker than you do of me”
I was very convincing in my denial but can only be thankful she didn’t include beer and Southern Comfort in her remark.
That would have been very tricky to answer.
After dinner I also caught the tail end of a discussion in which Mrs. Snowman was trying to convince her mother that God is a woman.
For those of you (unlike myself) who hold religious beliefs, I can offer three convincing reasons why God isn’t female: Women would have orgasms that last a week, they’d be born with pre-paid credit cards and sperm would taste like chocolate.
Starting bank: $0
Current bank: $0