Autumn is coming... no wait... it's here!

“Can you smell that?” asked Scotto this morning, as he inhaled deeply and stretched out in bed like a languorous Tom cat.

“Do you mean the chicken poo?” I replied blinking vacuously.

“No,” he arose from bed and opened the curtains.

“Did you fart under the sheets again?” I eyed him suspiciously.

“No, not recently,” he answered, flopping back on the bed and making me spill my coffee.

“It’s not the neighbour’s septic tank again is it?” I croaked in dismay. (The neighbour’s septic tank smells like burnt pubic hair. It’s gross. I’d say it was our tank... but we don’t burn pubic hair so, nah).

“No, Pinky. Can’t you feel it in the air? Can’t you smell it? It’s autumn!”
I attempted to feel autumn in the air. I sniffed in a sincere manner. I cupped my hand to my shell-like ear to try to hear it. I used my Shaman techniques.

It didn’t feel any different to the day before.

Scotto is very sensitive to the seasons because he originally comes from Melbourne where they have seasons.

I come from the tropics where the only season we have is cyclone season and a brief two week window where you need to wear a cardigan until 9:00am.

Anyway, because it is autumn (apparently) I have updated my banner with cheeky chickens and a rambunctious hare.

No wait… that’s spring.

Oh well. My banner is updated.

Please thank Scotto.

Ten Reasons Why Owning a Hare is Not Boring!

Night Vision Camera on Hare

1. Even though they are nocturnal creatures, you can watch them sleeping for hours on end.

2. You can’t teach hares cute tricks because they are wild animals, but when you give them food they will creep down from their hutch and eat it long after you’ve gone to bed.

3. They like to be patted but you have to hold them very firmly or they will push their strong hind legs against you and scurry away and hide in a tight space where you can’t reach them.

4. They will never love you because they regard you as a predator, however, they don’t actually hate you; they’re just horrified by your presence.

5. They will NEVER get to like your other pets, however, your pets will be frenetically curious and strangely obsessed with what could be hiding all day in that mysterious hutch.

6. You can’t wear perfume if you wish to handle a hare because they will have a panic attack and scratch you to death in order to escape the pungent odour of your scent.

7. You can’t give them toys to play and frolic appealingly with because they will eat them and most probably die.

8. They will never answer to their name because they don’t want to have anything to do with you, so why the hell would they come when they’re called.

9. When they are frightened, which is any time you are near them, they flatten their ears and look like guinea pigs. In fact, they may as well be a guinea pig for what it’s worth.

10. When you tell people you have a hare, they think you are lying and that you are granting asylum to an illegal rabbit and you can see the person wondering about whether or not they should dob you in to the authorities.

(When Scotto went to pick up some pellets the other day, the girl serving him said, "Here are the pellets for your long eared-guinea pig!")

Should I get another one to keep it company?

I'll Make You an Offer!

Source

For the last two Tuesdays, I’ve stayed at home because flood waters prevented me getting to school.

“You’re making it rain aren’t you, Pinky!” my deputy principal accused on the phone. “It’s because you hate taking the kids to swimming lessons on Tuesday!”

Whilst it’s true I hate swimming lessons, I haven’t managed to control the weather yet.

I say ‘yet’, because one day I might work out how to do it.

Both Tuesdays, I awoke to the 5:30am alarm, dressed, packed my lunch and drove for twenty minutes before one of my colleagues rang me to tell me the road was closed.

It’s only one bridge that’s closed and that bridge is five minutes away from the school. I can’t imagine why the council doesn’t raise the damn bridge. 

I offered to buy a rubber dinghy and park my car on the side of the road and row across, but my deputy started carrying on about workplace health and safety rules and kept saying ‘If it’s flooded forget it, Pinky’.

I offered to go and work at another school for the day but was informed it would be a ‘conflict of interest’.

This response afforded me a great deal of relief because I can’t think of anything worse than going to work at another school for the day and when I offered, I didn’t really mean it on a sincere level.

It was one of those ‘token’ offers, like the rubber dinghy.

Also like when your husband drops his ice-cream on the ground and you offer him yours. Or when your husband is going out with the boys and you offer to pick him up when he’s finished, really late at night. Or when the dog vomits on the bathroom floor and you say, 'I’ll clean it up, darling, you stay in bed'.

You don’t make a token offer and anticipate it will be accepted.

When you make a token offer you have to make sure the recipient knows deep down that it would be outrageously insensitive to accept it. You have to direct your prey into believing that what you are offering is a ridiculously extreme and contemptible expectation to ask of another human being.

When making the token offer you should make your body as small and pitiful as possible. You must use a childish, plaintive tone and compose your face into a timid, humble expression of servitude. That is a challenge when you are doing it over the phone but can be managed with practise.

Indeed, you can even do it via text messages.

Example: Hi honey. Noticed we are low on milk. I’ll pick some up after our late staff meeting if I can find a servo that’s open on the lonely highway at that time of night. Love you xxx

Remember, you must make yourself the victim in order to engage your target.

Don’t worry; it’s mainly Scotto I use this skill on.

I would never use it on you...

What token offers do you make?

P.S. If my boss is reading this I'd totally LOVE working at another random school for the day.

Putting the Fox Amongst the Chickens

CCTV close up of criminal Chihuahua
Wanted in three states.

“Jon Snow is attacking the Chihuahua!” I commented to Scotto last night, sipping casually on my Chardonnay and observing the heady drama unfolding below the lofty heights of our deck.

Jon Snow is our tiny bantam hen and while she is basically the same size as the Chihuahua, she suffers from a dearth of carnivorous teeth, thus placing herself at a decided disadvantage when confronting a known chicken killer.

Fortunately, the Chihuahua merely gazed at her in curious fascination and no feathers were ruffled in the altercation. 

This week, Scotto and I embarked on a precarious experiment by allowing our four ravenous hounds to intermingle with our fowlish creatures. 

We held our breath as the thirty-five kilogram, lumbering German Shepherd energetically competed for scraps with the chickens. 

Yum! Bread!

We hung on tenterhooks as the Chihuahua fastidiously sniffed the bottoms of the Silkie Chickens and we drew blood digging our fingernails into palms as the Fox Terrier diligently rounded the flock of chickens into their coops at dusk. 

Chihuahua: Why am I smaller than a fricken chicken?

But there were no fatal attacks.

In fact, the chickens were utterly nonplussed by the presence of all canine, wolf-like creatures and to our amazement, we created a blissfully Utopian society where feathers and fur came to a perfect political and social realisation of harmony. 

Now that the happy chickens free range all day, you would expect an abundance of eggs. Sadly, the little bee-artches are too busy pecking around for worms to find any time to hop in their nesting boxes and squirt out a cackle-berry. 

Actual photo of Foxy amongst the chickens

Either that or a large snake is entering the coop during the day and eating all the eggs. .. or possibly a German Shepherd. 

Is that Chihuahua really pissing on our coop?

A trio of menacing magpies used to swoop-dive the chickens in an ongoing dispute over worm territory. It was like watching F-4 Fighting Phantoms in a dogfight over the skies of Vietnam, circa 1965.

Recently, Lyanna Marmont (the big black chicken), lost her shit and grabbed one of the marauding magpies by the neck as it swooped. 

The astonished infiltrator struggled and screeched for a good minute before escaping; leaving Lyanna standing triumphant; mollified, and sporting a beak full of magpie plumage.

The maggies still swoop but, shrewdly, never make direct contact anymore.

One day soon, our little hare, Mixy, will be big enough to intermingle with the others. 

Then I really will have a Beatrix Potter garden.

Of course, I will also need a badger.

And a squirrel.

And maybe a duck…

Anyone know where I can source a badger?

The Woodland Creature Arrives

Today marks the two year anniversary of our move to the mountain.

All of our original animals (the four dogs and the sixteen year old cat), are thriving and now we’ve added eleven eccentric chickens and as of today, a baby hare, into the mix.

This is why I’ll never be a millionhare. I spend all my hard-earned money on my pets.

My five children (the hare apparents) were very disappointed to hear about this latest acquisition as the small, woodland creature has further decreased their possible inhare-itance.

“What’s wrong with you, Mother?” was the typical comment, laced with an hare of hostility. “Why do you need a hare?”

The hare (or leveret if you want to be technical) has taken up residence in a hefty hutch in the lounge room and is currently snuggled up in the hay, far from the hare-raising attentions of the tenaciously curious Fox Terrier. The Chihuahua, in his usual Mexican lassitude, couldn’t give a shit about the interesting pungent fumes emanating from said hutch. 

Celine displaying inappropriate interest.

We’re encouraging the woodland creature to settle in quietly until early evening when we will coax it out and feed it milk.

Technically it’s weaned, but I desperately want to nurture it like a baby so it may end up as an oversized, lumbering and furry, Robin Arryn-like hare.

Naturally, I won’t be breast feeding it, though.

I bet you’re relieved about that.

It has its own, cutest-ever, miniature formula bottle. You have never seen anything so adorable as a hare latching on to a tiny bottle and suckling its head off. 

Someone with a really bony hand feeding my leveret...

You’ll also be comforted to know this animal will not be sleeping in our bed as it’s nocturnal and would most likely scrabble around in the bed all night as well as poop uncontrollably and likely be attacked by the fox terrier (which is a breed trained to hunt hares and that could trigger a very bad hare day for all concerned).

We’ve steered away from the Game of Thrones theme we use to christen the chickens and named her Mixy (short for myxomatosis), after the rabbit on The Ferals. Hares don’t get myxomatosis so it’s okay to call her that without jinxing her.

Whilst some of you might think there are possibly some harey times in store, there will be some delightful and hil-hare-ious stories and photographs in future blog posts and at least I didn’t buy a ferret (which would have been particularly hare-brained) so we should all be thankful.

Stay on hare for more exciting updates! 

* I promise there will be no more disgraceful puns.

I'm Getting a Cryptid!

Podcasts are my new thing to listen to during my hour long commute every day.

I’ve been listening to rubbish like “Things The Government Doesn’t Want You to Know” and “Reptilians Who Live Among Us” and “Aliens and Cryptids: the Complete Guide”.
What? You think I’m an idiot? They’re very entertaining and quite educational, I'll have you know.

In fact, I’m learning things… like... what a cryptid is and how to hunt them down and capture them alive.

(Apparently they aren’t crossword puzzles like I thought.)

I’m learning that some people in the world genuinely believe there are evil gnomes living in their wardrobes and linen closets. These gnomes come out when people are asleep and execute unmentionable acts upon them, so they say.

I’m learning about will o the wisps, vampires and how Queen Elizabeth 2 is really a Lizard Person in disguise.

I’m learning there are a lot of very silly people in the world making podcasts.

The Internet has a lot to answer for, really.

Next thing you know, ridiculous, non-writer-like women will start publishing blogs about chickens and Chihuahuas and random Easter Bunny deaths in their own shower recess… 

Fact: the Easter Bunny is a cryptid.

…which leads me to my wonderful, delightfully exhilarating news… 

I happen to have been hunting a particular cryptid this past week AND... I FOUND ONE!

I’m adopting a baby hare.

She should be arriving tomorrow.

Here’s a picture her carer sent. 

I’m going to be a mother again, sob.

Stay tuned!

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.

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.

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.

The Love Affair is Over

“What name do you think I should give my new car?” was my stupidly naïve and ignorant question at the end of my last post.

“I’m in love with my new car!” I joyously posted on Facebook.

Oh, how simpleminded and foolish I was back in those halcyon days.

Thank you all for your naming suggestions but I’ve finally thought of a new name for it.

“ Lemony Snickets”… with the emphasis on LEMON.

It’s a fudging, mother fudging lemon, actually.

No car has EVER raised my blood pressure as much as this… this… yellow, bile inducing rattlebox.

I can’t even swear enough to describe my disappointment in the heavyweight steering, the constant, relentless and mind numbing rattle from the cabin interior, the aggravating and unexpected (downright dangerous) lurching gear changes that this disgrace of an automobile has exhibited.

This car has brought me to a near stroke/aneurism.

Frankly, I hate its guts.

I really fudging hate it.

I know that some people live in poverty, some people suffer violent atrocities and some people are so poor they can’t afford food let alone a new car and that vehicular disappointment is a minor glitch in my otherwise pleasant life.

I know all this.

But I don’t care.

“You CAN sell it, you know,” chirruped Scotto one afternoon after I arrived home, stomping though the house, wild-eyed and loudly declaring I was going to name the car, “#unty Mc#unt Face’,” because I’d had enough.

Okay, okay… I realise I can take the shite, poor excuse for a car back because it’s under warranty and I can complain… AND I WILL.

But this car is BRAND FRICKIN NEW. Why should I have to inconvenience myself… a lot… by having to take a brand new VERY EXPENSIVE LUMP OF STEEL POOP back to the workshop two weeks after purchase?

No, no. no.

Frickin French, froggy, fudging lump of crap.

I’m going to crash it into oblivion so I never have to hear those ceaseless rattling noises in my ear EVER AGAIN.

I don’t know how I will write the jangling, creaking behemoth off without killing myself but I will figure out a way.

I could park it at the top of the mountain on the edge of a cliff and accidently leave it in neutral with the hand brake off…

Just a little push would do it.


Stay tuned. 

Three Excellent Things I Bought!

I’m back to work on Wednesday and there’s one particular thing I’m really dreading.

Six weeks of holiday has enabled my digestive system to develop into a lovely, rhythmic routine where at 8 o’clock sharp, every single day, I poop.

I will be arriving at work at exactly 8 am every day and this is not a happy prospect because we only have two toilets at work and people use them a lot and I don’t want anyone to know I’ve pooped the very second I’ve arrived at work.

On our travels to the shops today, I came across a product called, VIP Poo, which comes in all sorts of scents and you spray it in the toilet before you do your business and it magically masks all nasty smells by smothering the poo as soon as it hits the water.

Naturally, this mandates my wearing garments containing pockets to work at all times because God forbid someone should espy me entering the staff toilet clutching a bottle of VIP Poo in my trembling hands.

That would most probably give the game away.

In fact, I made Scotto pretend he was buying the VIP Poo for himself and that I had nothing to do with it, although I think the checkout guy suspected there was something afoot because of all the silly giggling when I took the photo.

It says on the bottle that it is highly dangerous to all aquatic animals.

More dangerous than poo? I highly doubt it.

Scotto and I had stopped at the shops to buy some pesticide because our front yard is infested with paper wasps.

One of them stung Scotto yesterday and I’ve been too terrified to go out and put rubbish in the wheelie bin in case a multitude of wasps swarm on me.

I suspect I’m allergic to them and I don’t want to die of anaphylactic shock, so I sent Scotto out (in his Hazmat suit) to annihilate the vicious creatures.

I sincerely believe that I am the wasp’s primary target because I noticed about twenty dead wasps splayed out on the passenger side window of Scotto’s car where they’d flown, kamikaze style, directly aiming at where I usually sit.

Another excellent thing I bought this week is my new car.

It's a Renault Clio RS which is a step up from the Suzuki Swift but I don’t pick it up until Tuesday.

I am trying to think of a name for it.

It’s a ranga, so I was thinking of calling it Ed Sheeran.

My son was quite disgusted that I’ve purchased a French car. Don’t ask me what he has against the French.

I reminded him that his eighth, great grandfather was a Monsieur De Venoix and that I am 19% French (according to my DNA) so of course I should have a French car and that he should mind his own Francophobic beeswax.

Mon Dieu, my children are overly bossy sometimes.

My new car has a reverse camera, automatic windshield wipers and lights, a front seat that heats up, a turbo thingy (not sure what that means), and three DIFFERENT modes of drive.

You can drive in ‘Normal’ mode, ‘Sports’ mode and ‘Outrrrrrraaaageous Frenchy’ mode.

I’ll just be driving in the ‘Normal’ mode, I think. At least until I practise a bit with the paddle shift gearbox and the launch control that is.

I’m a bit terrified to drive it to tell the truth. 

I was too scared to test drive it and made Scotto do it. 

I screamed loudly when he accelerated from 0 kms to 70 kms per hour in about three seconds and made him drive back to the dealership immediately, shouting at him the whole way about the thousand dollar excess if he pranged it.

One thing is certain. That is the first and last time Scotto will ever be allowed to drive it... bloody lead foot hoon.


So... what name do you think I should give my new car?

How is your Girl Power?

Still needs restaining...

I have excellent neighbours in my street.

We invited them all over on New Year’s Day to celebrate and christen the new deck (see above).

“What games have you been playing on your computer, mate?” Burt, who lives across the road, asked Scotto. “The noises and explosions are wild. I can hear them clear as day from my place.”

I sat up rigidly, shame-faced and self-conscious.

The noises emanating from our house weren’t from Scotto’s computer. They originated from me, binge watching Game of Thrones at an ear-splitting volume for hours on end.

Whilst this is a slothful and indulgent habit to engage in, I am now paying the price.

Remember how I told you I am very deaf in one ear because the little hairs in my ear canal are damaged?

Well I think I have further damaged them because now whenever I hear a loud noise my brain vibrates. It’s as if I’ve switched dimensions for a few seconds. This is not ideal when I have a neurotic Chihuahua who constantly breaks out in uncontrollable, high-pitched barking attacks. I’m currently walking around with a cotton ball in my ear to tone down the clang of plates clattering when I empty the dishwasher.

It could be wax… but I suppose I should go to the doctor.

Apart from that little anomaly, I feel in perfect health and have been assiduously walking around the mountain every single day of my holidays (except Boxing Day when I was too hungover).

This last week, I’ve been walking with my nutty but endearing neighbour, Mrs Bunny.

Mrs Bunny and I, are both desperate to rid ourselves of the three spare tyres around our midriffs.

Mrs Bunny calls hers, ‘the triplets’.

I haven’t named mine because I don’t want them to get too attached to me.

After five weeks of gruelling uphill treks, the rolls of fat are tenaciously resisting departure and I measured my waist with a tape measure yesterday and I’m still obese, according to the Internet.

Mrs Bunny and I have a great time on our uphill ambles talking about lots of things including how much we hate our stomachs, hips, thighs… and pretty much every centimetre of ourselves, actually.

I find the walks very uplifting.

“At least we haven’t said anything negative about ourselves this morning,” puffed Mrs Bunny yesterday.

“I hate my bat wings,” I huffed back, wiping the sweat out of my eyes.

“Oh God, me too! I HATE my arms!” agreed Mrs Bunny vehemently.

“I never wear singlets even if it’s 40 degrees,” I panted. “I don’t care about the people who say we should just let it all hang out. My arms are an abomination to society and should NEVER be out in public.”

“I ALWAYS cover my arms!” gasped Mrs Bunny. “I’m totally ashamed of the hideous flabby things. They’re a disgrace to womankind.”

We both nodded in a solemn acceptance of our non-singlet wearing futures.

We try to outdo each other with shocking stories regarding our dismal lack of grooming and time-wasting habits.

“Some days I just stay dressed in my active wear all day and binge watch House of Cards,” Mrs Bunny blurted out one day, with a particular expression on her face that invited outrage and disgust.

“Some days I go to the IGA with coffee breath, without brushing my hair from the day before, and wearing a stained t-shirt that I bought in 1998, then go home and look up conspiracy theories on Youtube all day,” I scoffed back.

“I ate KFC for lunch after our walk yesterday,” Mrs Bunny countered, eyeing me competitively.

“I drank a whole bottle of wine last night and it was a Wednesday,” I trumped back at her.

"I've got short, stumpy legs!" Mrs Bunny retaliated.

"So do I!" I replied. "I'm only taller than you because of my weirdly long torso and unattractively elongated neck!"

I’m here to tell you; we absolutely inspire each other on our walks. 



That's Girl Power...

What was your Favourite Chrissy present?

I have a smear test scheduled for tomorrow.

If there’s one thing I hate almost as much as mammograms, it’s smear tests.

When I made the appointment it was still December 2017 but apparently it’s now frickin January 2018.

Shit.

It seemed like so far away when I made the appointment on December 22, 2017.

And now it appears, if you have a smear test and you don’t have a certain venereal disease like Herpes Apple iONS11 you don’t have to have a smear test for another 5 years… but I know… I just know I will have that disease.

I will have that thing and I will have to do the walk of shame.

I will be mandated (by law) to have my insides violated every bloody year.

Whatever the f#ck.

Anyway, did you get some good Christmas presents?

Can I just say that I am really glad nobody bought me a frickin Fitbit for Christmas.

What the hell? A pedometer you wear on your arm???

I had a proper pedometer which I wore once and it informed me that the usual walk I took around the river was 6000 steps. That took about an hour so I knew that any one hour walk I engaged in was going to be was about 6000 steps so why the fudge did I ever need the stupid pedometer again?

It’s still sitting in a drawer somewhere.

I really don’t get the whole Fitbit thing.

My son gave me the most brilliant present ever.

A power bank.

For someone who drives vast distances in the wallops every day and who never remembers to recharge their phone when they probably need it in case of emergency (like running into a really big kangaroo, being washed away in flash floods or being abducted by a Wolf Creek, psychotic type assassin)  this is a bloody brilliant present.

But … how will I remember to recharge the power bank?

God.

Now I have another thing do.



Life used to be so simple when all you had to do was remember to put out the milk money.

linking up to Denyse Whelan Blog!