Britney Spears and the Knock Knock joke

If I had wings today I’d stand on the window ledge and fly away. It’s one of those days when the minutiae of life gets me down and I want to get in the car, drive to the airport, buy a ticket to anywhere and just go. Barring that just find a nice warm hidey hole and hibernate.

Money is truly the root of all evil and the cause of this little pity party. In sheer desperation I’ll go and buy a lottery ticket at lunch, even though the odds are greater that I’ll get hit by a toilet seat falling from a space station, I’ll do it anyway. Sometimes hope is all you’ve got.

I wish I had a clear, single-minded objective for my life like before I die I want to climb Mount Everest. Instead I have a bucket list of random things I’d like to do:
Take a roadtrip through the USA in a 1950 Cadillac to see “The World’s Biggest Stuff”
Ride down Route 66 on the back of a Harley with a hardcore Hells Angel
Watch a show on Broadway
Eat a chilidog in Central Park
A night in trailer park
Chase a twister
See a gorilla, a panda, a koala and a tiger in the wild
Go to the Rio Carnival
Wear a dress from Chanel
Take the Orient Express

And other even more random things. To what purpose? I have no idea, I’d just like to do them. I know this lot centres on the US, but for some reason my thoughts strayed in that direction. Oh. I remember why. Over a year ago I pitched a prize of a roadtrip to see the world’s biggest stuff to a client. At the time they put it on the back burner, but I saw the promotion out yesterday and suffered a strange pang in my chest.

I don’t often miss the big agency drama, but sometimes I feel like I’m missing a limb. Wait a second. It’s not a limb, it’s an Art Director. I miss my Art Directors, Jason, Rhode, Luke, Lynn, Celeste, Ewan, Danie, Wayne, Marais, Steve, Scott, Eserick… I miss the camaraderie, the crazy creative ideas that bounce like ping pong balls and the painful birthing of campaigns. I don’t miss the politics, the backstabbing, the ineptitude, the lousy pay and the even more lousy hours. I miss seeing my promotion on a chocolate bar and knowing I did that.

Man of the House returns today after missing his flight out of tropical paradise. Apparently an Asian lady was accosted in front of him. Turns out she was carrying illegal pharmaceuticals in her purse and was bodily carried screaming out of the terminal. In her bag? Come on. Amazing also how people who were conversing fluently in English a moment before, suddenly lose ability to speak the language. Hopefully he will arrive on time to see Small boy aged 9 play soccer.

Speaking of which, Small boy in question has a different theme at school each week. We’ve had the body, Apartheid and other topical stuff. This week, he’s doing Sadness. The poor child has watched a movie about vivisection and read some of the most heart rending and ghastly stories all week long. Little girls following blind fathers into the snow, falling into lakes and drowning. Seals being bludgeoned to death and so on. Then they get upset with us parents for letting our kids watch age restricted movies with Arnie and Bruce Willis on the basis that they are too violent. I’ll take Arnie beating a robot from the future into submission over baby seals bleeding to death any day of the week. Small boy has had nightmares all week and is traumatised by the horror of mankind. Sadness, my voet. More like psychological terrorism. Maybe next week they’ll do humour and I’ll have to survive a week of knock-knock jokes.

Knock Knock!
Who’s there?
Britney Spears.
Britney Spears who?
Knock Knock
Who’s there?
Oops I did it again.

What did the pan say to the popcorn?
Why are you jumping? It's my ass that burning.

Why didn’t the skeleton cross the road?
He didn’t have the guts.

Right this is just getting silly…

The rat and the Man

The Rat. That was the title of a book my mother brought home from the library for her 6-year-old daughter. It had won awards and was lauded for its brilliance. It was terrifying. A little boy draws a picture of a big black rat with glowing red eyes in his school art class. Night after night he can hear scratching and squeaking. In his nightmares it hunts him, it’s eyes a beacon of horror. I can’t remember how he defeated the rat; surely it must have had a happy ending. What I do recall is the fear and desperation as he tried to outrun the monster he had created.

I have hated rats ever since and that feeling was only compounded by the Rats of Nimh and the Black Plague. I hate their scaly tails, their skittering little paws and the horrible intelligence in their eyes. I can easily believe they knew what they doing offering transportation and logistics to the parasites that caused the Plague.

I am not so much afraid of them, as completely repulsed by their very existence. When a close friend began to carry around a black hooded rodent on her shoulder, I can honestly say our friendship waned. After I almost caused a multiple car pileup on the highway when it stuck it’s little face out of her hair and after that she couldn’t forgive me for my prejudice.

They probably perform some crucial ecosystem function, but I’d just prefer it if they did it somewhere else. Specifically not in my kitchen! I am currently landlady to a rodent who took up residence behind my washing machine last evening. Not to be cowed I recovered from my glimpse of it streaking across the floor and called Small boy aged 9 to the front.

“Right,” said I with confidence, “What I need you to do is open the back kitchen door.”
“Why?” asked Small boy aged 9 with fascination.
“We need some air,” said I breezily despite the arctic conditions outside.
“Why are you sitting on the counter?”
“Just open the door.”
“Cool Mom, there’s a mouse! Can I give it some cheese?”
“No,” voice now rising to a shriek, “Get it out!”

It might be a mouse. I can’t tell the difference. I reminded myself of one of the primary reasons women get married in the first place and promptly called the Man of the House who is happily ensconced in warmth and tropical splendour in Mozambique.

“What on earth do you want me do about it?” ejaculated Man.
“Tell me what to do?” shrieks wife.
“Put a bowl or something on it?” suggests Man.
“Do you know how close I have to be to it to do that? Are you insane?”
“Probably,” Mutters Man “Give the phone to Small Boy aged 9.”
Small Boy aged 9, “Dad! Dad, it’s so cool, there’s a mouse in the kitchen, but Mom won’t let me feed it cheese.” Pause, “No, it’s really small, but Mom’s going on about it like it’s the size of the dog.”
Traitor. Who cares what size it is? It’s there, is that not enough?

Left to my own devices I built a wall of Lego boxes, ice cream containers and assorted Tupperware between it and me. I opened the door and left a trail of apple and bread leading into the wilderness beyond. And then I went to bed and dreamed. I dreamt of rats, huge salivating rats raising families the size of the Sicilian Mafia. It was not a good night and I ended up sleeping with Small Boy aged 6 for comfort and protection.

I have no idea if it is still there. The food is gone, but that could be the dogs who have lost interest in the small furry mammal they’ve introduced into my existence. My cats are too damn pampered and aloof to do anything so banal as catch a rodent. It is far too beneath them. Aside from which as little as I want to deal with a live rat, I want to deal with its corpse even less. Small Boy aged 6 suggested using karate on it and if that fails stomping on it. Yuck, yuck, yukkity yuk!