Contains some strong language.
In the wake of our TMI Tuesday posts, I decided to try something a little different. I’ve seen a number of other bloggers posting almost journalistic posts everyday and I wondered how it would work for my blog. I know that some of my readers really appreciate how real and authentic I am and I wondered if it wouldn’t be a way to let my audience in even more, especially with the mundane stuff and my everyday musings. I don’t know how often they will be or if they will even work at all, but true to any experiment, you won’t know if you don’t try. These posts will also be a lot more unrefined and realistic and perhaps in some cases, somewhat uninhibited, too.
Yesterday, I flipped through my priorities for the week. I have Dr Damon Asworth to thank for the idea of setting a week-by-week to-do list, as well as my existing daily one. I’m all too good at running errands and completing the daily grind while habitually ignoring the other things that need checking off. I’ve only set myself two big goals for this week: Sort out my provisional driving licence and finish the letter which begs for permission to install a back door. So far, I have done neither. Both are important, given that it can be quite embarrassing to tell the courier that you need your husband to act as your guardian on all age-related matters. It has nothing at all to do with kink, it’s just that my provisional licence expired in lockdown and most places won’t accept it anymore. Try as I might, pleading eyes and thoughtful explanations are still not enough to convince most people that I really am thirty-two years old.
This morning, I woke bleary-eyed and checked on the bedroom aquarium. Most things looked fairly normal, but what the hell is that leaf there, stuck to the glass? I blinked harder, it’s too early for LED lights.
Why the hell is there a leaf there? I only cleaned that tank out yesterday.
All of a sudden, said leaf developed two little sticks out of its side and began lurching its way across the glass.
“Oh, hell to the naw!” I declared, yielding the net and scooping out the ‘leaf’, “I’m not having snails in my tank!”.
Once they take hold, aquarium snails can be a prolific problem. They can be useful too, but if there are a few, two can quickly become 40, then a thousand or two and so on. Before too long, your tank is more snail than it is fish or shrimp. Not only, but by personal preference, I don’t find snails entertaining. For me, nothing amuses me more than watching my Endlers play ‘football’ with a piece of shrimp food, or watch my shrimp tussle over the same piece, but snails? Snails are not for me.
Once dressed, I made my way out into the lounge and across to make some tea, and that was when the next issue struck me: Weird filter noises. Both of my fish tanks are twice-filtered, and all filters are typically silent, so when your filter starts sounding like the rear end of a festival hot dog stand, you know that there’s a problem. I felt for vibrations and powered off the offending algae-killing filter. Opened up and propeller cleaned, I checked the filter again: Same issue. The sponge was clean and the propeller rinsed, “fucked” I muttered to myself, hauling the filter free of its holdings.
“I’m hoping that, with shrimps, reduced LED light and the PhosphateMinus, I can keep on top of the algae without the need for UV filtration anyway”, I explained to Matt. Indeed, hope is a dangerous thing, and I had little doubt in my mind that in a few weeks time, I’d be scrubbing the algae off once more.
With the faulty filter now fully free and destined for the bin, I made way for the kitchen. Dump the filter, wash my hands and make some morning drinks. It should be a simple process, right? Wrong again.
Stuck to the kitchen wall was our kitchen roll holder. It had descended suddenly last night with thanks to steam from the rice cooker and Matt and left it on top of the kitchen bin while he finished cooking. Unfortunately, my betrothed had clearly also binned some things without moving it and the holder was now firmly affixed to the wall, sideways, with super-strong adhesive foam tape. Panicked, I tried to slowly and gently prise the holder from the wall. I could deal with reapplying the paint, but please don’t damage the wall!
Where the holder once was, an orange-sized patch of plasterboard now showed through. Frustrated, I slinked off to fetch the filler and the filler knife. It’s no big deal, I told myself, spread, dry, sand, paint, done.
Admit it, you kind of like filler work!
I do, on any other occasion.
Gentlemen, if there is one piece of advice that I can give you, it’s that you should never investigate the cause of your woman’s issues with you if you either a) aren’t about to apologise or b) don’t have a helpful solution to offer. Alas, pre-coffee, Matt entered the kitchen to survey the damaged wall.
“Oh, fuck” he muttered.
“Yes, oh fuck” I replied coolly, “but ‘oh fuck’ doesn’t fix walls”.
What should have been a thirty-second grab-and-fill job turned into a fight with the shoerack-on-wheels, and what should have been a simple pull-it-out-out-of-the-way manoeuvre actually involved standing the whole shoe rack back up and putting all of the shoes back on. Damn it! Whose bright spark idea was it to add castors to a mesh storage unit anyway?!
Oh yeah, I forgot, it was mine.
“Oh this fucking thing!” I bemoaned, “all I want to do is to get on, get some housework done, get the food shop away and do some writing. Why is that so fucking difficult?!”.
Shoe rack back up and filler grabbed, I got on with filling in the hole. Filler spread and hole almost disappearing into its magnolia surroundings, I finally smiled. Yes, I really did enjoy filler work.
“Right, that’s that done. Can I have a cup of tea now? Do a little writing, maybe?” I uttered sardonically. I boiled the kettle and finally made our coffee and tea.
“It’s a little truckstop coffee, but somebody didn’t clean their cafatiere and somebody else has important blogger things to do” I said to Matt as I set down his mug of coffee, he winced.
“It’s drinkable, I suppose” he replied.
“Drink it or wear it, the choice is yours” I warned. “I’m sorry about earlier. I’m just trying to get on and with the food shop coming and housework to do, stuff to write, the dog wants exercising…”
“It’s fine, I understand you’re stressed” he said sympathetically, I sighed. “Hopefully, there won’t be anything else dramatic today”.
“There had better not be, husband,” I began, “because if you’ve just jinxed me, I will pluck your balls with a pair of tweezers”. He whimpered.
“And you say you’re the sadist?” I teased.