Buddy came back inside with me, he sat next to me and put his head in my lap, as if to say, So early again, comrade?
Andy was the first to get up. It is like an organic alarm clock? Or the wheels of the day cranking into life. The soul adrenaline of human beings being stirred out of slumber. The rhythm of life filling with energy.
Headphones and my own music cocoon, from the wee small hours. I’m still on my Patti kick. I went back to the beginning of her catalogue, again.
I deleted the extended dance version of Eyes in The Back of My Head from Tasty, it is just too awful to hear it once and then to endure the extended mix as well. It had to go. Delete.
By 9am, I was due to go to the supermarket to get smokes, but I really wanted pot. If I was going to smoke cigarettes anyway, I might as well make it creative. In fact, it could possibly be seen as a lost opportunity, and it had to be grabbed with both hands.
I tested the water with Sam, he seemed pretty keen for me not to buy pot.
Hmmm?
I chatted to Mark online. He asked why do I do what Sam tells me, when I never did anything for him? I told him perhaps I’d learned a thing, or two, in the passing years, older and wiser, perhaps. Tell Sam this is the best Christian ever, I dare you?
Ha ha, Mark laughed.
Is that what you really think of me? I asked. I would do nothing?
No... but you are last person that I thought, that would buckle under petty tyranny, said Mark.
Really? I thought. I have a terrible habit of doing what I want to do, which comes under no scrutiny, what so ever, it is one area I resemble the Liberal Party, come to think of it.
I’ve got to do something with my life, I know that, this is unsustainable. Is that the Liberal Party talking about Medicare? Oh, except it is not true about Medicare. Take a look at what we spend on health care compared to other western countries. Oh, it’s not true about me, either. This life is sustainable? What to do? Do I only pay lip service to being more productive? A bit like the Liberal Party’s lip service to maintaining Medicare?
10.30am. I’ve bought the cigarettes. I’m still thinking about the pot? Hmmm? What to do?
Bad me, I text Guido at 11am. What am I thinking? I want to put on my head phones and write, as the rest of the world fades away, that is what I want to do.
Sam says I should sweep the front yard and clean the bedroom instead of getting pot. I’m going to get the pot and do all of those things as well, that’s what I tell myself.
Guido was home, so I had to drive to his place. I was only going to smoke cigarettes for the rest of the day, and cigarettes are awful. I might as well be smoking...
I messaged Sam saying that I was going to Guido’s, I’d be back for lunch. He wasn’t pleased. Forbid me even.
I drove out the driveway at 11.05am.
Sam sent replies threatening Armageddon.
OMG! I saw this obese Staffy, I mean, I have never seen a fatter dog. I nearly stopped the car, got out and said to the owner, "Seriously!" He was staggering across the tram tracks in North Fitzroy.
I had to check myself on the way out there. I hadn’t, actually, smoked pot for 24 hours, surely that was enough? I don’t really know what the requirements are. I felt okay, officer. Surely 24 hours is enough?
I hit the big intersection where all the roads meet up, the ring road and whatever else. It was the first time I have struck traffic there, usually I just fly right through, green all the way. In the traffic taking each one of those sets of lights, at a glacial speed, it was interminable. Grumpy Christian. Sam would have said that it was only his ears that were bleeding, if he’d been with me.
I got to Guido’s at midday. He was up for a chat, prattling on about something. I was miles away thinking about Sam.
“Blah, blah, blah.”
“I can’t stop, gota be back in Fitzroy in half an hour.”
I’m giving up being a polite driver, it only relegates you to 40 kph, with all the nanas. I’m not rude, I’m not cutting anyone off, but from now on, it there is a shorter lane of traffic, I’m taking it, sort it out at the other end. And you don’t even have to push in, there are enough cars pissing about, fingering their clitorises, looking at their phones, no doubt, and there is always a gap. The faster drivers can drive around the slower drives, it just requires your full attention – how many drivers can claim that? – and a bit of smarts and forward planning. Look up from your phones people and drive your car. Check your messages when you get there, think of how thrilling all those messages will be to read.
I was home by 12.38pm. I even managed to squeeze a joint in as well, as I text Sam that I was home.
Start walking, said Sam
Sam was dark, angry, I could see as soon as he walked up in the midday sunshine.
“Hi Sweetie.”
He wasn’t going to be jollied out of anything any time soon, that was abundantly clear from the get go. In hindsight, it would have been a good lunch to miss, strategically, the grief I copped during that lunch would have been more than the grief I’d have copped from not going to lunch at all. “Sorry, honey. You know the traffic is terrible.” I’m a rat, I know. And, not lastly, him having a whole afternoon to cool down, before I saw him.
He told me I was lazy.
I’m not nice to be around when I am stoned.
I am selfish because I don’t think about how it affects him.
Don’t smoke it then, apparently, is not the correct answer here.
He has to go to work, when I get to stay home and do what I like.
“You haven’t even vacuumed up our bedroom?”
“Vacuum?”
“Change the sheets.”
I don’t know how alarmed I felt here, but it must have shown on my face.
“Yes. Change the sheets.”
That is just not something I am going to do. I don’t care about the sheets. Quite frankly, it just seems ridiculous to me that you want to wash them as often as you do. (Ed note – that would be fortnightly) It is a waste of the world’s water.
“The sheets? Again?”
“They smell.”
“They smell of Buddy.”
“I said, they smell.”
“I love Buddy’s smell,” I said. Implying, that I loved Buddy more, clearly.
“You could, occasionally, go to the supermarket and cook dinner.”
Ah! I was screaming on the inside. “I thought the agreement was that you do food and I do the cleaning… of, anything, to do with the preparation of… the… food.” I was hesitant, as I was processing the terms and agreements to check that they were fair.
“You are home pissing about,” Sam hissed at me.
What could I say?
I don't think he is hard done by, except that I don't go to work. I pay the bills. I clean up after all meals, dishes the lot. I do the washing. Washing and fold of and placed into a basket.
Sam puts them away in the wardrobe.
Sam washes the floors, and vacuums and dusts upstairs.
I vacuum the ground floor.
Sam cooks and organises the food. Which is the biggest job, I acknowledge that, thank the lordy do dah day that I don’t have to do that, “Ah, no thanks,” that is all I can say.
I know it is hard for him having to go to work, when I don’t have to. It is difficult, you lose a work ally, it is true. You lose that person who leaves the house with you and who calls you from work, discusses his work problems, is conspiratuly tied in all things work.
I had to work when I was with Mark. He gave up work as soon as he met me, or soon there after. I had to go to work all through our relationship, I had to, I didn’t question it. I didn’t have the money then to support myself. So, I know how it feels.
I have no consideration for him, he said. "Why do you think I got sacked from my job? I couldn’t think. I couldn’t work properly."
“Hang on. Are you saying smoking pot got you the sack?”
“What do you think happened?”
“This is the first time I have ever heard this.”
I’m lucky, I don’t have to work. Is that what we should be saying to each other, Are we now at different stages in life, is this always going to be a problem. So, it is going to be a problem. If that is the only problem we have, I’m okay with that. I answer him with logic. If you can afford to pay your way, stop work. He can’t. Not to mention he has some wild idea that he has to help support the rest of his family, so he can’t quit work on that front either. Me, on the other hand, don’t have to support anyone. I’m planning for my last dollar being spent as the last thing I do before I take my final breath. Of course, there is a chance I have horribly miscalculated and I’ll be old, penniless and alone.
Look at Antony, he had to get a dog for free because he can’t afford to buy one. I can afford a $4000 bulldog. There is living, and then there is living the way you want to live.
I send Sam a Hi, honey message.
He texts back, Don’t you honey me, as I said it out loud, perfectly synchronised.
Text>Chuckle.
Reply>Don’t you chuckle.
2.15pm. Oh yawn. Now I have to go and do all of those fucking, pointless chores, to completely pull this baby off. The clock is ticking.
Better have another joint first.
3.15pm. I take scammers and sales calls at night as the universe reminding me that the crazy people are still out there. The same goes for scammer/sales calls during the day. I just got one who said she was from Windows and they were very concerned about my computer…”
“I’m sorry, where are you from?”
“We have sent you literature recently to which you haven’t responded.”
“What did you send me?”
“It doesn’t matter, are you in front of your computer?”
“Are you going to ask me to check the settings on my computer?”
“Yes, Mr Fletcher.”
“This is the oldest scam in the book,” I said. “Do people still fall for this?”
“Well, Mr Fletcher, not all things in this world are scams…”
“Okay then, can you tell me who you work for to be showing an unusual amount of interest in my computer…”
Dial tone.
I’ve got a good part of the front yard cleaned up. I can do things when I am um, you know, just get going and the chore takes care of itself. It is true. Ta da! Finished before you know it.
I ask Sam if he wants a puppy, mid way through the afternoon.
He says no.
3.45pm. Finished. An hour and a half. I should have done it last Monday.
I wish I could remember what the other chore was?
2 comments:
Domestic bliss!
chuckle
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