“There were four of us in this marriage”

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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