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Tuesday, January 26, 2016

How to Know if Your Partner Loves You For You

We swim in our pool every afternoon because it’s 37 freakin degrees in the shade here in North Queensland and don’t go telling me how you’re hot because you furkin AREN’T.

My hair has taken the toll of all this aquatic action by drying out and developing split ends.

You could use the end of my ponytail to scour your fry pan after you’ve burnt bacon and cheese in the bottom of it., or use it as sandpaper on a particularly gnarled piece of granite, or use it to scrub out the stains on the tiles left by the blood of the air-conditioning mechanic who quoted you $1500 to fix the reverse cycle piece of shit a gecko just shorted out.

“Do you mind if I wear a shower cap in the pool to protect my hair, Scotto?” I asked my long-suffering husband the other day when we were about to take the plunge.

He shrugged, indicating a non-interest in what I wear on my head when we’re in the pool, so that’s what I’ve been doing. It’s really not at all attractive but not as constricting as a bathing cap and readily available.

We loll around in the pool staring at the sky from 5pm until about 6:30 when the news comes on, then we squidge inside with wet crotches, put on dry undies and settle in front of the telly.

I spied a couple of large birds in the sky yesterday when we were swimming.

“Are they hawks?” I asked the non-ornithological expert Scotto. It was a rhetorical question really.

“Yep,” he drawled. “Them’s be hawk birds.”

I heard a loud caw very similar to a crow. Exactly like a crow actually.

“No, Scotto, I think they’re crows, not hawks after all.” I said, tucking a tendril of hair back inside my floral shower cap.

“No, Pinky, those birds have scalloped wings like hawks. The crow sounds are coming from the west. Those birds are definitely hawks,” he drawled like John Wayne on pseudo-ephedrine.

“Bull SHEET!” I screeched indignantly. “They aren’t hawks. They’re making a sound like crows do.”

One of the exact same birds as before flew past us again. “See!” he twanged like a cowboy lying shot dead in a pool of blood on a saloon floor. “That’s a crow! Its wings aren’t as scalloped as a hawk bird.”

“It’s the same furkin bird. you idiot!” I hooted. “It just went round the durn tree and came back agin!”

“Naw… that’s a durned crow and I’d eat my mother’s heart to prove it!” he argued.

I let it go because it was too durned hot to argue. But seriously? It was a crow not a furkin hawk.

That’s what happens when you marry a city boy.

The moral of the story is: If you insist on finding a life-long partner, find one that doesn’t care if you go swimming in a shower cap. 

Frame it.