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Saturday, February 17, 2018

The Easter Bunny is Dead

Fiver


I’m feeling sad because my baby hare just died.

We only found her half an hour ago but in that time I’d already named the precious poppet and decided on where she would sleep at night.

I’d envisioned her loping around after me whilst I cooked in the kitchen; my precious bunny sitting on my lap on the couch each evening, and the cute, baby hare, frolicking around with my Chihuahua and Fox Terrier while I was at work.

I planned to teach her circus tricks. 

I'd always wanted a bunny.

A friend advised me to take her up to the vet because she seemed to be injured. We’d come upon her in the middle of the road, huddled in a ball. There was no blood or obvious injury but her front paw was limp.

As we went into the bathroom to collect her for the vet trip, she suddenly arched her back and then died.

All my dreams of being a hare-mother disintegrated in an instant.

Poor, little Fiver.

Now there is a deceased hare in a box in my shower recess and I have no idea of where we can put the body.

I can’t put it in the freezer and the bin people don’t collect for another two (scorchingly, hot) days.

If we bury her the dogs will dig her up.

It will have to be the bin. Rigor Mortis has already set in.

Who will be bringing Easter eggs to the little children?

Nobody will.

The Easter Bunny is dead.

Saturday, February 10, 2018

Why Parent Information Nights can be Hard...



Parent Information Night interfered with my customary and coveted *‘Chicken Time’ last week, as I found myself mandated to stay at work until about 8 pm on Tuesday evening.

I was a bit cheesed off. I really love Chicken Time. It’s my favourite part of the day.

*Chicken time is an early evening, leisure time activity where I sit with Scotto and the chickens in the backyard and drink wine. It really has nothing to do with the chickens; they just happen to be there but it sounds more civilised than calling it ‘wine time’.

It was far too late to drive home that night and not desiring to inflict my thundering snores on my buddy teacher, Catherine Mary, so early in the school year, I decided to treat myself and stay the night in a motel room.

It was an exhilarating prospect.

1. No stinky, twitchy dogs in the bed waking me in the morning with their cold nose pressed into the nearest available of my orifices.

2. No one incessantly talking about computers after I arrive home from work, when all I deeply desire is peace and quiet.

3. Clean, crisp sheets with no manky dog hairs clinging to the pillow slips and farty smells emanating from under the covers.

4. Free air conditioning which I could crank down to a below freezing temperature and then shiver myself to sleep under thick blankets.

5. Free control of the telly remote, with no bossy boots around, thus rendering me able to watch whatever took my fancy.

6. An entire bed to myself so I could sleep horizontally if I chose and kick to my heart's content.
The parent evening finally ended and two seconds after checking in to the motel, I unlocked the door, threw myself on the cool bed, and made extravagant snow angels all over the sheets (but with no snow).

I indulged in an extended, hot shower then flopped into the bed in my flannelette pajamas with a glass of cheeky red.

It was grand.

I sort of missed Scotto saying, “Aw, look at you Pinky, you’re all clean and paid for!” which is what he customarily says to me every night after my shower when I'm all pink and sweet-smelling, but I brushed off the sentimentality and began maniacally scrolling on the remote.

I wound up watching My Kitchen Rules because I knew that’s what Scotto would be most likely watching and we’d be needing to discuss it the following evening.

After that there was nothing on the telly so I decided to explore the room.



I stared at the picture of the waterfall for a while but it made me feel a bit lonely.

I remembered Scotto and I trekking up and down all the waterfalls in the Scenic Rim last year. We were such good hiking partners...



Then I examined the picture of the horses for a good five minutes.

I felt a sorrowful lump in my throat as I recalled Scotto and I going on a horse riding trail ride a couple of months ago.



I checked out the fridge which was a bit disappointing as it only contained a carton of fake milk.

Scotto never forgets to buy milk when we run low. He never buys fake milk either.



I counted the coat hangers in the cupboard.

We never have any spare hangers at home because Scotto never throws out shirts even if they are thread bare and eighty years old. I sort of missed those mangy old shirts right then.

I wondered how many computers he’d fixed today.



Then I checked out the biscuits in the coffee/tea thing. They were an odd variety which I’d never heard of.

Scotto always buys Kingstons for his late night snack. They’re his favourites. He always gives a few crumbs to the dogs who snuggle, bright-eyed beside me in bed, too.

Sighing wistfully, I stumbled into the bathroom to clean my teeth.



There were no beard bristles, no toothpaste spit stains hardened in the sink, no coils of Scotto's used dental floss. It was horrible.

Then I climbed into my cold, solitary bed containing no warm, breathing, furry bodies pressed against me, stared at the wall and wished for the morning to come very quickly.



I really missed Chicken Time.

Saturday, February 3, 2018

A Series of Really Fudging Unfortunate Events: The Saga of Lemony Snickets



On the weekend, I drove my old car, Golden Boy, up to the IGA. 

I've been putting off selling him because I hate my new car so much.

My trustworthy, darling little Golden Boy.

My ‘never let me down a day in his life’, Golden Boy.

I was still mightily pissed off with my new car, Lemony Snickets and couldn’t bear the thought of driving the bitch of a thing any more than I had to.

However, when I attempted to start Golden Boy up for the drive home, an ominous silence shrouded the car. The engine refused to kick over.

Angst ridden, beyond frustration and with a great deal of vulgar language, I could only surmise that …

1. Golden Boy was displaying jealousy towards the new car and decided to play dead merely out of spite.

2. Golden Boy wanted me to relinquish my deep affection towards him, make a clean break and force me to start to like the new car so he could finally go into retirement.

3. Golden Boy is not actually a live creature and I should stop personifying my cars and he just had a flat battery.

After I called the RACQ it turned out his battery was well over three years old and it was an inevitable misfortune.

“Maybe I don’t hate Lemony Snickets all that much,” I commented to Scotto as I handed the RACQ man my credit card to pay for a new battery.

However, when I arrived at work on Thursday, my loathing of Lemony Snickets became exacerbated to an exponential magnitude of seething, nuclear reactor-like wrath.

“What happened to your front number plate?” asked my teaching colleague, Catherine Mary, in an innocent, throwaway query.

“Nothing,” I replied stupidly, staring at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Well… it’s not there,” she stated, pushing back her glasses and gazing at me in a pitiful manner.

“Yes, it is,” I stammered uncertainly.

“Well, it doesn’t look as if it is to me,” Catherine Mary shrugged impatiently.

I instantly scurried out to where I could see my car.

No audaciously expensive, personalised number plate was to be seen.

I texted Scotto in a crazed flurry.

RING THE $&X#$ING DEALERSHIP.

THE $#%&*ING $%^&*ERS FAILED TO ATTACH MY FRONT NUMBER PLATE PROPERLY AND IT’S #$%^&ING GONE!

Scotto texted back within seconds.

YOU’RE $%^&ING JOKING!!!!

So yeah.



I still hate Lemony Snickets.