I spent most of today wanting to kill someone, something, anything. Our Christmas card plans went awry, and now they shan’t be sent out until tomorrow. And it’s hot. And they’re predicting storms (which I know won’t come, but have left the van doors open in the hope of tempting fate). The principle redeeming feature of my day was getting…well, I should record everything I got in the post, so the true redeeming feature can shine….I got:
- An envelope from my mother containing no note (her Christmas card came last week): just a form letter from VicRoads enquiring as to if/when I’m going to get around to registering the Humber and how I will descend into the firey bowels of hell come the 6th of February if the situation remains unchanged. Also in the envelope were various bank statements for my brother. My brother in London.
- A Christmas card from the lovely Veronica (she appeared in [m i a o w] under the psuedonym ‘Victoria’ about 18 months ago. She is the uberlender (i.e. the only person who offered me a home loan and didn’t run away screaming when she realised what she’d done).
- A very nice Christmas card from my sister and her squeeze, still hopeful that we might make it down south for Christmas [sob].
- And finally, the penultimate Christmas card from my Dad – who encloses a $50 (praise be) with instructions for it to be spent on ‘a six pack of Coopers and a cheap meal out, or whatever seems most urgent’.
We spent it on a slab of Coopers and decided to have a pretend meal out at home. Only beer can get us through thiscoming week. After we’d buggered around on our Christmas card idea, and I had slowly come to the realisation that we won’t be sending them out until tomorrow (too late in my opinion, but I am in a relationship, and in relationships the word ‘compromise’ is a common mental catchcry), I remembered that we had to drop past M’s mothers. I had promised to drop over the sheets, pillowcases etc. that I’d forgotten yesterday when we took around the spare room double bed (the one she ‘gave us’ but then decided she wanted ‘back’ when she realised that we truly did not plan to spend the rest of our lives in the cultural melting pot of Hervey Bay. That was sarcasm, btw).
While we were there I asked her, point blank, of all her children, did M have the smallest teeth? She didn’t even pause.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And he’s the only one that doesn’t have a gap between the two front ones. And did you know that after Christmas, I’m going to look at how my money situation is going, and I’m going to buy myself some new teeth?’
She smiled, and it didn’t look to me that there was much wrong with her old ones.
I said, ‘That’s great! But with Christmas coming up and all the food action that’s going to be going down, why don’t you get new teeth now?’
‘Yeah,’ said M, ‘why don’t you get them to give you dolphin teeth?’
He looked at me, and I knew what I was supposed to say next. I said it.
‘Why don’t you get rows and rows of shark teeth implanted?’
She topped me.
‘I think I’ll get two big walrus teeth. Like this…’ She stuck her two fingers down over her mouth and, somehow, managed to look immediately walrus-y.