Father's Day is a Guy Thing

Women settle into a new kitchen by unpacking, finding a place on the counter for the coffeemaker, a place on the shelf for the coffee powder and the filter bags, making sure the coffee cups are washed clean of the newsprint from the newspaper wrapping in transit to the new kitchen, getting a cultery organiser in the drawer for the spoons and the rest of the flatware (even something as mundane as this was done with pleasure if only because we had no drawers in the previous kitchen).

Men settle in by calling Pizza Hut. Followed by KFC the next day. Thank god L hasn't called McDonald's delivery yet. At least I can swallow a Super Supreme and Hot 'n' Crispy Wings. His point was that it's very important that these venerable institutions have our new phone number, and hence, our new delivery address.

And that's why L's Father's Day present was a sackful (note: not bagful) of chips. Tapioca chips glistening red with chilli sambal.

He elected to stay in on Father's Day instead of going out to dinner, so I guess the chips will come in handy. Later, we're having breakfast for dinner -- sausage, egg and toast: a Bloomsday fry-up two days late. It is a Guy Thing to eat breakfast at any time, apparently. It's also a Guy Thing to lie on the couch and watch TV. But when our TV can only a pick up one station and the World Cup matches are not on that station, it rather diminishes the couch thing somewhat. So it becomes a Guy Thing to nap on the couch.

But HRH saw that we at least got some movement out of him. At about 6pm, just when the other dogs and children are being walked, she wanted to go downstairs and came prancing into the study where I was on the computer. But Daddy's napping, I told her, so we can't go for walkies till he gets up. She turned round and scooted off. Half a minute later, I heard an "oof" from the couch. Daddy's up. From a leaping Schnauzer who crashed-landed onto his belly.

Damn, that bitch is good.