Monthly Archives: August 2021

Seriousimo is loving lockdown time with his hairy boyfriends. Conditions are perfect for romance and co-dependency to flourish.

La is feeling slightly squeezed out, even in a Super King bed.

Flashback to 12 years ago: “Yes, we can get a dog, but it’s going to be an outside dog!” Hmmm.

This is me, these days, with slightly less kohl liner:

Meanwhile, things are no closer to a detente in the Glebe Theatre of Watermelon War. Guerilla tactics are being employed.

Some desperate loin fruit has hidden their juicy pink stash behind the leaf on top of the bar cabinet so the other loin fruit can’t gobble it. Jesus wept.

It was at this point La reached for a Negroni.

Meanwhile, La’ve been drinking the Kool Aid from Instagram chefs and buying up expendo produce to cook. This is a poulet de Bresse, the “King of Chickens”. Good on him, I’m really happy for him. But you frigging try cooking him if you’re not Neil Perry. He wouldn’t lie down, I couldn’t bend him into a workable shape and all my attempts to truss him kept failing. Much like motherhood really.

Plus his purply feet stumps were freaking me out.

He just sat there upright with all his French insouciance, staring at me without his head, goading. “Poutain, Sheila, come at me! Give it votre best! On y va!” It was a $70 failure.

Meanwhile some of our chief health officers are looking how I feel. Bloody over it. When will this godforsaken Locky D ever end? In time for La to be a grandmother? When Seriousimo and I are sobbing into the ashes of our 44th covid puppy?

Needless to say, didn’t win this. Even had a spreadsheet going. Was going to start a charitable trust with more than half of it. Why do bogans always win Lotto? Why do the gods give massive winnings to people with no taste who just want to buy more Commodores?!?

And srsly, all those studies that conclude people who win Lotto end up no happier after ten years? Are they frickin’ for real? Hard copies of studies like that should be used to plug gaps in the next bog roll crisis.

Last night in a menopausal state of almost-sleep I half-dreamt of better versions of Seriousimo and me, living the lives of better people. Our names were Jesmond and Lualia, and we ate bucketsful of leafy greens and knew exactly how to truss and roast fancy chickens (though we were cutting down on methane-emitting foods). We started each day with a joint-softening combo of Tai-Chi and hot yoga, and we constantly self-reflected and held hands as we resolved differences of opinion.

Then I woke up to a hairy brown butt in my face, and it wasn’t his.

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In lockdown? Having fun yet? Jesus, this is so fckng tedious I might go and expose myself to an airborne particle at a south-western Sydney Bunnings just to see what happens. You know, shake things up.

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Palazzo Trivialista resembles a war zone. Hacked-at melon carcasses bleed on benchtops, collateral damage in a series of battles between sugar-crazed, screen-mad, incarcerated teenage loin fruits. Rosy fruit is dismissed as “mank” by a sneering 13-year-old. “WHERE’S ALL THE FOOD?” he bellows. In the fckng shop: walk there, you puberty-ravaged streak of anger. Off ya go.

Meanwhile. La goes out to hunt for sushi and melons shod like this and has to dig very, very deep to actually give anything vaguely resembling even the merest of shits. Zooming would reveal scaly croc legs and hairs that have stopped growing, one happy by-product of The (Meno)Paws.

Other hunting and gathering missions include those for sticks to kindle the flames of the palazzo’s 73 fireplaces. Well, three. Gets me out of the house — and, look, they work!

It’s a sticky business, and but it’s necessary in order to burn our way through…

…this, eight bloody trillion logs, every single one of which is actually too big for the fireplaces. A lesson for the Zooming maths kiddies: learn your cubic measures! Triv didn’t, and when the man from Dural said, “Two square metres darl?”, I said “Sure!”, crossing digits it would be enough to get us through the brutal locked-down winter. Holy smokers, there’s so much of it I won’t ever see the front of my house again.

What’s also passing the time is the usual raging against predictive text on the iPhone, like a bonkers old lady losing it. (Next will be wailing about how hard things are to open. Bloody packaging!)

Memo to Apple dudes: pull up ya dacks, put down ya cold drip filter java, then twiddle the knobs so “female” doesn’t come out as “Denzil”, “what” never appears as “Etsy” and “with” is never again “Ruth”. And frankly just delete “duck” altogether, except for users in France. It’s never what we mean.

Any opportunity to escape reality is welcomed. Have formed an unhealthy obsession with googling pictures of Liz and Damian Hurley. How creepy is this resemblance?!? Even the brows match.

What a sanity saver the Lympics have been. From Arnie to Emma, to Rohan Browning to The Bolinator, to Logan the Bogan to Roy and HG hating on the Socceroos and Team GB, it’s been like blue sky viewed from the bottom of a boggy well. What about darling little Tom Daley knitting poolside while his cute little biceps were Glad Wrapped? Bless. Might need to copy this Olympian tactic to trim the bingo wings for public consumption if this farkin lockdown ever ends.

Speaking of bingo wings, two jabs are in them and that’s a good feeling, non?

While Triv’s normally hostile to bandwagon jumpers and pale imitators, la reaction to this was largely benign, even favourable. It’s Trav, Triv’s alter ego who can actually leave the house, the city, the state, the country, and live a rich life in places other than the Glebe Theatre of Watermelon War.

Trav says, weary pilgrims: burn bright! Kindle the dream and keep the flame alive! One day you too shall be free to glow outside the walls of your home!

In the meantime, there’s eight trillion logs to keep you warm.

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