In spite of the mess, the uproar and the need for constant motion, I’m very happy ‘at’ that guy. He sure knows what he’s doing, and the bathroom will be fabulous when he’s done.
I wish I could say that I’m always happy ‘at’ his kids. Or that they were always happy ‘at’ each other. Now, that would be something to be happy about.
Take what happened the other day. Here they came, Inspector Gadget and his brother, Little Schrock, scuffing into the house after school. Hungry, they began foraging for snacks; popcorn for Little, chips and salsa for his brother.
And there he went. Kid Kaboom, our in-house bottle rocket, with his hand in the chip bag, evil grin on his face, issued this disturbing announcement: “I licked one of the chips and put it back in the bag so he won’t know which one it is.”
Horror swept over the face of his victim, the Inspector, who glanced down at the chips in his own hand. Like lightning, he galloped past, depositing them in the trash can. “Uh, I think I’ll just wait ‘til you get a new bag,” he said, looking pale. He wasn’t (I could tell it) happy at all.
The father of the snackers and the snack saboteur wouldn’t have been happy at the ruckus that broke out a day or so later while he was at work. As I told my friends, “In other news, locals note that the annual phenomenon known as the running of the bulls has be — wait. No. It’s just the Schrock boys, enjoying a hearty, after-school chase. Never mind.”
He would never tolerate this at his place of business. Which is basically what our house is for me, seeing as how I telecommute. He wouldn’t put up with floors that shake, pictures that jump on walls, the bedding that gets tangled in knots when they land there, or the sight of someone’s legs waving above his head. He wouldn’t.
He’d not be happy at those shenanigans. If they’d pull this on his watch, those chasing, snorting, running bulls would be put out to pasture that quick, and probably someplace far away. Like, say, the Swiss Alps.