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Thursday, December 28, 2017

Did You Have a Good Christmas?

Apart from the fact that my German Shepherd almost bit my brother-in law’s face off and left two distinct fang marks in his forehead and chin with blood streaming everywhere and apart from the fact that most of us were very pissed and there was a bit of a skirmish on the front lawn on the next door neighbour’s driveway... it was a pretty good Christmas.

Don’t ask.

We had fun.

In a sense.

We had so much fun that I almost threw up in the Robina Town Centre Food Court because of the sickly smell of sweet and sour pork when I reluctantly took my darling daughter to indulge in Boxing Day shopping.

I must admit that I had to go and lie down in the car before she finished her spending scourge, but Scotto turned on the air-conditioning in the Tucson and I somehow managed not to throw up in his brand new car.

I kept thinking about dry crackers and deserts (deserts not desserts.)

It seemed to help with the pre-spew dribbling  when thinking about really dry stuff.

Christmas is hectic and although I enjoyed all the Facebook posts displaying everyone around their Christmas table and all the posts about Eggs Benedict and civilised celebrations… my Chrismas wasn’t that picturesque or civilised.

Not at all, really.

Our celebrations were more… boganesque.

That’s alright though.

No one died.

Except Albert, my parents’ dog… on Christmas Eve

My parents were understandably devastated by the event.

Naturally, the following day, whilst analysing the dramatic and drunken events of Christmas Day,  (in the presence of my mother), I boldly stated,

“Well! At least no one DIED!”

Everyone just stared at me in mortification.

“Except Albert,” I corrected myself as my poor mother began weeping in proper grief.

Dear God, help me to keep my big effing mouth closed, I prayed to baby Jesus.

Probs the worst Christmas ever.

Saturday, December 16, 2017

When Your World is Literally About to Cave In.

Looks much worse than it appears in photo!

Scotto and I spent the past few days moving our couch closer and closer towards the telly because we were terrified the ceiling was going to collapse on top of us whenever the sub woofer kicked in.

Last week, while we were out cavorting and lunching, a cataclysmic hail storm thrust itself upon our mountain. 

Our backyard

I was worried about the animals as we drove home but they were okay, although the cat was quite pissed off...

Hail-damaged cat

“Go outside and make a snowman immediately!” I excitedly ordered Scotto, when we arrived home. 

He couldn’t do it though, because it was hail, not snow and it lacked the appropriate properties required, such as malleability.

This was reasonably discouraging, but not as discouraging as the three centimetres of water we later discovered behind the couch in our lounge room.

“Oh well,” I commented as we mopped it up. “I haven’t mopped behind here for two years. It probably needed it anyway.”

Later in the week, we both stared up at the lounge room ceiling in subdued dismay.

“Do you think those cracks in the paint and the popped nails in the ceiling have anything to do with the leak?” 
I asked Scotto, despondently.

We’ve since discovered we need to replace the entire ceiling throughout the whole damn house.

This is a nuisance because I have to take down all the pictures/paintings and remove all the ornaments around the place for when they paint.

Not to mention the fact that the house will be infested with strange tradies working in my house from early in the morning, watching me insert my false teeth whilst wearing my flea-bitten pajamas every morning… IN MY SCHOOL HOLIDAYS!

And as if that wasn’t enough, the roof guy came today to check there was no damage… and you guessed it… we need to have our ENTIRE ROOF replaced as well.

I pictured a semi-trailer meandering up the winding mountain road with a ‘wide load’ sign, carrying a large roof and followed by a long trail of extremely pissed off cars, but Scotto reassured me they bring the roof up in pieces.

What a pain in the bum this is all going to be.

I lived in the tropics for 50 years; we survived Cyclone Althea (1971), Cyclone Joy (1990), Cyclone Sid (1998), Cyclone Tessi (2000) and the mother of all cyclones, Yasi (2011).

One little hail storm up here and we have to have our roof and ceiling replaced.

A week before Christmas too.


And speaking of pains in the bum, Pablo the Chihuahua won’t stop licking his bum red raw even though we wormed him and I will probably have to take him to the vet which will most likely cost me a million dollars.

Why can’t we have a vet in the family?

Could Santa please make one of my children marry a vet?

Lulu recently ran into the Bondi Vet at the gym... he'd do...

Or even a ceiling/roof guy would be good...

What sort of son/daughter-in-law would be most convenient to you?

Friday, December 8, 2017

My Husband Loves Screwing Around

Sometime this year, we ousted our above ground pool because we never used it as it only gets hot enough to swim one/two days a year up here in the Gold Coast Highlands and the pool filter was escalating the fees incurred from our electricity bill (fancy way of saying our electricity bill was too fucking high).

The elderly lady who lives in the house below us probably wasn’t that impressed with 58000 litres of water spilling into her yard but we let it out slowly and we didn’t hear a peep from her.

I think her house has sunk a bit on one corner and maybe she drowned. Not really sure.


We decided to build decking over the resulting cavernous hole and the area is beginning to look a bit like a helipad.

Scotto estimates he has screwed in over 2000 screws so far. 

We don’t really need a helipad, but I’m positive it will come in handy when random movie stars and celebrity millionaires come to visit.

Now, after spending a fortune on timber to build this monstrosity, I suppose we will be expected to have it filled with expensive outdoor furniture.


I don’t like spending money. It’s the frugal Scottish ancestry coming out in me.

So, while Scotto has been outside in the harsh sun, building the deck and screwing his head off, I’ve been on school holidays and fruitfully employed binge watching Game of Thrones for the fourth time and attempting to replicate Cersei’s hairdos whilst sipping coffee and trimming my fungus infected toenails.

I’m constantly expecting Scotto to burst through the double dividing glass windows with a gold emblazoned screw driver and puncture my jugular in passionate revenge whilst screaming, “I’m the King of the North, why aren’t you working wench?”

But I don’t really feel guilty about him working laboriously whilst I laze around like a fat pig.

I know that each time Scotto hears the theme song of GOT echoing throughout the hallways of our castle after I’ve clicked on yet another episode, he grasps the importance of my ‘down time’ and comprehends that this is just my method of unwinding from a particularly stressful year.

I lie.

I have wasted my entire first week of my six weeks of school holidays, binge watching a very silly fantasy series which I have already watched three times.

What is wrong with me?

I’m sure I’ll break out of this careless and indolent period of hedonism sooner or later.

Maybe… next week.


What should I be doing instead (and please don’t say helping Scotto because I hate anything to do with screwing)?

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

When Your Inheritance is at Stake

Now that I’m on holidays I have some free time to visit my parents who live down the road.

I called in to their place yesterday at morning tea time in anticipation of a happy reunion and some of Dad’s home cooking.

I knocked plaintively at the door because the curtains were drawn and there were funeral dirges playing on the stereo; the air was sombre.

Mum greeted me at the door with a deep, tragic sigh and informed me that their beloved cocker spaniel, Albert, was in his  final stage of life and they were about to call in a priest for the extreme unction ceremony and anointing of oils.

Fat Albert was lying in his bed and wagged his tail and leaped up to greet me when I sauntered in to the subdued ambiance of the kitchen .

“He looks all right to me!” I scoffed in an attempt to lighten the melancholy atmosphere.

“No,” my mother exhaled heavily, a tear sliding down her cheek. “He’s gone off his food. We’re taking him to the vet. Not the horrible vet that can’t speak English, but to a proper vet. The poor animal probably won’t see out the end of this week.”

I pitied the poor non English speaking vet for a moment then went about by unprofessional examination.

I felt the spoiled creature’s ribs which still seemed to be adequately encased in a layer of fat (as far as my probing fingers were able to determine anyway). This is a dog who will most probably inherit my inheritance. I secretly wanted to pinch it to tell the truth. I wanted to pinch it hard.

When the cups of tea came out, Dad brought out a plate of shortbread biscuits.

“Here, Albert!” I called. “Come and have a biccy.” I whispered under my breath, “You little fudging faker”.
The dog approached me with bright eyes and wagging tail and snatched the shortbread from my hand, gobbling it up like a dog ready for a good old, rambunctious fox chase across the moors... or like Lassie finally coming home to Timmy... or like Rin Tin Tin alerting the WW1 soldiers about the approach of an enemy tank.

I gave the little fraud another biscuit… and another. Each biscuit was voraciously seized from my hand with a zealous, hungry ferocity which left distinct and painful fang marks in my knuckles.

“Well! He seems to have picked up a bit…” commented my mother.

Hmmm. Inheritance safe for another day.