Well fuck me swinging.
Here we go again. Barely stuck a toe outside of the front door and… BAM! Locked down again. Fuck. Now, I get why we’re doing it – the snappy lockdowns, and I totally get why it was 8pm last night not midnight (definitely wasn’t planning a sneaky last supper up the pub with Reg. Instant 50% discount when both your kids work). But woe is fucking me, alright. Yesterday afternoon was spent maniacally refreshing the news websites to find out will they, won’t they? Mayhem comes home from school, back pack full up to the brim. He’s pretty sure we’re going down again, and he was going to be almightily pissed off if he had to lug all his shite back to school this morning.
Will they, won’t they?
They’re fucking going to, aren’t they?
How’s the toilet paper? Yeah good, thanks.
It’s only four cases?
They’re all fucking randos aren’t they? Free range spreadybois? (totally stole spreadybois from someone else. Is good. I like it). Yeah. Free range.
We’re going down.
The fucking microwave shit the tin on Wednesday morning.
Can we live without a microwave for a week? Dunno. It’s only been two days and it’s a bit of a pain in the arse. Having to wash a fucking saucepan every time you want to reheat something. I only have three saucepans. I suppose I could buy another saucepan? Need a fucking saucepan shop. And need one that suits induction. Fucking microwave is cheaper. And where would I even put the bastard? In the microwave hole, obviously.
Time to panic buy a fucking microwave oven.
What about a combination microwave toastie oven air fryer? Do they make them? That would be fucking awesome (and think of the bench space we’d get back). Yeah, they do make them but $700? Yeah, nah. All this while bundling Mayhem into the car, driving him to work (he’s “essential services” apparently. As is Chaos.) and frantically consulting Professor Google as to the location and opening hours of a microwave shop. I am a researcher. I like to research things. I don’t like the spontaneous microwave shopping. Okay, we can have that one or that one. NO, not that one. It’s got the dumbarse 10 minute button and that’s bad. Remember? Oh yeah… what about… whips tape measure out of miniscule reticule… nope. Too wide. This one? Out of stock. Fuck me, it’s a goddamn microwave oven not a bloody space shuttle. Picked one. Left. Went home. Installed it. Cooked soup. In a fucking saucepan on the stove. Because. I don’t even know, okay.
(Now, I know you want to know why a ten minute button is a bad thing… Well, I am the stumpiest member of my household at 5’10’ tall. The middle two are 6’1 and the tallest is a gargantuan 6’4. The microwave is a below the bench effort. Randomly poking things rather than bending to look at what you’re pressing results in bread defrosting for 20 minutes rather than 20 seconds. It catches fire. This is not actually a good thing.)
Realistically it’s not all that bad. If the ring was 10km, I’d be all eh, whatevs. And I wouldn’t be all cringe-y guilty when I go pick up Mayhem. But I only think I need more art supplies (actually don’t. Because erm. Going to the dentist like a grown up and dropping nearly $2k on a tooth means a trip to the art supplier and procurement of a “decent” sap green, and a nice bloody purple. And a proper cadmium red because cadmium red light is sort of orange-y rather than red. As one does.)
And I have a hell of a lot of respect for Dan Andrews. Fronting up to the pack of recalcitrant toddlers also known as ‘journalists’ in Victoria and answering the same fucking question over and over and over again, without throwing a banana at them and telling the whole lot of them to fuck right off. Arse of a job. I met the bloke once a long time ago. Struck me as a decent chap, to be honest. Although he needs to stand up straighter.
So, this lockdown coupled with the last one and no visitors and shit means my cleaning fairy hasn’t been able to work her magic for quite some time. The entire joint can best be described as a bit trashed. Slightly fucked. Snow drifts of dog hair in the passage (okay, that happens daily. Ahem. Bloody doggo). Honestly couldn’t be telling you the last time the floors got mopped. No excuses, no places to go… It’s time for the Great UNFUCKENING.
Something to look forward to, I guess?