The Artist woke up in a terrible state this morning. He had had a nightmare. I immediately asked if the nightmare was that I had died. Because such was his state. What else could it have been to render him so distraught? It had to be that (that I had died) because his greatest fears would be realised in that he would have to:
* be on the frontline (like a General Eisenhower) to deal with two teenage girls and their mood swings on a daily basis
* buy tampons
* go formal dress shopping (for two dresses)
* shop for and cook two meals a night (one for normal people and one for a vegan)
* finally take responsibility for doing the 120 million hours required for Miss18 to get her drivers license
It turns out that my death is not that scary. What is that scary, the stuff that nightmares are made of, is BBQ’ing the dog. He had a dream that he BBQ’d Koda. And Koda’s eyes were open on the BBQ while he was preparing to eat him.
I went to make coffee and returned to find The Artist spooning the dog on his bed (the dog’s) whilst crooning his deepest apologies. The dog was having none of it.
He stalked downstairs with me in indignation to do his morning ablutions. And then the problems started. He would not come inside for fear of being breakfast, even though BBQ is more of a lunch/dinner thing.
I explained to him that he was safe. Traumatised he started eating grass whilst communicating to me with his eyes that perhaps if he eats grass his father won’t find him so appetising. I then told him about the cows that his father enjoys as steak – completely destroying his safety net theory and my hope of ever getting him inside.
The Artist is still apologising to Koda for his terrible dream transgression. But I don’t think he is that sorry because I sent him this Facebook funny to which he responded as follows:
Yup – nightmare my friend.
Love and light
Now some of you might get upset when you read this on my behalf. I am just going to put it out there and tell you what happened.
Today at a client, a gentleman of elderly years and not very good hearing asked me if I was expecting. At first I thought I had misheard (as I suffer from wax build-up sometimes) but he persisted when I said no I was not in fact pregnant – almost as if he wasn’t sure that I wasn’t sure I was telling him the truth.
I nearly got upset until I started unpacking this one, going through what I was wearing today, evaluating the few kilo’s one has recently acquired, posture? and why he might have thought this thought. And then it hit me. It is my youthful glow!!!!!! I bought a new foundation yesterday and took care with the application of my make-up this morning so I was in fact glowing like a preggie. As I have recently meandered into my 46th year of life (something I shared with him), another baby is unlikely at this stage. As unlikely as me participating in the 2020 Olympics in fact, unless there is a donut eating competition.
So I am going to take this one as a compliment that he even thought I was still in the baby making business.
Miss17 is at home studying for exams and came to my office yowling about the tragedy that befalls her each month being a woman. The yowling was about to graduate to hysterical tears when I relayed the story of my pregnancy. It was like someone had pushed pause on the remote and changed the channel. She liked that one – yes she did. On exiting the room, newly invigorated with laughter she reminded me that she would disown me if I was ever to get pregnant again. As The Artist and I have told them time and time again, we have only ever had sex twice – that is why we have the two of them.
Love and light
I am writing this purely because I need to whinge. I had a good friend on the phone this morning and whinged his ear off to the point where he was about six minutes late for his 8.30 meeting. [This is why he is a friend.] Probably won’t take my calls early in the morning again anytime soon.
A few weeks ago I wrote about the Poop and Kakka. The saga still continues with blood vomit, explosive diarrhoea, antibiotics, prescription dog food and the ten years that I have lost of my life. Today Koda was back at the vet for round 500. Let us just say that yesterday afternoon I used up a substantial amount of latex gloves in the clean up. Again, if it doesn’t work out for me in marketing etc I can go and work for people who need some taking care of business. [refer to Pulp Fiction The Wolf clean up scene]
The other source of my angst – and if you are as bored of this topic as I am, is my car. Yes, that old chestnut.
On Saturday night – with four teenagers enroute to A MidSummer Night’s Dream, I experience a Mid Winter Evening’s Nightmare when the vehicle’s onboard computer started shrieking for me to pull over due to loss of tyre pressure. You are actually fucking kidding me? Well, apparently not. In the dark it was well hidden but in the cold light of Sunday morning a shiny silver nail was located in the left rear tyre. The one that I replaced in November. The Artist is understandably mental. I truly don’t know what to say. They supposedly repaired the tyre yesterday and I happily thundered off to an event over “the bridge”. Returning at 10pm I found myself navigating the Lane Cove Tunnel when the car’s computer again experienced a melt down insisting I should pull over and stop the car due to massive tyre pressure loss. Now let me tell you something – there was NFW I was pulling over because there was nowhere in fact to pull over. So naturally I called The Artist who was not really able to help as he was safely tucked up in his warm bed in Maroubra. He suggested I
take my life in my hands try and get home and drive slowly. Which is what I did whilst again losing a few years of my life in the 40 minute drive, such was my stress. It turns out that when they fixed the tyre earlier in the day they neglected to even inspect the others for any damage. I am not entirely sure who exactly this made sense to but let us say that when we meet tomorrow I might just conduct a quick “impromptu” lesson on customer service and responsibility. Gentlemen – I’m coming for you, bright and early so brace yourselves.
On that note, as I sit in Kerryn’s car waiting in the cold for a soccer practice to finish – I bid you good night. Thanks for listening (this is what they call a captive audience).
Love and light
There have been a few times this week when I have seen people experience not their finest moment. I think perhaps that full moon last week is playing havoc with their senses. I personally am keeping my head down and my bum up as I have no choice in order to meet various deadlines and not get myself fired from gainful employment.
In the spirit of remaining in the workforce I stayed on at work yesterday for an additional hour and picked up Miss13 from the bus stop. Miss17 had scored a ride home with a friend, recently in possession of her P’s and had managed to arrive home about 3 minutes before us, accessing the house from the back door and launching immediately into the kitchen.
This is relevant because when Miss13 jumped from my vehicle and ran inside to hug Koda her olfactory senses immediately sensed danger and she went further into the house to investigate. From my car I heard hysterical screaming of the shit nature. I seriously could not believe this because in the almost three years we have had him, Koda has NEVER, even as a puppy, pooped in the house.
It goes without saying that both Miss13 and Miss17 were rendered useless – flapping their hands with gay abandon and not even considering grabbing a spray/kitchen towel/plastic bag to begin the industrial clean up.
This was a job for a girl who has handled such situations
like never previously. I watch many crime shows so I know what is needed in these instances. I gloved up, blocked my nostrils and got to work. Even after I had finished, the house smelled like death. So we opened every door and window and I lit one of those rose candles from Ikea that has taken up residence in a cupboard for the past 5 years and was now the hero of the day.
As a courtesy I called The Artist to let him know of the ordeal I had experienced – he was none to pleased about that extra hour I had spent working that he thought might have resulted in Koda’s explosive bowel movement. This was refuted an hour later by the vet who called The Artist to say that from Koda’s routine blood tests yesterday he could see the dog was carrying a virus and was he okay? Way to go asshole – you couldn’t have called earlier?
The Artist returned home and proceeded to disrespect my clean up efforts. Apparently I had missed a smudge, hence the lingering smell. He then proceeded to smell the floor and tried to get me to do the same but I was having none of it I tell you. He dispatched himself to the shops and returned armed to clean up a murder.
Absolved of responsibility I took myself to bed and watched Chicago PD and confirmed to myself that yes, indeed, we had enough product in the house to make any serial killer proud.
Love and light
Last night we ventured out to dinner with friends. It was an 8pm start so there was more than enough time to walk the dog, relax for a bit and then get going. Or so I thought.
Miss13 needed to be dropped at a friend, literally on the way so it was all going swimmingly. We were cutting it fine but making all those traffic lights through the city certainly eased the tension building in the car until we hit the roundabout at the offramp to Darling Harbour. ROAD CLOSED. Say what????? Bless all things onboard navigation related and we whizzed around the back to our usual carpark. Except it was FULL and hence CLOSED. At this stage I had the sweats and was hyperventilating because I DO NOT LIKE TO BE LATE. Ever!!!!!!!!! Fashionably late was never my thing, even when it was fashionable to be late. I’m not wired that way and chances are at this late stage I never will be. The sensible option was then to park at The Star, a million miles away and walk. Because apparently a taxi would take the same time. I’m just telling you that with short little trotters and a heel I should have dug those said heels in and demanded a cab.
So this is the part where you think, okay, they got there – 25 MINUTES LATE – and she had a glass of champagne to calm herself and it all went well. Not to be. We were seated on the third level of our restaurant which is a fine establishment by the way and a place I frequent regularly. However, so impressed was I with myself on the day I booked (because I had also managed to secure a last minute appointment with the hairdresser for Miss13) that I forgot to specify where I should sit and they clearly don’t check their notes from previous bookings. (Yes, I know I’m asking too much). Unfortunately I had attended my hot yoga class at 10am that morning and wasn’t intending on doing another session just 10 hours later. Holy mother! With all the rules and regulations in this country you would think that this kind of heat in a restaurant has to be somewhat illegal. A person could spontaneously combust.
It was also not helped by the large group of 20 something’s seated behind us who also clearly are not used to the restaurant experience. I think perhaps they are still at the stage where one should get a good kebab and go eat it at the beach. Between running up and down from their seats to show each other the latest porn video and giggling like halfwits, I was tempted to have a strong word however I wasn’t sure whether those beards were related to hipster shit or something more sinister. Perhaps it was a farewell dinner?
As my feet hit the ground floor Miss13 messaged to say her friend was very unwell having eaten a scallop earlier and we needed to pick her up ASAP. Now if you remember our vehicle was parked MILES away. Yes, so off these little legs again trotted off at a startling pace back to the car. I was already sweating like a beast from the restaurant so my high speed dash back to the car did not help matters. Not at all. The Artist picking up on my angst then fed his credit card into the cash section of the payment machine which did not endear him to me at that moment. Fortunately the machine is more intelligent than those who use it and after some coaxing regurgitated the card. Disaster averted. The only saving grace at this stage was that the bastards that closed off Darling Drive had found it in their cold, black hearts to re-open it so we were able to get to the cross city tunnel and Eastern Distributor to retrieve Miss13 only 45 minutes after her urgent text message.
And this my friends, is why a sensible person such as the author herself usually spends Saturday nights watching Law & Order re-runs in her pyjamas and Menolog’s the meal of her choice. That way you don’t get foot burn.
Love and light
p.s. The company was stellar so the evening wasn’t a total loss 🙂
Three weeks ago-ish I stepped off a plane in Hong Kong accompanied by my girls Renay and Paula. I had been worried about the flight over because my Renay does not like to travel in this manner. And I’m not talking economy. I’m talking flight of any nature. A big problem when trying to get from Australia to Hong Kong.
What to do?
Strategy one was to try and get her nice and sozzled before we got on the plane. This was unsuccessful because she doesn’t like the taste of alcohol. Not even French Champagne!!!!! However, a friend told me that two shots of Jagermeister, an Aperol Spritz, a glass of red chased by French Champagne can make for a great flight. I’m not naming names or anything (*cough, cough Paula) but in case you are looking for a remedy I’m told this can work.
Strategy two was to get on the flight, pat her hand and reassure her that more people die in car accidents less than 2 kilometres from home, put on my headphones and pretend I was flying solo. This was unsuccessful because I do not have a cold, black heart despite what The Artist says as I would not go and make coffee this morning while he was watching South Africa get slaughtered in the cricket.
So I thought and I thought and we sat down and my girl was decidedly stressed as we buckled up. So I started talking. And I talked and I talked and I talked and I made her look at me while I talked. I talked that plane up in the air and I talked that plane down to the runway. And she barely knew about the take off and the landing. And you all know that when I talk and demand an audience there is sweet bugger all you can do to get away. Particularly if you are strapped in your seat on a Boeing of some nature. Gives captive audience a whole new meaning.
So that’s how we landed in Honkers without vomiting or an anxiety attack.
Love and light
p.s. I’m available to assist on international or local flights to exotic destinations if you are afraid of flying and need me to talk you up and down. (Melbourne is an exotic destination by the way). I am not averse to flying economy as I am small in stature so the leg room thing is not a problem. However, for the duration of the stay please note that I am particular about accommodation – I’m deathly afraid of crap hotels. It’s a real thing.
OMG how is it possible to be so tired and still operate heavy machinery? Angels and demons, thats how.
It’s the universe balancing itself out you see. For every evil and demonic action there is an equal and opposite angelic reaction that ensures that the world doesn’t spontaneously combust on its axis.
There’s a God people and he cares nothing to bitchslap your good self if you are demonic. It might not happen straight away – for example if you behave like a shit towards someone, you will not immediately get hit by a truck. But sometime, somewhere, you’re going to meet your punishment. And even if you dress yourself up as a good person let me tell you for free that no-one is buying what you’re selling. Because in addition to there being a God, no matter how clever you think you are, people are not blind or stupid. Amen to that.
There were a few disappointing incidents last week. The first real let me down was someone who regularly (but not with grace) does me a favour each year with some event decor for fundraising events. It’s the annual grovel to get some lights but I do it because I do it. However, this year, the gent in question decided to give me a particularly hard time and asked that I give him time to quote “chew on it”.
I hope its a sturdy piece of something he’s still chewing on after the fact because the lovely Chris from Decorations Australia made sure I had what I need forever going forward for the princely sum of $350 (including delivery). And speaking of delivery – this angel of a man made sure that the order I placed on Thursday morning reached my office in Sydney by lunchtime Friday all the way from the Central Coast. A kindness from a perfect stranger as opposed to ill-will from someone who isn’t. Shame on you again. I don’t think your mother would be proud. Not at all. And that bitchslap coming your way – enjoy douchebag.
The second incident involves someone I don’t know but who should be more than ashamed of her behaviour. I have spoken often about bad driving habits of people dropping their kids off at school. On Friday morning another mother was too impatient to wait for my kids to get out of my car – one was hefting her new state of the art Fender guitar with much care out of the back seat – it was too big to fit in the boot where the school bags were located. The woman then proceeded to shift her car into reverse to back up to then swing round me. My kids at this point were on the sidewalk about to approach the rear of my vehicle to get their bags. And that’s where the angel stepped in. Because the woman had mistakenly put her car in drive, and floored it. Her car rolled towards an inch of my bumper. And my kids didn’t do as they usually do – they had stayed on the sidewalk. The security guard monitoring the gate went whiter than a ghost. The woman drove off. Not an apology, not a backward glance. Nothing. Shame on you. I’m wondering what kind of hurry she was in and what the rest of her life might have been like if things had gone differently. Not to mention ours. I hope her bitchslap equals that of the aforementioned