OOP ACK!

She came home to minor domestic noises from the kitchen. Going straight to her room, she put her bags down and changed into casual wear. Lord it was hot; damn these heatwaves! Anybody disputing 'global warming' has not lived through the first week of October 2014 in San Francisco.
The weather all summer had been surprisingly mild, not cold at all. September had been mostly pleasant, except for a few sweaty days. But October, so far, had been quite boiling.

Someone said "Oop ack".

She did not notice.


There was a clink of cutlery from the kitchen, but she did not hear it.
She was deep in thought, wondering whether the rainy season would start early this year, and if it would be torrential. One of those two, certainly. The Toad had told her so, and he was seldom wrong about such things. It was his barbarian heritage, something Pictish or Germanic, whatever, that gave him deeper insight into weather patterns. No doubt his savage ancestors had until quite recently painted their bottoms with vegetable dye and danced under a full moon to influence the winds on their frigid stretch of North Sea coastline. They were in tune with nature, only recently civilised, and that no doubt just barely. One step beyond ritual cannibalism.

The phrase "oop ack" came from somewhere.

And again, loudly, "oop ack".

For good measure.

"Oop ack!"


Having made herself comfortable, she wandered into the kitchen and turned on the oven. Time for a tasty snack! It would be so good, so very delicious! Animal proteins, broth, a bit of fat. The voice uttered the phrase 'oop ack' again, but she was too busy clanging several kitchen utensils to respond, if she had even heard.
Crash went a pot. Clatter went a lid.
Tnkle, rumble, clunk.
"Oop ack".

There were smacky sounds in the teevee room. Where a middle-aged gentleman was happily noshing on some toast. It had been perfectly browned in a dry skillet, the butter had melted in deliciously, and the Oxford Marmalade added sweet sweet bitterness. Why heavens, it was creamy! He slurped happily from a mug of strong tea, situated on a little tray on top of a stack of books to the left of his wicker chair.
"Oop ack", it was good, "oop ack!"

"OOP, ACK!"

A few minutes later his apartment mate came in. She was wearing lime-green kungfu trousers, a tee-shirt, and flip-flops.
Her intent was to turn on the telly and watch some real housewives acting tacky. Tacky in that way that white people have. Tacky as only hairy savages from places back east can be. Unbelievably tacky.
Tacky as all git out. Rich white trailer trash.

She screamed when she saw him sitting there with toast crumbs all over his snout.


"Toad, why the hell didn't you tell me you were home?!?"


But I did; I said "oop ack".
Several times.


For the rest of the evening she kept grumbling that I was a sneaky old devil, slithering in when she didn't notice, totally evil!
How very much like a white person!
Which of course I am.


Oop ack.



AFTER THOUGHTS

Living with a Chinese woman is NOT all beer and skittles. It requires patience, foresight, and above all a loud voice. Sometimes a Chinese woman will be so pre-occupied that she never even notices the racket elsewhere in the apartment, OR the several oop-acks, and she'll scream and drop her pork chop and Brussel sprout snackiplate.
Then blame you.

We caught the plate before the five second rule could come into play. Because I am surprisingly quick and twisty-flexible despite my age and my occasional twinges of gout. Kind of like a ferret or weasel. The lean stoat-like white person. Gallant and slithy. Kindly stop speculating about my bottom, or that of my distant relatives. I assure you that they haven't been painted blue with wood-dye for centuries!

Probably not since Roman times.
When it was fashionable.


I am Crazy White Man.
Hear me roar.
Oop ack.



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