I Never Said I Was a Morning Person!

I’m not good in the mornings. I never have been. I’ve always loved to stay up late – I remember sneaking into the TV room, which was on the other side of the house to my parents’ room, to watch movies – or one year (1983), to watch Australia win the America’s Cup yacht race (which must have been late here if it was raced in American daytime – in fact there was much made of the quote by our then Prime Minister who said the following day ‘Any boss who sacks a worker for not turning up today is a bum’.)

I’ve also noticed that I am finding it even harder of late because the house is still in absolute state of chaos, which makes mornings that much harder to deal with. I am just too tired on getting home at 7 or 8pm, then making and eating dinner, to do any little extra jobs that need to be done. That’s why there are boxes spread throughout the dining room and the floor is now an interesting shade of grey even though the tiles are not in fact grey at all.

The Boyfriend really does get the bulk of the angst thrown his way of a morning of late. Really, though, when I am rushing around like a chook with my head cut off, do I want to have a conversation about installing Office on the new computer, or do I need anything from the shops today, or what do you think about the latest boring political news? No, sir, I do not.

Perhaps that is why when They Boyfriend was pushing me to take some fruit to work with my lunch today in the interests of my health, he said “Come on, how about a nice little mandarin? Here’s one just like you, small and cute. We didn’t have any grumpy ones so this one will have to do – just eat it a bit later in the day, not first thing.” Hmph. I resemble that remark.

Updated to Add: The mandarin may not have been grumpy. But it was sort of wrinkly and a bit sour inside. Just like me. Heh.

Didn’t Know I Had Muscles There

Well the bank finally got the paperwork sorted and signed on Friday. No money has been forthcoming yet, but that really does not surprise me. The Ex decided to man up and move out as agreed on Friday anyway – I was worried he wouldn’t without receipt of the rather large cheque. The Boyfriend and I spent the weekend carting my stuff (and a few of his things) from his place to mine.

Over the course of the weekend, I could not believe that considering I never ‘moved in’ with The Boyfriend, I had managed to accumulate so many clothes over there, all brought over one outfit at a time. Given that the last time until this weekend that I had slept at my house was for a few nights last Christmas, and it was around September last year when I last slept there with any regularity, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised – I must have been wearing something all this time, but still. It filled a whole car – boot and back seat. (I think it might be time to clear out the things I no longer wear.)

The house was filthy. I mean, it will takes us months to get through all the cleaning and tidying there is to be done. It took 3 hours to clean the fridge. I think that probably explains how the rest of the house went. The Boyfriend was rather unimpressed at the “You find it, you clean it” rule after he trod in a cat hairball. Especially when I told him the cat who used to throw up stinky hairballs like that has been dead a couple of months. So yeah, there’s a bit of work to get through.

Today my muscles are killing me – they ache in places I did not know muscles exist. Luckily I have a really awesomely comfortable bed to fall into tonight.

Things I love about being in my own house again:

• My toilet paper is better. This is one thing I will not go budget on.
• The toilet seat is closed after use. (This one might take The Boyfriend some time to sink in.)
• My bed is so comfortable and big. And my sheets are nicer.
• Gas oven and cooktop – so much better than electric. Not that I have cooked anything more exotic than vegemite and grilled cheese crumpets yet.
• My back yard although in need of some TLC inspires me to make it look fantastic again

There’s more. However, there’s also more work to do which awaits…

Short Week, Long Face

It might have been a short week this week after the public holiday on Monday, but it seems to have been the longest short week in the whole world.

My bank are a bunch of arses. The paperwork for my new mortgage has so far been lost twice and once drawn up with the wrong surname on it. I still haven’t signed it and I am supposed to, by court order, give my ex a rather large cheque by COB tomorrow. I somehow doubt that is going to happen on time. I finally got an apologetic email from my mortgage broker after I emailed him this morning and suggested that when the paperwork was ready perhaps he could deliver it to me IN JAIL, where I will be languishing, having been thrown in the clink. I still do not have a contract to sign, however.

The Boyfriend got the shits and quit his job yesterday. Idiot. Personally I think a better plan may have been to get a new job first, then tell them how they are a bunch of *insert appropriate word here*s.

Yesterday I got confirmation that while I will still have a job and the same salary in the restructure, my job title changes to something about 5 levels down. Oh, and I’ll be responsible for more than before. The new job title in no way reflects what I will really be doing and that shits me immensely.

A friend’s girlfriend who had a bad asthma attack and failed to get CPR in time during the recent dust storms has just had her life support turned off. Her 13 year old child thinks that because she has not died yet she will recover. The doctors tell us she is brain dead.

I made The Boyfriend’s parents very teary last night when they realised that me getting my house back might mean we spend less time with them. I feel like a thief who is taking away their baby (their grown up fully adult baby but whatever).

I feel torn about having made The Ex leave my house – I have been financially supporting him for about 3 years while he plays a stupid online game that rhymes with Schmorld of Schmarcraft for about 15 hours a day. It is finally time to pull the plug, move him out of my house, stop paying his bills, and give him a big cheque in exchange for the deed to the house. It’s well overdue but it feels sad anyway.

One of the girls in the office who I was commiserating with earlier about how much this week sucks just came into my office and said “As if that’s not enough I now have the Wiggles song Wake Up Jeff in my head!” I have cheered myself up by telling her I have the cure. She is very silly for agreeing. I got her to sing the chorus of Rah Rah Rasputin. Well, at least she doesn’t have The Wiggles on the brain any more. She is stalking around the office telling all that she is going to kill me, but at least I’m smiling now.

Good and Bad Sports

The weekend just gone was a long weekend. For what I have no idea (hmm, just googled it and apparently it was Labour Day. Huh). I added to the collective joy and had last Friday off as well.

Two 4 day weeks in a row was of course for good reason. This past weekend I went to my 20 year High School Reunion – the second for the year, which is what happens when you switch schools half way through high school I guess. So the reunion was for the school I left after Year 9.

I was having a rather jolly old time, possibly carrying on like a pork chop and enjoying one too many lemonades (read: beer), when I spotted a familiar face. The CEO’s exec assistant from my current work. Eh, who would have guessed she was married to a boy I went through primary and most of high school with. My reaction was not particularly professional – in fact I yelled, rather startled, “SHIT!” while looking right at her. I sure hope she is a good sport and holds true on her promise that what goes on at the school reunion stays at the school reunion! I did reconnect with a couple of people I will stay in touch with, so all in all it was a good time. A very fine time was had on both Friday and Saturday.

We rushed home on Sunday morning bright eyed and bushy tailed. In reality The Boyfriend was a champ and drove the whole way home, and I moaned and grumbled from the passenger seat. On our arrival home we hopped it down to a nearby pub to with minutes to spare to meet up with some mates for the NRL Grand Final – which my team were in. (Go Parra Eels!)

After my team lost? A girl wearing a jersey from a different team (one not playing in the grand final having been knocked out a week or two ago by my team, heh) walked in to the pub, spat at me in my Eels jersey, and said “Sucked in you stupid bitch, you f-ing c-face whore”. Only you can guess what the Fs and Cs stood for, she didn’t abbreviate them. Charming. I think we can all agree some of the fans of that team cough*bulldogs*cough are bloody bad sports. I only wish I’d had the presence of mind to fire back a retort – any retort – instead of opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish.  I would have been nice about it I’m sure (“Well at least I’m not ugly” is probably nice, yeah? Or even “I know you are, but what am I”?) This was also followed by groups of loud Bulldogs supporters driving around my suburb with their team flags hanging out their windows whooping and honking horns, not celebrating anything but the fact that WE LOST, even though they did too, several weeks ago.

This performance was more impactful for the fact that I had just witnessed a rather rowdy pub full of Eels supporters clap at the end result, and shake hands with the very few Storm supporters in the place who’d won – after all, it’s clear the better performing team won on the day, what else is there to do.  We were all just pleased we made it as far as we did after a few decades of lackluster performance!

After the busy few days before it, we lazed around on Monday, venturing out to deliver a case of beer and bag of ice to friends who moved over the long weekend. Nothing says “We’re so glad sorry we went away the weekend you moved and couldn’t help” like beer.

Luckily I’m Not a Horse

Schlepping my laptop and assorted paperwork between two offices has resulted in a rather painful shoulder of late, which seems to be slowly migrating to other areas of my back and neck. Honestly, you’d have taken me down the back paddock and shot me long ago if I were of the equine variety.

Yesterday it developed into somewhat of a competition between The Boyfriend and myself, each of us insisting that there was no way the other’s back could possibly ache as much as our own. Of course, we were each angling for a back massage. Or at least I was, and can only assume he was too with the way events unfolded.

When we crawled our old and weary bodies into bed, the haggling commenced. I suggested a best out of 3 match of paper scissors rock to determine who got first massage. I won! So I laid down to get my massage, assuring The Boyfriend I would happily return the favour when he was done. Gee it felt nice and relaxing.

Then I woke up this morning, feeling fresh and fantastic, muscles the least sore they had been in days, and wondering how long he’d massaged my back before realising I had fallen fast asleep.

Awkward Conversations 101

I spent the day today with The Boyfriend’s mum and dad because I was home sick from work, and they just look after me the right amount – offer cups of tea and conversation but leave me alone when I go to lie down.I love spending time with them, and in exchange I cooked them a corned beef to have on their sandwiches for lunch with pickles and cheese. Yum.

I was having a conversation with The Boyfriend’s dad, about Beethoven, and how difficult it must have been to hear the music in his head but not be able to actually experience it the way others did after he went deaf in his late 20s.

We then moved on to how many of the old composers were total nut jobs. I supplied the information that many composers had untreated syphilis, and they were all nutjobs because one of the later complications is going quite mad.

The Boyfriend’s dad said to me ” You know, apparently lots of women are carriers of that”.*

What made me reply with a cheery “I’m not, no need to worry about your son on that one, he won’t catch anything from me!”? I then tried to recover with “No, really, I’ve been tested!”

It was only when he started umming and ahhing that I realised that might have been an oversharing moment and decided not to carry on with the fact that it surely is HPV or something like that rather than syphilis that is rife in the community, and that I thought it was men who are unknowing carriers. I think I’d better cook them something else to distract them.

I Picked This One Well

Work has been somewhat stressful this past week. It was such a nice surprise to receive a text from The Boyfriend this morning: “Fancy dinner out this evening? My treat! Wherever you want to go, the choice is all yours xoxo”.

I replied immediately with just one word. “Maxim’s.”

I’m so glad he gets my humour. He worked out immediately I meant the famed restaurant in Paris, as he replied with “If you pay for the airfare!” Smart cookie, that one. Also, one of the few people who actually gets my jokes.

I’ve made some poor choices in my life. Not that I’d change anything – my mistakes have helped make me who I am. It’s just so nice to know that The Boyfriend is not one of those mistakes.

Cheesy

Ah, Mondays. Don’t you just love them. Mine was even worse given that I had to get up an extra hour early to salt my cheese. That sentence may make sense after the weekend tales are complete.

On Friday night I gathered a group of friends from The Local and off we went to watch our footy team’s last home game for the season. It was great, especially given that we won. On the way home, we stopped in at a bar. I was refused entry. “We can’t let you in ma’am, you are wearing a football jersey”. I might add, this was one of the seedier establishments in the area. I responded “We are in Parramatta, right?” The bouncer agreed. I continued. “Parra just won a home game, in this very suburb, right?” The bouncer agreed again. “And I am not allowed in because I have a Parramatta jersey on?” Yep, that’s right. I obviously looked oh so threatening, I’d have been frightened myself if there had been a mirror nearby.

Once Saturday morning rolled around, I said to The Boyfriend that I was taking him somewhere special. I should possibly have let him know that it would not involve me feeding him, as he got all his nice clothes on and thought we were going out to lunch. I wondered why he got all dressed up. The Boyfriend drove, so I gave just the address. No other clue – a street address. His response? “What, the homebrew shop?” Yes, folks, my boyfriend seems to know the address of the homebrew shop off by heart. I did buy him something special, of course – all the ingredients needed to make a tasty Stella Artois style beer. And let me tell you – hops smell nasty. Very, very nasty. While at the homebrew shop, I bought myself a cheesemaking kit – just a small one that makes brie/camembert style cheese. I started the culture on our return home on Saturday and I’ve been making the bloody stuff ever since. We watched footy at The Local yesterday afternoon – well everyone else did, I was running home every hour to turn the cheese over. Anyway, I have a new appreciation for why nice cheese costs so much. This stuff had better taste good. Little Miss Muffet curds pictured below.

On Saturday night, after deciding to have an early night with a DVD, The Boyfriend arrived in the bedroom with this nice little tray of pickles, cheese, and milk before bed. OK, Kahlua and milk, but close enough. I think I’ll keep him.

I sure hope my cheese turns out as nice.

Boys are Dumb

I returned from the wilds of South Australia last night after a weekend with The Boyfriend and his sister and brother in law. The trip was to go to an AFL game – The Boyfriend follows one team and his sister and her family the other team that were  playing. They farmed off their kids to different sleepovers and the adults all went out and drank beer and shouted like yahoos at the footy. It was mostly fun.

It occurred to me that The Boyfriend is an idiot when we had been there for only a few hours. Sure, we were both suffering from lack of sleep having had to get up at 4 (IN THE MORNING! YES! IT HURT!) to catch our flight down to Adelhole Adelaide. Not sure that is enough reason for this particular sterling effort. The Boyfriend’s dad had driven us to the airport. He’s not getting any younger and seemed to struggle a little. I commented quietly afterwards that The Boyfriend should have a chat to his sister privately about the fact that their dad is getting on, and getting distracted a little when driving. Which of course is why he announced to all and sundry “12 thinks that dad’s driving’s getting dangerous”. Oh good work. He really improved the situation later, after I’d told him that was not quite what I had in mind by him having a private chat with his sister about it, when he said to her “You know, 12 didn’t really say that about dad, it was me”.

There’s this vibe I get that she is not a huge fan of me. That vibe? It’s getting stronger.

Outlaws

They Boyfriend and I spend a fair amount of time with his parents. We have dinner with them several nights a week. (Boyfriend’s mum does all my washing and ironing, bless her cotton socks. How could I not repay that by cooking a few meals here and there!)

This week Boyfriend’s sister has been visiting. I am getting this awkward feeling. Let me try to describe why – here’s a few conversations from the past few days:

Boyfriend’s sister: Mum, do you have a large frypan I can do toasted sandwiches in?

Boyfriend’s Mum: No, but 12 has a really good one, you’ll have to ask her if she can use it.

Hmm. Could be worse. But it keeps going.

Boyfriend’s sister: I need a knife, where are the sharp ones?

Boyfriend’s Mum: Oh, 12 bought me a lovely knife block, you can use those.

OK , I started feeling VERY intrusive by now.

Boyfriend’s sister: Where are the placemats?

Boyfriend’s Mum: Just ask 12, she’ll show you where everything is.

AAAHHHH!