Every now and then something just sets your teeth on edge and jars the fillings therein, doesn't it, Gentle Blog-Browser? Like the morning I'm having because I'm waiting for an insurance claim to be finalised to replace various white and electrical goods, thus necessitating my trip to the laundromat this morning, and my drive afterwards to the town library. On the way Billy Joel's 'Uptown Girl' was wafting through the speakers and for some reason that song just gets up my nose. It's cheesy enough to constipate you, and every time he chants, 'You know I can't afford to buy her pearls...', I roll my eyes and think, 'Billy, you could probably buy a small island in the Caribbean!' Also, there is currently a mothers' group having a session here at the library, and one of the kids is squealing with an intensity and decibel level that is making the top of my skull feel as though it's peeling back like a sardine can. Not to be over critical, of course; I have children myself and know what a capricious and frightful creature a tired baby is. But it's still a tad irritating.
What else has really pissed me off is the new One Nation candidate for the Pilbara region, David Archibald. He's defending an article he wrote a while back in which he slagged off single mothers. Hey, Archibald - the 1950's rang: Go home; dinner's ready. I thought people had stopped the needless criticism of single mothers, who actually have a very tough job. I remember years ago unmarried teenaged mums were referred to as 'girls like that'. Girls like what? Humanoid life forms comprising chiefly oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium and phosphorus?
Archibald's theory is single mothers are too 'lazy to attract a mate', and they are likely to breed a sector of society that are 'lazy and ugly'.
David, David, David. You complete and utter unmitigated, unadulterated, donkey-fellating imbecile. Do you hold the appropriate sociological and anthropological qualifications to back up this specious and frankly offensive claim? Your notion is problematic on a few levels. Let me explain them for you, after you've had a chance to pick up the dictionary and look up 'problematic'.
Checked the definition, now? Scratched your balls? Picked your nose and rolled the snot into a ball and flicked it somewhere? Okay, sit back and let me point out some things to you:
First of all, single mothers are not necessarily lazy because they have to do the work of TWO parents. Have you an opinion on the fathers who abandon the family unit, or is that okay in your twisted mind? What about the single mother who has left an abusive or no longer working relationship? What about the single mother who is widowed? And here's one that will tweak your nuts: the leader of your putrescent party One Nation was for a very long time herself a SINGLE MOTHER!
As for lazy and ugly people, let me point out a few people who were illegitimate. None of this list are particularly lazy, and not all that ugly, either:
Leonardo da Vinci
Sophia Loren
T E Lawrence
William the Conqueror
Arnold Schwarzenegger
I'd submit the above list are actually a very useful lot of people, although I do wish Arnie had not pursued an acting career - he can't act.
Something else, and I know I'm being mean here, but - it's like this - aesthetically speaking, you are really nothing to write a sonnet over.
I don't know if you are single, but if you are, David, it's not your looks. It's your antiquated and chauvinistic attitude. Your type spends their waking hours sitting in a tree flinging around their own dung, and frankly nobody wants to be hit with a flying pellet.
Tuesday 31 January 2017
Saturday 28 January 2017
Fading Flower:Wilting Weed
Again I sit at a computer in the local library. Outside the heat is stultifying, and I am feeling wilted and limp, a fading fragile flower tenuously yet desperately clinging to the bloom of youth and vigour. It's like I'm in a Tennessee Williams play. But the reality is I'm just an old weed withering in the sweltering heat. And I've got a tummy ache to boot.
I have spent five days holidaying en famille in the lake district of the Lower Hunter, and it was delightful. We rented a cottage where our dogs were welcome, and there were DVDs and puzzles provided. My kids watched the 'Back to the Future' trilogy over and over and over. I watched 'The English Patient', sniffling somewhat, as well as 'To Kill A Mockingbird'. It is impossible to not feel chilled when Atticus Finch finalises his summation to the jury: 'In the name of GOD, do your duty. In the name of God, BELIEVE Tom Robinson!'
The boys fished, and swam. I was introduced by my 12yo to another holidaying kid thus: 'This is Simone. I just call her Mum, but sometimes Grammar Nazi'. Is he dropping a hint? Perhaps. I am already toying with the idea of approaching a local realtor who has advertised an upcoming clearance sale on premises 'formally known as'. Oh dear. People, if something is described as 'formally', it means polite, proper, sticking to accepted ritual and protocol. If you want to refer to a past situation, then the word is 'formerly'.
That's it for now. I'm sick. I'm here because I need to print something from my email and I can't get it to load for some reason. I might have to return tomorrow. Tomorrow is a big day for my family: my 12yo starts high school.
So many things with which I must deal: high schoolers, heat, and a house that still looks like it has simultaneously crapped and vomited. I try not to let it get to me too much, but it's oh so difficult, my friends.
I have spent five days holidaying en famille in the lake district of the Lower Hunter, and it was delightful. We rented a cottage where our dogs were welcome, and there were DVDs and puzzles provided. My kids watched the 'Back to the Future' trilogy over and over and over. I watched 'The English Patient', sniffling somewhat, as well as 'To Kill A Mockingbird'. It is impossible to not feel chilled when Atticus Finch finalises his summation to the jury: 'In the name of GOD, do your duty. In the name of God, BELIEVE Tom Robinson!'
The boys fished, and swam. I was introduced by my 12yo to another holidaying kid thus: 'This is Simone. I just call her Mum, but sometimes Grammar Nazi'. Is he dropping a hint? Perhaps. I am already toying with the idea of approaching a local realtor who has advertised an upcoming clearance sale on premises 'formally known as'. Oh dear. People, if something is described as 'formally', it means polite, proper, sticking to accepted ritual and protocol. If you want to refer to a past situation, then the word is 'formerly'.
That's it for now. I'm sick. I'm here because I need to print something from my email and I can't get it to load for some reason. I might have to return tomorrow. Tomorrow is a big day for my family: my 12yo starts high school.
So many things with which I must deal: high schoolers, heat, and a house that still looks like it has simultaneously crapped and vomited. I try not to let it get to me too much, but it's oh so difficult, my friends.
Saturday 21 January 2017
Jus' Buggin'
What's bugging me today:
1. My mechanical ineptitude. I couldn't figure out how to use the hose with the weed'n'feed bottle today. I misunderstood the instructions, and called for my husband to show me. I hate feeling like a helpless female. I don't want to be like a Disney princess of old, lying in a coma waiting for the first kiss of my True Love (who had to fix the hose to the weed'n'feed for me); I want to spray the weeds on my lawn which are taking over like the fourth-graders in the third-graders' sandpit, since that lake formed in my back yard following the Christmas Eve flood. What's the point in being smart if I can't figure out the weed'n'feed? Blitzing just about every trivia game I play will be of little comfort when the Triffids take over my back yard.
2. Typing this at my local library. There is nothing wrong with my library at all, and the air conditioning in this oppressive heat is a boon. The problem is I still don't have a computer. I will get a computer. Soon-ish. Have been emailed a list of items for replacement so Mr Bingells, Master 15, and myself spent a goodly amount of time yesterday at the local Harvey Norman pricing electrical and white goods, along with bedding, sheets, and a lounge. It can be exciting to do this, I know; I recall going to the then Grace Bros store and compiling a gift registry list with Mr Bingells prior to our wedding. But at the moment it's making me feel a tad frustrated. I've spoken with my editor and explained the re-edited manuscript will have to be re-emailed soon, so it's not all insurmountable, but geez I'd prefer it if it hadn't happened.
3. People who vague-book. Got something to say? Then for the love of Crimony, just SAY it! I am a whiz at solving cryptic crosswords, but I don't have the inclination to solve a cryptic, usually poor-me type mewling message on Facebook. Again, what's the good of having the ability to think laterally and solve difficult word puzzles if I cannot work out the attachment on the weed'n'feed bottle? But back to the vague-bookers, please address your problem with the person responsible, or say what you've got to say, and stop with what you believe to be mystery and poignancy. It just reeks of passive-aggressive attention seeking, and one of these days someone is going to type in the comments section: 'You're a whiny prat and nobody cares'.
4. That 'tard in the Suburu at my local Coles car park. If you're reading this, you imbecile, it would be greatly appreciated by the other shoppers at that centre if you could actually learn appropriate driving skills. Checking there is nobody coming (particularly me) prior to backing out of the car space is considered a good idea. Not watching what you're doing and backing out into my line of drive, thus almost ramming into my vehicle, is what's considered total rat shit driving.
5. Having the song 'Soul Kind Of Feeling' by the Dynamic Hepnotics stuck in my head. It's in my head like a vile, unholy and just plain ANNOYING presence, and I apologise for placing it in yours now. I heard it on the radio on my way to the library, and now it's stuck in my head where it's torturing me like some kind of ancient Chinese water torture. I have never liked the song (I think the look on the singer's face in the film clip had something to do with it - I'm sure he's a nice bloke but the clip turned me off, along with the song's earwormish propensity). It annoys the living snot of out of me and it's taken up lodgings rent-free in my head, where it's co-flatting with the utter frustrating misery that comes from being unable to work out the weed'n'feed thing.
1. My mechanical ineptitude. I couldn't figure out how to use the hose with the weed'n'feed bottle today. I misunderstood the instructions, and called for my husband to show me. I hate feeling like a helpless female. I don't want to be like a Disney princess of old, lying in a coma waiting for the first kiss of my True Love (who had to fix the hose to the weed'n'feed for me); I want to spray the weeds on my lawn which are taking over like the fourth-graders in the third-graders' sandpit, since that lake formed in my back yard following the Christmas Eve flood. What's the point in being smart if I can't figure out the weed'n'feed? Blitzing just about every trivia game I play will be of little comfort when the Triffids take over my back yard.
2. Typing this at my local library. There is nothing wrong with my library at all, and the air conditioning in this oppressive heat is a boon. The problem is I still don't have a computer. I will get a computer. Soon-ish. Have been emailed a list of items for replacement so Mr Bingells, Master 15, and myself spent a goodly amount of time yesterday at the local Harvey Norman pricing electrical and white goods, along with bedding, sheets, and a lounge. It can be exciting to do this, I know; I recall going to the then Grace Bros store and compiling a gift registry list with Mr Bingells prior to our wedding. But at the moment it's making me feel a tad frustrated. I've spoken with my editor and explained the re-edited manuscript will have to be re-emailed soon, so it's not all insurmountable, but geez I'd prefer it if it hadn't happened.
3. People who vague-book. Got something to say? Then for the love of Crimony, just SAY it! I am a whiz at solving cryptic crosswords, but I don't have the inclination to solve a cryptic, usually poor-me type mewling message on Facebook. Again, what's the good of having the ability to think laterally and solve difficult word puzzles if I cannot work out the attachment on the weed'n'feed bottle? But back to the vague-bookers, please address your problem with the person responsible, or say what you've got to say, and stop with what you believe to be mystery and poignancy. It just reeks of passive-aggressive attention seeking, and one of these days someone is going to type in the comments section: 'You're a whiny prat and nobody cares'.
4. That 'tard in the Suburu at my local Coles car park. If you're reading this, you imbecile, it would be greatly appreciated by the other shoppers at that centre if you could actually learn appropriate driving skills. Checking there is nobody coming (particularly me) prior to backing out of the car space is considered a good idea. Not watching what you're doing and backing out into my line of drive, thus almost ramming into my vehicle, is what's considered total rat shit driving.
5. Having the song 'Soul Kind Of Feeling' by the Dynamic Hepnotics stuck in my head. It's in my head like a vile, unholy and just plain ANNOYING presence, and I apologise for placing it in yours now. I heard it on the radio on my way to the library, and now it's stuck in my head where it's torturing me like some kind of ancient Chinese water torture. I have never liked the song (I think the look on the singer's face in the film clip had something to do with it - I'm sure he's a nice bloke but the clip turned me off, along with the song's earwormish propensity). It annoys the living snot of out of me and it's taken up lodgings rent-free in my head, where it's co-flatting with the utter frustrating misery that comes from being unable to work out the weed'n'feed thing.
Monday 16 January 2017
A Model Citizen
Okay, I think there might be a new career for me. As a model. No, seriously, I could be a mannequin. I used to hear that a bit when I was in my mid to late teens, because I am slightly taller than average, and back then I was something of a sylph. The other day it became apparent that the book writing lark isn't getting the bills paid as quickly as I'd like, and I might have to take up modelling.
Now, in case you're wondering the genesis of this great epiphany, it was the other day at a local store. My swimming costume is getting a bit chlorine-worn, so I figured being summer and all, it might be time for replacement. Off to the store I toddled, and being realistic, grabbed a Size 14 one-piece from the rack. I personally favour tankinis, but there were none to be seen, and I figured my rashie will hide any flaws (or what the beauty magazines would have us believe are flaws) a one piece would highlight on the elongated torso I possess. Yes, I'm kind of long in the waist, which is why I prefer a tankini style swimsuit to a one piece, which travels northward and cleaves me cruelly twixt my buttocks. They also have a propensity to produce a camel toe on me that looks like said camel is doing the Vulcan salute.
I was feeling very excited about buying a new swimming costume, an errand that often fills women with dread, because someone told me recently I look like I've lost weight. I figured I would look like a hot cougarish MILF in the pretty costume I took with me into the changing cubicle. Like I said, I had grabbed a Size 14 - I try to convince myself I'm a 12, but being the body shape I am, I need all the extra fabric available to not end up being cut in half when I stand.
I drew the curtain and peeled off my clobber, except for my Reg Grundies (we must be hygiene conscious, folks). I stepped into the swimming costume and pulled it up over my legs. The further up my legs the costume was tugged, the more effort it required on my part. Soon I was no longer pulling but dragging the damn thing, kind of like the slaves of Cheops dragging stones to build the pyramids. I performed calisthenics and jumped around a little throughout this procedure, and was grunting with the effort. A passerby would have thought the cubicle contained a pig dining, or maybe Maria Sharapova whacking a series of killer aces.
Satisfied I had my arse in the damnable garment, I dragged it up my ribcage. This was very arduous and provided a more than satisfactory cardio workout. 'Simone,' I told myself, 'You cannot break the laws of physics.' My self advice did not stop my trying. The straps were forced up my arms and onto my shoulders, where they gouged me mercilessly. The top front section of the costume did not cover my bust entirely, and what it did cover flattened, thus forcing a wild comber of side boob, and above boob, and snuggled into the armpits boob, and probably some boob around the back. This is so not a good look.
Miraculously, the jaws of life were not required to extricate me from the costume. I escaped without getting tangled and falling over, and humbly asked the sales assistant for the next size up. There was no next size up. I left the store sans new swimming costume.
As for my whimsy that I could model, it was when I still had the costume on and was regarding the horrific apparition in the mirror. I would have been a fabulous mannequin in a window display. The window of a kosher deli, that is.
Now, in case you're wondering the genesis of this great epiphany, it was the other day at a local store. My swimming costume is getting a bit chlorine-worn, so I figured being summer and all, it might be time for replacement. Off to the store I toddled, and being realistic, grabbed a Size 14 one-piece from the rack. I personally favour tankinis, but there were none to be seen, and I figured my rashie will hide any flaws (or what the beauty magazines would have us believe are flaws) a one piece would highlight on the elongated torso I possess. Yes, I'm kind of long in the waist, which is why I prefer a tankini style swimsuit to a one piece, which travels northward and cleaves me cruelly twixt my buttocks. They also have a propensity to produce a camel toe on me that looks like said camel is doing the Vulcan salute.
I was feeling very excited about buying a new swimming costume, an errand that often fills women with dread, because someone told me recently I look like I've lost weight. I figured I would look like a hot cougarish MILF in the pretty costume I took with me into the changing cubicle. Like I said, I had grabbed a Size 14 - I try to convince myself I'm a 12, but being the body shape I am, I need all the extra fabric available to not end up being cut in half when I stand.
I drew the curtain and peeled off my clobber, except for my Reg Grundies (we must be hygiene conscious, folks). I stepped into the swimming costume and pulled it up over my legs. The further up my legs the costume was tugged, the more effort it required on my part. Soon I was no longer pulling but dragging the damn thing, kind of like the slaves of Cheops dragging stones to build the pyramids. I performed calisthenics and jumped around a little throughout this procedure, and was grunting with the effort. A passerby would have thought the cubicle contained a pig dining, or maybe Maria Sharapova whacking a series of killer aces.
Satisfied I had my arse in the damnable garment, I dragged it up my ribcage. This was very arduous and provided a more than satisfactory cardio workout. 'Simone,' I told myself, 'You cannot break the laws of physics.' My self advice did not stop my trying. The straps were forced up my arms and onto my shoulders, where they gouged me mercilessly. The top front section of the costume did not cover my bust entirely, and what it did cover flattened, thus forcing a wild comber of side boob, and above boob, and snuggled into the armpits boob, and probably some boob around the back. This is so not a good look.
Miraculously, the jaws of life were not required to extricate me from the costume. I escaped without getting tangled and falling over, and humbly asked the sales assistant for the next size up. There was no next size up. I left the store sans new swimming costume.
As for my whimsy that I could model, it was when I still had the costume on and was regarding the horrific apparition in the mirror. I would have been a fabulous mannequin in a window display. The window of a kosher deli, that is.
Thursday 12 January 2017
No (Bull)S**t, Sherlock
Dear Australian Summer, just a brief note. You've had your fun, now how about you piss right off? It's about 41 degrees Celsius here and I am liking it not at all. It makes me fractious, and Christ knows I've been foul tempered enough of late because of you know, shitty flood and all. Probably another gift of the Australian Summer - that fucked up weather pattern that blew chunks all over this fair town.
Who, like me, thinks the rumour about PEOTUS engaging in urologic practices with Russian hookers is quite likely just that: a rumour? Yeah, yeah, yeah, but who else, like me, thinks it's totally hee-LAIR-ious? To be honest, if it's true, I don't care if Trump likes getting pissed on. It's probably an extension of his usual habit of pissing down people's legs and telling them it's raining. It would certainly explain that jaundiced looking complexion of his. Putin must have had the ladies guzzling Beroccas by the gallon to get that citric tone in Trump's skin. The presidential inauguration will no doubt be quite the rage, a real - ahem! - piss-up. The responsibilities of his new role don't frighten him because he is confident it will be a piece of piss. He's having trouble getting anybody to perform at the swearing in, but I've heard the old Pommy act Christie will reform and play their hit, 'Yellow River'. Cold Play might be on the bill, too; they're singing 'Yellow'. Doc Neeson is no longer with us, but I'm sure the Brewster Brothers will happily take to the stage and belt out, 'Looks like it's comin' down on me....'. Oh, the fun the Twitterati have been having in light of these revelations. Not that a fetish between consenting adults should be shamed, or anything like that. Oh no. It's just such fun taking the piss out of Trump (and having typed that, I've just realized I've made another pun - completely unintentional this time).
When I go to work, I wear a work polo - usually one of the green ones. Other colleagues wear similar. Big woop. When I go out, if there is a woman in a similar top, it fazes me not because I have the confidence to know that other people don't really care. See where I'm going with this? You've quite likely seen footage taken of Channel 9 presenter Amber Sherlock having a bit of an off-air shitfit because she, a fellow female presenter, and a guest are all wearing white tops. La Sherlock was getting her flaps twisted because she had issued some edict that the other presenter should be in a jacket because apparently the universe would implode if they went to air in similarly coloured shirts. How bloody vacuous and lacking in substance to believe this actually matters! And fancy carrying on like a prima donna over it. I accept that anyone can have a bad day at work and not be amiable to their colleagues. But seriously, over a shirt? Who fucking cares! I don't care if news presenters wear similar colours because I'm more interested in this funny little thing called THE NEWS! I wonder who leaked the footage. I'm guessing someone to whom Sherlock might have behaved obnoxiously in the past.
Well, I must be on my way to purchase some dinner. After I finish my evening medication run, I am on leave for a few weeks. Oh, hurray!!!!
Who, like me, thinks the rumour about PEOTUS engaging in urologic practices with Russian hookers is quite likely just that: a rumour? Yeah, yeah, yeah, but who else, like me, thinks it's totally hee-LAIR-ious? To be honest, if it's true, I don't care if Trump likes getting pissed on. It's probably an extension of his usual habit of pissing down people's legs and telling them it's raining. It would certainly explain that jaundiced looking complexion of his. Putin must have had the ladies guzzling Beroccas by the gallon to get that citric tone in Trump's skin. The presidential inauguration will no doubt be quite the rage, a real - ahem! - piss-up. The responsibilities of his new role don't frighten him because he is confident it will be a piece of piss. He's having trouble getting anybody to perform at the swearing in, but I've heard the old Pommy act Christie will reform and play their hit, 'Yellow River'. Cold Play might be on the bill, too; they're singing 'Yellow'. Doc Neeson is no longer with us, but I'm sure the Brewster Brothers will happily take to the stage and belt out, 'Looks like it's comin' down on me....'. Oh, the fun the Twitterati have been having in light of these revelations. Not that a fetish between consenting adults should be shamed, or anything like that. Oh no. It's just such fun taking the piss out of Trump (and having typed that, I've just realized I've made another pun - completely unintentional this time).
When I go to work, I wear a work polo - usually one of the green ones. Other colleagues wear similar. Big woop. When I go out, if there is a woman in a similar top, it fazes me not because I have the confidence to know that other people don't really care. See where I'm going with this? You've quite likely seen footage taken of Channel 9 presenter Amber Sherlock having a bit of an off-air shitfit because she, a fellow female presenter, and a guest are all wearing white tops. La Sherlock was getting her flaps twisted because she had issued some edict that the other presenter should be in a jacket because apparently the universe would implode if they went to air in similarly coloured shirts. How bloody vacuous and lacking in substance to believe this actually matters! And fancy carrying on like a prima donna over it. I accept that anyone can have a bad day at work and not be amiable to their colleagues. But seriously, over a shirt? Who fucking cares! I don't care if news presenters wear similar colours because I'm more interested in this funny little thing called THE NEWS! I wonder who leaked the footage. I'm guessing someone to whom Sherlock might have behaved obnoxiously in the past.
Well, I must be on my way to purchase some dinner. After I finish my evening medication run, I am on leave for a few weeks. Oh, hurray!!!!
Saturday 7 January 2017
F**k My Life
Being a great believer in art for art's sake, letting the words speak for themselves, and all that jazz, I am very willing to make judicious use of the occasional F-bomb in my writing for emphasis or onomatopoeia. In everyday conversation, I actually don't swear very much. Oh, get up off the floor and stop laughing - I DON'T. Honestly, I prefer not to because I like to cultivate this illusion among everybody that I'm actually highbrow and articulate, and perfectly capable of stringing together a sentence without adjectives commencing with 'F', and nouns commencing with 'C'. Believe you me, I very, very rarely use the C-word in anger or amusement. I would have to be so infuriated I would be on the brink of having the top of my skull fly off and spin off into space as per what the laws of ballistics will dictate before I say that word. I hate it, and I hate hearing it.
But for the past few days, my everyday conversation and thoughts have all had an F-bomb in them. I am wondering have I perhaps been swapped by an evil changeling who lives in the rougher side of town. Or perhaps 'tis merely a response to the situation in which I am currently mired.
Briefly - a freak storm cell burst blew a gasket over my home town on Christmas Eve and caused flash flooding. I live down the bottom of a hill and boy-oh-boy, did my house cop it! I've mentioned it in previous posts, but still shudder at the thought of all that water coming into my house, and how scared I was. I recall Mr Bingells driving back to town from where he and our children had been staying with his mother, and him wading through the lake that was our back yard, pulling at his hair and muttering over and over, 'Fuck this shit!'
Anyway, house has been getting cleaned. Mr Bingells and our oldest, together with a mate of Mr Bingells' and a mate of our oldest, took their planned trip to Canberra to attend Summernats (I'll take a second to brag that two of three men who 'own' Summernats are cousins of mine). I was glad for them to go and enjoy themselves. While they were away I booked our twelve-year-old into vacation care, so he could at least enjoy himself with other children. I stayed at our house and watched in miserable delirium as one-by-one the cleaners removed our lounge, washing machine, pantry, dryer, and deep freeze. Pantry items were placed in boxes. To my annoyance, so was my son's anti-seizure medication. I informed them that they should have spoken to me prior to packing away what is obviously medication, but they found it for me posthaste and to their credit, they've done a great job in the house. Also, a bra I lost ages ago has been located. Oh, hooray! I think I've just orgasmed <sarcasm>.
But back to my constant F-bombing of late. The sodden linen, bedding, and clothing was bagged. There were lots and lots of bags, and laundry baskets. The chivalrous cleaner in charge packed the bags into the back of Mr Bingells' Rodeo (the vehicle I normally drive is a Navara, and far more suitable for the trip to Canberra). I had already purchased a cheap-o bottle of washing detergent, so I sighed and got behind the wheel of the Rodeo and set off to the laundromat. The Rodeo is fitted with some kind of Wifi sensitive feature - dunno what it's called - and when being driven past a Wifi hot spot it lets out a shrill, brusque, brief, loud BEEP!, which almost sends me through the ceiling of the vehicle and makes me wonder am I going to have a heart attack. It is also a contributing factor to the many muttered F-bombs I have offered of late. There was no parking in front of the laundromat, so I had to park further up the road, just far enough to find the lugging of bags and baskets of washing to the laundromat in oppressive heat to be a really big, unpleasant CHORE. 'Fuck my life' was my constant mantra as I walked back and forth in near-forty degree heat. It took all my willpower to not shout at the great behemoth parked in front of the laundromat, sitting behind the wheel playing with his phone, to just drive the fuck away and free up the fucking parking spot, for fuck's sake.
Presently I had a few machines in use, and said behemoth finally drove away. I hastened to the Rodeo, and carefully pulled out into traffic, notwithstanding being frightened almost into a bowel accident by that bloody BEEP!, and began the necessary trip around the block to that coveted parking spot. Well, the gods must have decided to try fingernail pulling that day, because when I got around the corner, someone else had parked there. Again, I thought, Fuck my life before again parking just far enough away for the towing of bags and baskets of smelly sodden fabric to be a big pain in the arse.
When I commenced removing washed items from one of the machines, it became apparent our fifteen-year-old's Christmas T-shirt had been washed in the load. This in itself is not necessarily problematic, but when one factors into the equation the words Merry Christmas are formed with glitter, then one must reconsider what a problem maketh. There is a reason glitter is known as the herpes of craft materials. The assembled items resembled a second-rate float at Sydney Mardi Gras, or maybe Mariah Carey's costume ensembles. I stuffed the items into a laundry basket, wiped the washing machine tub clean of all stray glitter flecks, and studied my forearms, which were sparkling under the laundomat's fluorescent lights. Fuck my life, I scowled to myself, stomping back to the car.
I figured it would be prudent to take some of the washing home and hang it out. This I did. Thankfully the dog had not escaped like he had that morning. Yes, I had earlier arrived home in time to see a great expanse of butt crack from a cleaner bending over (oh, my poor eyes!), discovered Id forgotten my lunch that I'd purchased uptown, and then been told the dog had escaped. And yes, I went looking for and calling for my dog, thinking, Fuck my life! Found the little pest up the road.
With the washing hanging on the line (and drying in pretty much no time), I set back to the laundromat, BEEPs and all. Waiting at the roundabout, I looked over at the laundromat, and the entrance appeared to be clear. There was a break in the traffic, and I negotiated the roundabout, and as my luck was having it, someone pulled into the only free spot in front of the laundromat! This time I articulated those three words very loudly.
So my afternoon passed with loading, washing, unloading, and trudging back and forth to Mr Bingells' car, and staring at taken parking spots in front of the laundromat.
Finally, my last load of washing was done. On the verge of exhausted tears, I piled the clean items into a washing basket, and hoisted it onto my hip, and left the laundromat. There was a parking spot out the front. Fuck my life, I thought again, but at least I was able to chuckle, if a little ruefully. I'm sure that whatchamightcallit let out a BEEP! again when I was driving home. I don't think that one even registered.
So that night I stayed at the house with our youngest. We didn't go back to the motel because of the dogs. With no lounge to sit on we dragged a mattress into the living room, and he told me about the fun day he had had at vacation care. I spared him my bitching. I had had more than enough. I never want to see a washing machine again. I decided to break my current dry spell. Couldn't find where the cleaners had packed my vodka. Thank goodness I remembered the wine in the refrigerator.
Cheers all!
But for the past few days, my everyday conversation and thoughts have all had an F-bomb in them. I am wondering have I perhaps been swapped by an evil changeling who lives in the rougher side of town. Or perhaps 'tis merely a response to the situation in which I am currently mired.
Briefly - a freak storm cell burst blew a gasket over my home town on Christmas Eve and caused flash flooding. I live down the bottom of a hill and boy-oh-boy, did my house cop it! I've mentioned it in previous posts, but still shudder at the thought of all that water coming into my house, and how scared I was. I recall Mr Bingells driving back to town from where he and our children had been staying with his mother, and him wading through the lake that was our back yard, pulling at his hair and muttering over and over, 'Fuck this shit!'
Anyway, house has been getting cleaned. Mr Bingells and our oldest, together with a mate of Mr Bingells' and a mate of our oldest, took their planned trip to Canberra to attend Summernats (I'll take a second to brag that two of three men who 'own' Summernats are cousins of mine). I was glad for them to go and enjoy themselves. While they were away I booked our twelve-year-old into vacation care, so he could at least enjoy himself with other children. I stayed at our house and watched in miserable delirium as one-by-one the cleaners removed our lounge, washing machine, pantry, dryer, and deep freeze. Pantry items were placed in boxes. To my annoyance, so was my son's anti-seizure medication. I informed them that they should have spoken to me prior to packing away what is obviously medication, but they found it for me posthaste and to their credit, they've done a great job in the house. Also, a bra I lost ages ago has been located. Oh, hooray! I think I've just orgasmed <sarcasm>.
But back to my constant F-bombing of late. The sodden linen, bedding, and clothing was bagged. There were lots and lots of bags, and laundry baskets. The chivalrous cleaner in charge packed the bags into the back of Mr Bingells' Rodeo (the vehicle I normally drive is a Navara, and far more suitable for the trip to Canberra). I had already purchased a cheap-o bottle of washing detergent, so I sighed and got behind the wheel of the Rodeo and set off to the laundromat. The Rodeo is fitted with some kind of Wifi sensitive feature - dunno what it's called - and when being driven past a Wifi hot spot it lets out a shrill, brusque, brief, loud BEEP!, which almost sends me through the ceiling of the vehicle and makes me wonder am I going to have a heart attack. It is also a contributing factor to the many muttered F-bombs I have offered of late. There was no parking in front of the laundromat, so I had to park further up the road, just far enough to find the lugging of bags and baskets of washing to the laundromat in oppressive heat to be a really big, unpleasant CHORE. 'Fuck my life' was my constant mantra as I walked back and forth in near-forty degree heat. It took all my willpower to not shout at the great behemoth parked in front of the laundromat, sitting behind the wheel playing with his phone, to just drive the fuck away and free up the fucking parking spot, for fuck's sake.
Presently I had a few machines in use, and said behemoth finally drove away. I hastened to the Rodeo, and carefully pulled out into traffic, notwithstanding being frightened almost into a bowel accident by that bloody BEEP!, and began the necessary trip around the block to that coveted parking spot. Well, the gods must have decided to try fingernail pulling that day, because when I got around the corner, someone else had parked there. Again, I thought, Fuck my life before again parking just far enough away for the towing of bags and baskets of smelly sodden fabric to be a big pain in the arse.
When I commenced removing washed items from one of the machines, it became apparent our fifteen-year-old's Christmas T-shirt had been washed in the load. This in itself is not necessarily problematic, but when one factors into the equation the words Merry Christmas are formed with glitter, then one must reconsider what a problem maketh. There is a reason glitter is known as the herpes of craft materials. The assembled items resembled a second-rate float at Sydney Mardi Gras, or maybe Mariah Carey's costume ensembles. I stuffed the items into a laundry basket, wiped the washing machine tub clean of all stray glitter flecks, and studied my forearms, which were sparkling under the laundomat's fluorescent lights. Fuck my life, I scowled to myself, stomping back to the car.
I figured it would be prudent to take some of the washing home and hang it out. This I did. Thankfully the dog had not escaped like he had that morning. Yes, I had earlier arrived home in time to see a great expanse of butt crack from a cleaner bending over (oh, my poor eyes!), discovered Id forgotten my lunch that I'd purchased uptown, and then been told the dog had escaped. And yes, I went looking for and calling for my dog, thinking, Fuck my life! Found the little pest up the road.
With the washing hanging on the line (and drying in pretty much no time), I set back to the laundromat, BEEPs and all. Waiting at the roundabout, I looked over at the laundromat, and the entrance appeared to be clear. There was a break in the traffic, and I negotiated the roundabout, and as my luck was having it, someone pulled into the only free spot in front of the laundromat! This time I articulated those three words very loudly.
So my afternoon passed with loading, washing, unloading, and trudging back and forth to Mr Bingells' car, and staring at taken parking spots in front of the laundromat.
Finally, my last load of washing was done. On the verge of exhausted tears, I piled the clean items into a washing basket, and hoisted it onto my hip, and left the laundromat. There was a parking spot out the front. Fuck my life, I thought again, but at least I was able to chuckle, if a little ruefully. I'm sure that whatchamightcallit let out a BEEP! again when I was driving home. I don't think that one even registered.
So that night I stayed at the house with our youngest. We didn't go back to the motel because of the dogs. With no lounge to sit on we dragged a mattress into the living room, and he told me about the fun day he had had at vacation care. I spared him my bitching. I had had more than enough. I never want to see a washing machine again. I decided to break my current dry spell. Couldn't find where the cleaners had packed my vodka. Thank goodness I remembered the wine in the refrigerator.
Cheers all!
Monday 2 January 2017
Chuck-ling, and Chuck-ing
This is an open letter to those who see fit to chuckle when I tell them about the torrent of water, as black and forbidding as the River Styx, that surged through my house after freakish deluge on Christmas Eve: it's not funny. No, seriously, it's just not. It was scary, and owing to all the public holidays over this past week we have been unable to get the insurance sponsored cleaners in until tomorrow. Mr Bingells and I have made a start, but it is a gargantuan task, and although an assessor has attended to formulate an opinion on any structural damage and quantify the clean up, the professional work cannot start until tomorrow because the agency had to ascertain what cleaning technicians were available. Well, they call them technicians; I just call them mop jockeys. Whatever one wishes to dub them, they will do a good job and I'm looking forward to my house not smelling musty and moldy and fusty. I will bid farewell to my new-ish lounge, and to my computer desk, and to my computer. Other items are doubtlessly screwed over. I haven't looked in the garden shed yet, but I'm betting my record collection is fucked hard like a bitch. My house stinks. I have lost items. There is clutter everywhere. It holds the appearance, atmosphere, and appeal of downtown Aleppo.
So, no, it's not really funny at all.
But for some reason, people find it amusing. Look, different things make different people laugh. Some people find farting vulgar and crude; high school boys will laugh themselves into a hernia when someone drops one. I had a flatmate who found 'Married With Children' crass, yet I would have a good old belly laugh at Al Bundy's insults ('I'd come around and say that to your face, but I haven't got enough fuel in my car!', delivered whilst standing behind a tubby woman).
I try to be accepting that it's diff'rent strokes for diff'rent folks, but this time I'm not going to. I am sick of chucklers. I've been dealing with people who have a serious case of what I call 'the Dr Hibberds', after that character on 'The Simpsons' who chuckles at inappropriate times, at things that are not in the least bit funny.
In co-operation with the infantile and inappropriate laughter, there is the platitude: 'You should have lived up the hill.' Well, this just in: I don't live up the hill. Why do you think I want to be told I should have lived up the hill? This is redolent of victim blaming. Or maybe I'm just waaaaaay too sensitive at the moment. I get a little touchy when I'm facing huge stress, when I'm all over the place ferrying children to a motel, and - here's one that'll make you chucklers laugh until you've evacuated your bowels - my 12yo comes down with a virus that sees him sit up suddenly through the night and barf like a demonically possessed adolescent all through the motel's bed linen. Howsabout that for a good ol' laff? Hyuck, hyuck, hyuck!
So, to the next person who decides to chuckle: you have been warned. Persist with the chuckling, and I will gaffer-tape you to a large cactus, grab a paint ball gun, and shoot at you with balls of your own shit. Understand?
So, yes. I've been frightened. I'm dealing with monumental stress and exhaustion. I've got some worrisome situations with which to deal. Instead of seeing in the New Year with a friend at the pub, I spent it in a motel cleaning up a vomiting kid. On top of all this was the heartbreaking news about the death of a friend on New Year's Eve (congratulations, 2016, you fucking voracious raptor: another scalp).
So, here's to the New Year. May 2017 not suck.
So, no, it's not really funny at all.
But for some reason, people find it amusing. Look, different things make different people laugh. Some people find farting vulgar and crude; high school boys will laugh themselves into a hernia when someone drops one. I had a flatmate who found 'Married With Children' crass, yet I would have a good old belly laugh at Al Bundy's insults ('I'd come around and say that to your face, but I haven't got enough fuel in my car!', delivered whilst standing behind a tubby woman).
I try to be accepting that it's diff'rent strokes for diff'rent folks, but this time I'm not going to. I am sick of chucklers. I've been dealing with people who have a serious case of what I call 'the Dr Hibberds', after that character on 'The Simpsons' who chuckles at inappropriate times, at things that are not in the least bit funny.
In co-operation with the infantile and inappropriate laughter, there is the platitude: 'You should have lived up the hill.' Well, this just in: I don't live up the hill. Why do you think I want to be told I should have lived up the hill? This is redolent of victim blaming. Or maybe I'm just waaaaaay too sensitive at the moment. I get a little touchy when I'm facing huge stress, when I'm all over the place ferrying children to a motel, and - here's one that'll make you chucklers laugh until you've evacuated your bowels - my 12yo comes down with a virus that sees him sit up suddenly through the night and barf like a demonically possessed adolescent all through the motel's bed linen. Howsabout that for a good ol' laff? Hyuck, hyuck, hyuck!
So, to the next person who decides to chuckle: you have been warned. Persist with the chuckling, and I will gaffer-tape you to a large cactus, grab a paint ball gun, and shoot at you with balls of your own shit. Understand?
So, yes. I've been frightened. I'm dealing with monumental stress and exhaustion. I've got some worrisome situations with which to deal. Instead of seeing in the New Year with a friend at the pub, I spent it in a motel cleaning up a vomiting kid. On top of all this was the heartbreaking news about the death of a friend on New Year's Eve (congratulations, 2016, you fucking voracious raptor: another scalp).
So, here's to the New Year. May 2017 not suck.
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