So where have I been for the past 3 or so years? In a
nutshell, I got distracted. If you need to ask how one can be distracted for
over three years then we are not cut from the same cloth and you should
probably ask yourself some long, hard questions. Undoubtedly, I will unfold my
tale of hair-brained ideas, behavioural issues, windows updates, dislocations
and social inadequacies, in the future but for now, I really can’t be arsed. I’m
already really tired by having to address all the things spellcheck is throwing
up.
Life has moved on in the Crap household yet still resembles
a rabid dog chasing its own tail. This epileptic seizure of time has resulted
in the renaming of the children:
Rain Man has started
high school and is excelling at being a mumbling, surly arsehat yet 90% of the time
has no idea what is going on. So we often refer to him as Towelie. When you
begin referring to your son in general conversation as a South Park character
(a genetically engineered towel who is perpetually stoned and often says “I
have no idea what is going on”) it should probably raise some red flags
regarding your parenting style. It hasn’t. Although I did take pause recently
at the horrified reaction of a by-stander in the chemist when I said to Towelie
“If you didn’t behave like a fucking stoned towel all the time we might
actually get something done”. Then I realised that no one should be swayed by
the opinion of filthy eavesdroppers and glared at the man because he was so
clearly in the wrong. In the interests of full disclosure, I have to report
that this didn’t prompt Towelie to move any faster or become at all aware of
his surroundings. He just laughed his tits off.
The Nazgul no
longer screeches and due to her extraordinary ability to style herself to look
like she woke up in a skip we have christened her The Bin Baby. It has
developed three primary pastimes:
1)
Crying whenever it doesn’t get its own way. This
requires dedication and training and it can often be found sitting in front of
the mirror studying itself crying. Recent crying catalysts include not be
allowed to stab her father in the arm with a fork, asking what is for dinner
and being told, mandarins are the wrong temperature, and after being told off for drawing on her own scalp coming to
me sobbing to me because “Daddy disrespected my skills” which leads me to…
2)
Constant acts of petty vandalism. My first
husband and I naively bought white furniture for her room and allowed her
possessions so I spend a lot of time trying to remove various scribbling
from a variety of surfaces. Honestly, it is like living with a shithouse
Banksy. It can be quite confronting for visitors when they first encounter her
room which resembles a crack house and they notice all her dolls are sporting
Russian prison tattoos and crosses on their eyelids.
3) Relentlessly trolling her brother when she
thinks no one is listening. Although I do devote a lot of time doing this to my
own brother it does bother me because at six years old, her skills have
surpassed mine. She has moved on from the simple “you’re adopted” routine to
saying things such as “Oh when we were at the zoo we went to the monkey cage to
tell your family how you are going” and when looking at a picture of Towelie
and his friends telling him “Why do you have that? You only have one friend and that is a cat”.
A bit over a year ago my closest friend went overseas for a
few weeks so there was no one around to remind me that as a cat hater I probably
shouldn’t get a cat. I got a cat. Ostensibly, I got it as companion for the Bin
Baby which backfired spectacularly. They have so much in common they rarely get
along (although there has recently been a cessation of hostilities). If I am
truthful I got it because I have really poor impulse control and can’t get a
dog as a result of my first husband being dead inside. Despite the Bin Baby giving the cat a name (I
wanted to call it Sharon but was out voted) I call it Destructor the Idiot because it is really fucking stupid. My first
husband has always been a cat person and previously claimed that they are
intelligent and that it is dogs that are dim-witted. He has conceded that it is
a myth that cats are intelligent creatures that choose not to be trained due to
their self-reliant nature, and now accepts they cannot be trained because they
are simply too fucking dumb. Towelie adores her and is yet to accept that Destructor
the Idiot is thick. It pisses him off to hear me call her Destructor the Idiot.
I know cat people will side with Towelie on this one but let me provide some
anecdotal evidence to support my claim:
In order to turn the alarm on we need to lock the cat in a section of
the house and as I have been running late since 2001 it usually falls to me
(since everyone left the house some time ago and I have drunk 2-5 cups of
coffee and watched several comedone extraction videos on YouTube rather than
get ready). It follows exactly the same
pattern every morning (except when I can’t be bothered and lock her outside and
hope that Towelie doesn’t find out).
a) I pick up Destructor the Idiot who
proceeds to bite me then abruptly remembers she loves me and starts licking me.
b) I carry her through to her food bowl and put her down at which point she
looks around confused and then assumes she must be hungry and starts eating.
c)
I spend between five and ten mins looking for my keys, sunglasses and shoes
before leaving during which even a semi intelligent creature would realise it
wasn’t hungry and is about to be locked in which it hates.
Every single day for over a year and it still hasn’t seen a pattern forming.
And so now I leave you until next time I have something really important and time critical to do.
