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Saturday, March 23, 2013

Why Pinky isn't fussed on Bunnings

Scotto in the garage.

I spent last night (a Friday night no less!) in church, as my class was presenting a dramatized version of the Stations of the Cross for their parents and any super keen parishioners who showed up. We had rehearsed in the morning with no major stuff ups and I was optimistic all would run smoothly. 

As the teacher it was my task to deliver the opening prayer and I forgot to take my reading glasses up to the lecturn with me. It was a lengthy and self-conscious skulk down to her handbag and back up again for Pinky. 

The kids stepped up to the mark though and apart from Jesus’ crown of thorns falling off during the crucifixion, it went without a hitch. In fact you might even say…we nailed it.

Saturday morning is my favourite time of the week. Unfortunately that blissful sleep in and undisturbed coffee in bed with the newspaper has been besmirched by the entrance into our lives of the baby Chihuahua, Pablo Escobark… Read more here

Waking up with a sharp-toothed Mexican rat chewing on my earlobe has become the standard and there is no more lying in or reading of newspapers. In fact our main priority this morning was to get up early anyway and go on a reconnaissance expedition to the Shangri-La of all home renovators, Bunnings. 

Paranoid about Pablo inadvertently getting out the back door and falling into the swimming pool and drowning, Scotto decided some pool-fence work was in order and guess who felt duty-bound to go with him to purchase the necessary materials. 

I feel at this point I must express my deep-seated aversion to that particular genre of retail outlet. Many jokes have been made about women dragging their long-suffering husbands around department stores and dress shops, but what about our side of the story? 

It’s not the concrete floors or the cheesy smell of fertilisers that put me off. It’s not even the flock of scavengers blocking the front door, who are only there for the cheap, two dollar sausage sizzle. I really don’t mind the sweaty, pongy blokes walking around in singlets with their tufts of grey underarm hair poking out either. 

The reason I hate going is because of Scotto (I had to write that in a small font so that he won’t notice his name if he looks over at my screen), however, because he was going for the sole purpose of safeguarding the well-being of my mutt I felt guiltily compelled to accompany him.

A few years ago I dug in my heels and stubbornly refused to enter the doors of the hardware store any more and would sit in the hot car panting like a dog waiting for him to return. My reasoning was that if Scotto was conscious of his overheating spouse in the sweltering temperature of a car in the North Queensland sun, he might hurry the f#*k up.

is quite the handyman and I love him for this quality. His ability to take an hour to purchase one screw however, is not so endearing. He will stand at the shelf comparing screw widths, lengths and then move on to hinges trying to check for the right fit and on and on and on and on. Call me unadventurous but I really don’t see the appeal.

Miraculously it didn’t take
Scotto long to find the correct sized edging so we were in and out in ten minutes. Yay! 

Some stupid, clumsy twit carrying a whipper-snipper over his shoulder nearly knocked my effing eye out... but never mind.