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!
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