I finally met the new neighbours. I was shaking a blanket over my back balcony and I noticed the wife multitasking by pushing a huge hand grass cutter over the lawn whilst smoking a cigarette. I couldn't resist and after catching her eye waved and introduced myself. She introduced herself back and I motioned that I would come to the fence for a chat. They are a young couple in their late 20's (yes smoking does age you - I thought she was mid 30's). They had lived in the groovy part of a suburb not far away but needed the space for their twin girls. She was softly spoken and intelligent thankfully, apart from the beer/fagging bit. She retold me how they had had trouble with Achmed the day they moved, in regards to settlement and how one of the twins was asthmatic and needed hospitalisation which explained the weird comings and goings the last weeks. She couldn't resist to name drop to me and that she new Achmeds pop star daughter indirectly, but it was water off a ducks back as I had been watching the daughters private life for a year now.
I asked her how she found the house and the unusual choice of mediteranean/arabic colours that Achmed had so proudly bragged about, including the black marble and gold bathroom, avocado and bright blue interior and aqua blue tiled roof to match the peach and blue exterior. He had also ripped out any old style embelishment he could find, including any interior walls so that all three bedrooms and the bathroom led off the main room. The house was in bad need of a paint on the outside and the wood was starting to rot in places. My partner had called it a bulldozer job. She replied that she was going to change all of that, but couldn't bring herself to rip out the bathroom as it was new. She then told me that her father was a heritage architect and she loved heritage houses and was going to renovate in that style. Her face dropped when I told her the houses were not heritage but post heritage. But I couldn't believe it. It was going to take years and cost them a fortune to put back all that Achmed had removed. It kind of added to the wakiness a bit of the conversation especially when she added that she wanted to put in an organic vegetable garden, unknowingly where Achmed had burned off the rest of his sunglasses one afternoon in a haze of toxic smoke. Suddenly I knew that they were fashion victims living in a fantasy land. Especially when she told me her husband was a German named Lars and he was in marketing. At that point Lars came down the stairs, introduced himself then dragged his wife away to feed the children. And I can forgive him for that because up close he is exceptionally good looking. But I think he knew it as well and probably was a bit of a charmer. And then to top it off yesterday he stood outside my office window blabbing in German to his daughter for ages, deliberately I am sure because he knew I was tapping away, to show the multiculturalism of his family.
Then on Sunday evening a set of cheap IKEA pristine clean perfectly see through blinds appeared on their windows. I don't have the heart to tell them I can now see everything they do more than before when they have the light on inside. And out in the front yard of their pseudo heritage bungalow dumped in a pile for all to see are Achmeds old purple verticals and their 3 wheely bins.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
A man's man
Today my partner cut down a dead tree in my neighbors front yard. This was because a few weeks ago a huge gust of blew a branch sideways onto the footpath narrowly missing a lady as she walked her two dogs. We met with the neighbour, the one that works for the tax office, and agreed it needed to go. So I set my partner to action.
After donning his heavy cotton drill work clothes, he announced he was off to Mitre 10, and took off in the Prado. He rolled up his sleeves and topped up the Stihl chainsaw with petrol then using ropes and ladders fired her up. It screamed as it spewed forth a choking blue haze and chomped branch after branch from the trunk. A chainsaw in these parts is a rare occurrence, since council has passed new laws against felling trees. The new neighbors came rushing to see what the noise was about as well as the Cypriot lady over the road whom I spied behind a white colonnade.
To my partner though, who is a tradesman, this kind of thing is all in a days work and part of what he believes is being a man. Having grown up in the sprawling suburbs of "the shire" as they like to call it, big toys such as mowers, chainsaws, trail bikes and boats were part of everyday life. But to delicate, white, environmentally conscious city folk who live within arms length of each other kitchens, this is pollution of every kind. Since moving closer to the city he looks at the locals tripping down King St, or milling about Leichardt Market Town as "office fucks". Give him a kebab and a beer followed by a fart anytime.
With heavy gloved hands he cracked the larger branches over his knee then cut the log into smaller pieces and stacked them neatly in a pile for our neighbour to dispose of. No mess, no fuss! "I think I'm ready for a beer now" he said wiping the sweat from his brow and strolling toward the fridge in the garage.
But it's not just tree felling that makes him a man. It's his love of heavy farm machinery and equipment as well. When I met him he owned a few hundred acres in the country with his brother. It was a boys paradise of sheds, tractors and bikes. For 25 years they took every opportunity to visit and between them had built a small wooden hut complete with outdoor shower. An outhouse sat on the top of the hill, providing an excellent view of the rolling landscape if you left the door open. We would escape for romantic getaways and I watched on as he demonstrated how all the different tractors and bikes worked. Having come from a creative background myself and with a father who was musician more than mechanic, I was so impressed I cooked him up a feast of baked lamb and apple pie on the fuel Agar.
Then there are the cars. Recently he purchased a Toyota Prado which came without any accessories then proceeded to tell me how a man can be measured by the kind of vehicle he owns. A top of the line diesel Prado comes with all the trimmings of tyre cover, roof racks, bull bar and snorkel. So far he has the tyre cover and roof racks so he is not quiet there yet. I asked him what sort of man the new neighbour was because they had a land rover. "No, that's a trendy heap of shit", he replied.
And the there is the dirt bikes. Another weekend we went to a friends farm where my partner and his friends screamed around the property on their dirt bikes demonstrating wheelies, jumps and doughnuts each time they passed me. It was the ultimate male ego booster and I gave the appropriate oohs, squeals and claps as they flew past.
But the blokiest is when he has been hanging around his bike mates a bit too much and suddenly I am called "mate" and the swearing barometer rises. And then there are the usual things that don't interest him as a man - the colour of the new sofa that we have ordered. "As long as I can put up my feet to watch the footy I don't care", he says. Then there is the pilled trackys and fleecy pullovers he wears to the shops "I'm dressing comfortably", he retorts. And when I ask him his opinion of my new shorts "yeah, I can see the shape of your bum in them".
But he refuses to watch RSPCA Animal Rescue. It brings tears to his eyes to see the poor animals in pain. And he is fastidious about the washing up, dust in the house and a good coffee. And he has this thing about dolls and monkeys. Can't stand them. But to me in my eyes he will always be a man's man.
After donning his heavy cotton drill work clothes, he announced he was off to Mitre 10, and took off in the Prado. He rolled up his sleeves and topped up the Stihl chainsaw with petrol then using ropes and ladders fired her up. It screamed as it spewed forth a choking blue haze and chomped branch after branch from the trunk. A chainsaw in these parts is a rare occurrence, since council has passed new laws against felling trees. The new neighbors came rushing to see what the noise was about as well as the Cypriot lady over the road whom I spied behind a white colonnade.
To my partner though, who is a tradesman, this kind of thing is all in a days work and part of what he believes is being a man. Having grown up in the sprawling suburbs of "the shire" as they like to call it, big toys such as mowers, chainsaws, trail bikes and boats were part of everyday life. But to delicate, white, environmentally conscious city folk who live within arms length of each other kitchens, this is pollution of every kind. Since moving closer to the city he looks at the locals tripping down King St, or milling about Leichardt Market Town as "office fucks". Give him a kebab and a beer followed by a fart anytime.
With heavy gloved hands he cracked the larger branches over his knee then cut the log into smaller pieces and stacked them neatly in a pile for our neighbour to dispose of. No mess, no fuss! "I think I'm ready for a beer now" he said wiping the sweat from his brow and strolling toward the fridge in the garage.
But it's not just tree felling that makes him a man. It's his love of heavy farm machinery and equipment as well. When I met him he owned a few hundred acres in the country with his brother. It was a boys paradise of sheds, tractors and bikes. For 25 years they took every opportunity to visit and between them had built a small wooden hut complete with outdoor shower. An outhouse sat on the top of the hill, providing an excellent view of the rolling landscape if you left the door open. We would escape for romantic getaways and I watched on as he demonstrated how all the different tractors and bikes worked. Having come from a creative background myself and with a father who was musician more than mechanic, I was so impressed I cooked him up a feast of baked lamb and apple pie on the fuel Agar.
Then there are the cars. Recently he purchased a Toyota Prado which came without any accessories then proceeded to tell me how a man can be measured by the kind of vehicle he owns. A top of the line diesel Prado comes with all the trimmings of tyre cover, roof racks, bull bar and snorkel. So far he has the tyre cover and roof racks so he is not quiet there yet. I asked him what sort of man the new neighbour was because they had a land rover. "No, that's a trendy heap of shit", he replied.
And the there is the dirt bikes. Another weekend we went to a friends farm where my partner and his friends screamed around the property on their dirt bikes demonstrating wheelies, jumps and doughnuts each time they passed me. It was the ultimate male ego booster and I gave the appropriate oohs, squeals and claps as they flew past.
But the blokiest is when he has been hanging around his bike mates a bit too much and suddenly I am called "mate" and the swearing barometer rises. And then there are the usual things that don't interest him as a man - the colour of the new sofa that we have ordered. "As long as I can put up my feet to watch the footy I don't care", he says. Then there is the pilled trackys and fleecy pullovers he wears to the shops "I'm dressing comfortably", he retorts. And when I ask him his opinion of my new shorts "yeah, I can see the shape of your bum in them".
But he refuses to watch RSPCA Animal Rescue. It brings tears to his eyes to see the poor animals in pain. And he is fastidious about the washing up, dust in the house and a good coffee. And he has this thing about dolls and monkeys. Can't stand them. But to me in my eyes he will always be a man's man.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
The new weird neighbours again plus other bits
This morning whilst doing my morning stretches in my sunny office I spotted the new neighbour leave the house in his PJ's and move the bins from the street to inside their front yard and directly outside my office window. Can't he just do what everyone else does and put them down the side of the house. But this is proof that he is living there. I don't see him much and it is all still a mystery. But I got to see him up real close (my windows are hard to see into so it's great for checking out the street). As I mentioned earlier he is a rather good looking fellow with a kind face. So what is he doing with Mrs Weirdness fagger, boozer? Not knowing this vital piece of information is driving me crazy. I must take some affirmative action this weekend in an attempt to meet them. We are cutting our other neighbours tree down in the front yard so it could be a good opportunity.
Our other neighbour is really great. She is an extremely unattractive gay woman who is a manager in the Tax Office. Poor thing. Doesn't seem to have much going for her, but she has a big old house and garden and keeps to herself, which is fine by me. She is concerned though about the nationalities of the people in the street. When we first met her she went to lengths to point out where all the aussies lived. I got the impression she didn't like the previous neighbour where the Weird family now live. I'll call him Achmed for privacy purposes.
Achmed was originally from Beirut but owned a small sunglasses business in Sydney. He was a bald, chubby man in his mid 50's with a big mole on the back of his neck. One day his doctor told him he had to lose weight, and went on a fitness kick that lasted a week. He would dress in bright red 80's scoopy shorty shorts and white tennis shoes and run up and down the street, breathing loud as he went to attract the attention of the other neighbors to his scoopy shorts and possibly in the false belief that this was burning even more calories. He would sit out the front of his yard smoking his hubbly bubbly bong of roasted sweet sherry tobacco, creating a wafting trail down the street. He would also sing Lebanese songs as he tended his prized roses in the front yard, sometimes dressed only in a singlet tucked into his big white undies. Often he would brag about the daughter from his first marriage who was a pop star a few years earlier and was marrying a well know radio personality. Sometimes she would come over with her sister, and together they would smoke the hubbly bubbly out the front as well. On these days the waft was thick and I used to have to shut all the windows and doors. Sometimes the radio personality would come to although I never saw him smoke the bong. He would hide under a black cap, his back to the street, but there was no mistaking the big expensive black 4WD when it pulled up. It was so absolutely tantalising I was always keeping an eye on proceedings to ensure I didn't miss one bit.
One day Achmend built an extremely illegal bread oven in the backyard and every few weeks he would lite a fire and cook flat bread for his lunch. The smoke would pour into my yard and swirl around my clothes on the line. I used to get annoyed but knew it was easier to stay friends with him, especially when his new wife would come over with huge plates of succulent roasted meat and home made tabbouleh and biscuits after one of his big charcoal BBQ's. He usually held these in his front yard and my partner would smell the roasting meat over the fence then look sadly at the healthy chicken and steamed veges I would put in front of him. Sometimes Achmend would hand huge ripe tomatoes and cucumbers grown in his abundant garden over the fence, and snort a little at our sad droopy looking tomato plants in the corner.
His new wife was a beautiful young Lebanese girl who spoke little English. The story was that when he first moved into the area he began sexual relations with the Belgian woman living on the other side of him. When that soured he took off to Beirut to get himself a beautiful new bride half his age. The Belgian woman then put up a big colour bond fence between the properties so she wouldn't have to see him and his new bride. She then claimed his lemon tree in the back yard was encroaching on her space over the sagging wooden fence and chopped it right back. This started a verbal war and occasionally when I was chatting to him in the front yard he would begin a tirade of expletives about "the bitch next door". Even the day he left he stood in the middle of the street and said "we are sorry not to see you anymore, but her", pointing to the Belgian woman's front yard and screaming, "she is a bitch. Nobody in this street likes her, nobody", sweeping his arms up and down the road.
It actually took Achmed days to move. And he wasn't particularly tidy either. There was mess of dumped household goods in his front yard and along the median strip for days which passing cars and other neighbours would poke through. I even saw the Cypriot lady across the road shoot across early one morning in her PJ's and grab two plastic garden chairs then lumber back to her yard with them, quickly forcing them through the white lacy ironwork gate. Eventually an industrial waste bin appeared and he filled it to the brim with the remnants of his life. I couldn't resist and had a peak at anything I could sell on eBay. Amongst the stuff was a dumped framed picture of his daughter in her pop star days and a few of her music CD's. Nobody wanted these.
But the best part of the haul was the old sunglasses. Thousands of them new and still in boxes were dumped in their thousands. I grabbed as many as I could and donated them to the local charity for homeless people. I now keep my eye out for any vagrants wandering the area in Achmeds cool sunnies. The local schoolkids also found them and the word must have got around the school, because each afternoon more boys would appear at the bin, crawling over like rats squealing and fighting over them. There were so many kids one afternoon that eventually one chubby boy decided order was needed and yelled "they are $1.50 each" in trying to stop the hangers on that had appeared and possibly making a profit in the process.
When it was time for the new neighbours to move in, the bin was still there and a fight broke out between them, the real estate agent and Achmed. I couldn't understand everything from my front sun room spy centre, but I did overhear that the new neighbours had moved in a day early when the bin should have been gone. 3 days later a big truck removed the bin and all that was left was a squashed set of broken wraparounds.
Our other neighbour is really great. She is an extremely unattractive gay woman who is a manager in the Tax Office. Poor thing. Doesn't seem to have much going for her, but she has a big old house and garden and keeps to herself, which is fine by me. She is concerned though about the nationalities of the people in the street. When we first met her she went to lengths to point out where all the aussies lived. I got the impression she didn't like the previous neighbour where the Weird family now live. I'll call him Achmed for privacy purposes.
Achmed was originally from Beirut but owned a small sunglasses business in Sydney. He was a bald, chubby man in his mid 50's with a big mole on the back of his neck. One day his doctor told him he had to lose weight, and went on a fitness kick that lasted a week. He would dress in bright red 80's scoopy shorty shorts and white tennis shoes and run up and down the street, breathing loud as he went to attract the attention of the other neighbors to his scoopy shorts and possibly in the false belief that this was burning even more calories. He would sit out the front of his yard smoking his hubbly bubbly bong of roasted sweet sherry tobacco, creating a wafting trail down the street. He would also sing Lebanese songs as he tended his prized roses in the front yard, sometimes dressed only in a singlet tucked into his big white undies. Often he would brag about the daughter from his first marriage who was a pop star a few years earlier and was marrying a well know radio personality. Sometimes she would come over with her sister, and together they would smoke the hubbly bubbly out the front as well. On these days the waft was thick and I used to have to shut all the windows and doors. Sometimes the radio personality would come to although I never saw him smoke the bong. He would hide under a black cap, his back to the street, but there was no mistaking the big expensive black 4WD when it pulled up. It was so absolutely tantalising I was always keeping an eye on proceedings to ensure I didn't miss one bit.
One day Achmend built an extremely illegal bread oven in the backyard and every few weeks he would lite a fire and cook flat bread for his lunch. The smoke would pour into my yard and swirl around my clothes on the line. I used to get annoyed but knew it was easier to stay friends with him, especially when his new wife would come over with huge plates of succulent roasted meat and home made tabbouleh and biscuits after one of his big charcoal BBQ's. He usually held these in his front yard and my partner would smell the roasting meat over the fence then look sadly at the healthy chicken and steamed veges I would put in front of him. Sometimes Achmend would hand huge ripe tomatoes and cucumbers grown in his abundant garden over the fence, and snort a little at our sad droopy looking tomato plants in the corner.
His new wife was a beautiful young Lebanese girl who spoke little English. The story was that when he first moved into the area he began sexual relations with the Belgian woman living on the other side of him. When that soured he took off to Beirut to get himself a beautiful new bride half his age. The Belgian woman then put up a big colour bond fence between the properties so she wouldn't have to see him and his new bride. She then claimed his lemon tree in the back yard was encroaching on her space over the sagging wooden fence and chopped it right back. This started a verbal war and occasionally when I was chatting to him in the front yard he would begin a tirade of expletives about "the bitch next door". Even the day he left he stood in the middle of the street and said "we are sorry not to see you anymore, but her", pointing to the Belgian woman's front yard and screaming, "she is a bitch. Nobody in this street likes her, nobody", sweeping his arms up and down the road.
It actually took Achmed days to move. And he wasn't particularly tidy either. There was mess of dumped household goods in his front yard and along the median strip for days which passing cars and other neighbours would poke through. I even saw the Cypriot lady across the road shoot across early one morning in her PJ's and grab two plastic garden chairs then lumber back to her yard with them, quickly forcing them through the white lacy ironwork gate. Eventually an industrial waste bin appeared and he filled it to the brim with the remnants of his life. I couldn't resist and had a peak at anything I could sell on eBay. Amongst the stuff was a dumped framed picture of his daughter in her pop star days and a few of her music CD's. Nobody wanted these.
But the best part of the haul was the old sunglasses. Thousands of them new and still in boxes were dumped in their thousands. I grabbed as many as I could and donated them to the local charity for homeless people. I now keep my eye out for any vagrants wandering the area in Achmeds cool sunnies. The local schoolkids also found them and the word must have got around the school, because each afternoon more boys would appear at the bin, crawling over like rats squealing and fighting over them. There were so many kids one afternoon that eventually one chubby boy decided order was needed and yelled "they are $1.50 each" in trying to stop the hangers on that had appeared and possibly making a profit in the process.
When it was time for the new neighbours to move in, the bin was still there and a fight broke out between them, the real estate agent and Achmed. I couldn't understand everything from my front sun room spy centre, but I did overhear that the new neighbours had moved in a day early when the bin should have been gone. 3 days later a big truck removed the bin and all that was left was a squashed set of broken wraparounds.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Things I Live In Fear Of
Today I awoke in a great mood until I remembered what is happening this same day in a weeks time. The dreaded annual appointment to the boob doctor. I can't stand appointments of any kind being hairdresser, dentist, or gynaecologist. I am really impatient and fiddle, twitch and sweat until it's all over. I place the appointments in my calendar and try not to look at them till the last minute. Then I live in fear dreading the moment when I have to get into the car. I never go alone. I would never get there. So I always take my partner and he sits there embarrassed in front of the other ladies and their mammeries. It's the same with the gynaecologist. In the waiting room he looks all over the room except at the other ladies, pretending to be interested in the flyer's on the wall with pictures of happy people that contain information on herpes and erectile problems. When my appointment is called he sits politely, his hands in his lap, whilst I discuss all manner of girly, hormonal and period stuff. The female doctors think it's healthy to see a man attending the appointment with his partner and during one pap smear he was invited to have a look inside. In fact everyone including the student doctor was having a look and a discussion about my now not so private bits. And then there was the time we went together to the dentist for a double appointment. He was placed in the room beside mine which had an adjoining windowed door and at the crucial point when the dentist said "hmm you have a little cavity" my man chose to get up from his chair, bibby and all and make faces at me through the window like a naughty school boy making me laugh. But I haven't been to the dentist in a while now, telling myself my teeth are fine and brushing them twice sometimes three times a day.
The other thing that I have on my list to do is "you know what". "You know what" refers to the skin cancer doctor that comes to our local clinic every 2 weeks, and checks everyone for melanoma then burns them off with his trusty canister "just in case". In the past I have ended up with red burns on my arms and face for days. I keep being busy on those days - still am.
With haircuts I like to get in and get out as quick as possible. In my past full-time working life I would sit and wait for an hour on a Thursday night in some groovy salon in the QVB to get my tresses done. Then it was a further 2 hours in the chair of washing, painting, rinsing, cutting and drying amid the noise of hairdryers and women yelling over them. Sometimes I would leave the salon as they were rolling down their big doors for the night. That's why Just Cuts is great. I walk straight in to a chair and 15 minutes later I walk out with my cut.
But back to the boob doctor. He looks like a science professor with an edge, complete with spotted jaunty bow tie and round spectacles. He gets me into his office and in a posh voice asks me the same questions every year before sending me into his little side room to de-bra whilst he talks into a hand held tape recorder in a serious tone. In the side room is a bed and TV monitor, which he uses to see inside my breasts and checkout the cysts. I am full of cysts. That's what happens when you don't have kids. Your breasts look great and firm, only because the cysts keep them afloat. After this you are sent off for a mammogram where they squash your boobs between two bits of plastic, pray they don't pop out and quickly take an xray. Then finally you go to another room which is dark and you lay down and they draw all the inside of your boobs on a computer screen, measuring the size of each cyst. The woman in this room is usually chatty and stops at regular intervals to tell you about her sons misadventures when I just want to yell at her "shut up and get back to work" so I can get out of there and nurse my poor aching boobs. The whole thing takes 3 hours and costs me $450.00.
But what price is peace of mind.
The other thing that I have on my list to do is "you know what". "You know what" refers to the skin cancer doctor that comes to our local clinic every 2 weeks, and checks everyone for melanoma then burns them off with his trusty canister "just in case". In the past I have ended up with red burns on my arms and face for days. I keep being busy on those days - still am.
With haircuts I like to get in and get out as quick as possible. In my past full-time working life I would sit and wait for an hour on a Thursday night in some groovy salon in the QVB to get my tresses done. Then it was a further 2 hours in the chair of washing, painting, rinsing, cutting and drying amid the noise of hairdryers and women yelling over them. Sometimes I would leave the salon as they were rolling down their big doors for the night. That's why Just Cuts is great. I walk straight in to a chair and 15 minutes later I walk out with my cut.
But back to the boob doctor. He looks like a science professor with an edge, complete with spotted jaunty bow tie and round spectacles. He gets me into his office and in a posh voice asks me the same questions every year before sending me into his little side room to de-bra whilst he talks into a hand held tape recorder in a serious tone. In the side room is a bed and TV monitor, which he uses to see inside my breasts and checkout the cysts. I am full of cysts. That's what happens when you don't have kids. Your breasts look great and firm, only because the cysts keep them afloat. After this you are sent off for a mammogram where they squash your boobs between two bits of plastic, pray they don't pop out and quickly take an xray. Then finally you go to another room which is dark and you lay down and they draw all the inside of your boobs on a computer screen, measuring the size of each cyst. The woman in this room is usually chatty and stops at regular intervals to tell you about her sons misadventures when I just want to yell at her "shut up and get back to work" so I can get out of there and nurse my poor aching boobs. The whole thing takes 3 hours and costs me $450.00.
But what price is peace of mind.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The new weird neighbours
From my front office window I get to see all the street action and the new neighbour has just arrived back home. The thing is that when they moved in 2 weeks ago I was all ready to meet and greet and become real buddies. But the opportunity for this never happened. In fact it looked like they were avoiding us and we were avoiding them, but it was all just coincidence. Now it has just become plain weird! My attempts to meet the wife have been thwarted as every time she hears the click of my wire door opening she scuttles away. I have waved to the mother in law over the fence, a bit like waving the white flag, and she did wave back, but then that was all. It also doesn't help that their main living room window looks directly into our kitchen and that their TV is in front of that window so it looks like they are looking me when I am doing the washing up. Already we are on intimate terms and I still haven't even met them. The previous owners used to keep the blinds shut on that side and it was never a problem. And if we did see each other we would wave and laugh.
From what I can tell they are a couple in their early 30's with twins. The twins are cute blond moppets and the husband is a real hottie. She, however, looks like she enjoys a good meal. But the strange thing is that when they moved the husband did everything. And I mean everything. I saw him running, literally, from car to house with boxes all on his own. In a way I felt sorry for him. Where were their friends or relatives? It took him days. Then finally I saw her walk from the car into the house and that was it for a week! Then there is the mother in law. I think she lives with them part of the time. I see her doing the washing and hanging out the clothes, but never smiling. Weird. But what I don't understand is that the wife seems to be either lounging in the backyard fagging or drinking beer and playing card games on the computer or out on errands. When I moved it took me months to get the house in order. I can see into the children's rooms and there are still boxes that she could be unpacking. But what is bugging me is that she left her bins right outside my office window and all she had to do was move them down the side of the house, but she was too interested in fagging and card games. There is also another woman that comes on a regular basis to the house. I think she is the sister, but really how much support does she need? Also they have two cars and sometimes there is only one there all night. Someone in the house is staying away for the night a lot. I also saw the husband getting out of one of the cars with an overnight bag.
I can only speculate on what they are like and here is my list of possibilities:
The husband travels for work
They are on the verge of a separation
She has a personality disorder that requires more help than required
She is a lush and gets the family to help when she can
She has a business and needs the help (I think she works Wednesdays away from the house)
The husband tries to stay away from her because of the personality disorder
The mother in law is interfering (hence the husband stays away)
She knows that I am nosy and is keeping me in suspense
Luckily I am diligent in my observations. I will report further on my findings and keep you posted on any new changes.
From what I can tell they are a couple in their early 30's with twins. The twins are cute blond moppets and the husband is a real hottie. She, however, looks like she enjoys a good meal. But the strange thing is that when they moved the husband did everything. And I mean everything. I saw him running, literally, from car to house with boxes all on his own. In a way I felt sorry for him. Where were their friends or relatives? It took him days. Then finally I saw her walk from the car into the house and that was it for a week! Then there is the mother in law. I think she lives with them part of the time. I see her doing the washing and hanging out the clothes, but never smiling. Weird. But what I don't understand is that the wife seems to be either lounging in the backyard fagging or drinking beer and playing card games on the computer or out on errands. When I moved it took me months to get the house in order. I can see into the children's rooms and there are still boxes that she could be unpacking. But what is bugging me is that she left her bins right outside my office window and all she had to do was move them down the side of the house, but she was too interested in fagging and card games. There is also another woman that comes on a regular basis to the house. I think she is the sister, but really how much support does she need? Also they have two cars and sometimes there is only one there all night. Someone in the house is staying away for the night a lot. I also saw the husband getting out of one of the cars with an overnight bag.
I can only speculate on what they are like and here is my list of possibilities:
The husband travels for work
They are on the verge of a separation
She has a personality disorder that requires more help than required
She is a lush and gets the family to help when she can
She has a business and needs the help (I think she works Wednesdays away from the house)
The husband tries to stay away from her because of the personality disorder
The mother in law is interfering (hence the husband stays away)
She knows that I am nosy and is keeping me in suspense
Luckily I am diligent in my observations. I will report further on my findings and keep you posted on any new changes.
Sleeping beside another body
I am tired and grumpy this morning. This is because my partner had a restless night which means I also had a restless night. He awoke me around 4.ooam by grabbing the sheet and rolling over taking it with him and allowing a rush of cold air to get underneath. Annoyed I got up and stomped off to the toilet. On my return he said,"can you wake me at 6.00am, I have a busy day" before rolling back to a snorty slumber. He knows that I naturally wake at this time, but only after a good nights sleep.
"No" I said as I got back under the covers "tough luck".
I did finally fall back to sleep until he stirred sometime later then put his socks on whilst sitting on the edge of the bed. This shook the bed and me awake fully. On and on it went like an earthquake until he stood and left the room. Relief washed over me as I settled back into the bedclothes and some peace and quiet. But he left the door to the kitchen open and apart from the clanging of dishes, the smell off toast wafted into the room awaking my senses.
"Shut the door" I yelled over and over pointlessly because he couldn't hear. A few minutes later he came into the room.
"I'm going now". I glared at him, ready for my attack.
"Can you please not sit on the bed and put your socks on. It shakes the bed and me awake".
"But the floor is cold".
"That's what the mat is for. Can you also please shut the door to the kitchen as you are noisy and the smell of toast comes into the room and wakes me. It puts me into a bad mood". I can feel my blood pressure rising preparing for a the battle.
"OK I'm going now", he says hitting is leg on the cupboard in his haste to get away from the crabby, hormonal female in the bed. I am left feeling bad that he has gone and we are not happy with each other. What happens if he has an accident and is in hospital and our last words were harsh to each other. I get up later and ring him and apologise. He apologises. We tell each other how much we love each other then I hang up and go to put on a wash. As I walk up the laundry path I see a pair of soiled male black underpants that have been thrown out of the bathroom window in the general direction of the laundry. I make a mental note to speak to him when he gets home as I continue towards the laundry.
"No" I said as I got back under the covers "tough luck".
I did finally fall back to sleep until he stirred sometime later then put his socks on whilst sitting on the edge of the bed. This shook the bed and me awake fully. On and on it went like an earthquake until he stood and left the room. Relief washed over me as I settled back into the bedclothes and some peace and quiet. But he left the door to the kitchen open and apart from the clanging of dishes, the smell off toast wafted into the room awaking my senses.
"Shut the door" I yelled over and over pointlessly because he couldn't hear. A few minutes later he came into the room.
"I'm going now". I glared at him, ready for my attack.
"Can you please not sit on the bed and put your socks on. It shakes the bed and me awake".
"But the floor is cold".
"That's what the mat is for. Can you also please shut the door to the kitchen as you are noisy and the smell of toast comes into the room and wakes me. It puts me into a bad mood". I can feel my blood pressure rising preparing for a the battle.
"OK I'm going now", he says hitting is leg on the cupboard in his haste to get away from the crabby, hormonal female in the bed. I am left feeling bad that he has gone and we are not happy with each other. What happens if he has an accident and is in hospital and our last words were harsh to each other. I get up later and ring him and apologise. He apologises. We tell each other how much we love each other then I hang up and go to put on a wash. As I walk up the laundry path I see a pair of soiled male black underpants that have been thrown out of the bathroom window in the general direction of the laundry. I make a mental note to speak to him when he gets home as I continue towards the laundry.
Why I need a blog
It was a few days ago I realised I needed a blog. Having recently become a homemaker I suddenly found myself with plenty of time to spare. And most people I know have kids or demanding jobs, therefore are time pressed with not much time left for chatting to me. Besides, it's hard to vent about some things to people with kids. Not that I dislike kids at all. I think they are fun. But your life is different when it is not preoccupied with making sure everyone else is OK. Who knows who will read this. Who cares. I can now vent freely about my nagging Mum and retell anecdotes about my travels and secret ex boyfriends. I can whinge about crap TV and the weather. I can indulge my anxieties and insecurities. And I can speculate on the new neighbours and what they are like (weird). So I breath a sigh of relief as I sip my green tea and ... ooh I can feel a vent coming on.
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