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!