As we move into level 2 of our lockdown and smell the first whiff of freedom, marriage guidance organisations are warning us to hold off contacting a solicitor, putting the house on the market and arguing over custody of the cat. They strongly recommend that before we call it a day and become singletons once more, we should seek out counselling to resolve the issues that have arisen during our enforced incarceration.
Now, I’m no expert on therapy or marriage (just ask my first husband) but having spent 7 long weeks stridently describing one another’s every fault in great detail why would you choose to do it all over again in front of a stranger?
When I mentioned the aforementioned advice to husband (with no hidden agenda whatsoever) his face took on the look of a panicked baboon, eyes flicking around nervously as he searched for exit routes from his desk and then shot past me mumbling something about an emergency client meeting he had to attend. As he spun out the driveway hunched over the steering wheel I could see the whites of his knuckles gripping tight and sweat starting to break on his forehead.
The mere thought of having to relieve the past 7 weeks apparently triggered a PTSD reaction thus making him not only a terrible liar but someone who seriously underestimated my intelligence. Because whilst I know Kiwi office dress code is casual, I’ve never seen him attend a meeting in running shorts, flip flops and a T-shirt that says ‘Education is important, but big muscles are importanter’.
Not to worry, we can have a nice long ‘chat’ about it when he comes home …
We need to talk. Let me get it out in the open – I’m breaking up with you. It’s not you it’s me. For some time now I feel like you’re trying to turn me into something I’m not. Every day you put more and more pressure on me to be like the other girls and I can’t take it anymore. I don’t blame you, really I don’t, when we met you fell for my individuality because I was different from the others, it’s what made us a great pair. But now … well, I recognise how that’s all changed.
I can see how disappointed you are in me when I’m unable to showcase my skills in learning a musical instrument or upload a song and dance routine, rivalling Paula Abdul in her heyday. You have to accept that when I sing, children cry and horses bolt.
You think I’m lacking in homemaking skills when I can’t compete with the edible works of art that are coming out of other girls’ kitchens; giant edifices of cake and confectionery, immaculate in design and no doubt delicious. Don’t think I didn’t see the sideways look you gave me when even the ducks wouldn’t eat the burnt biscuits I baked yesterday.
I feel your disdain when I’m unable to create a new wardrobe out of 2 old pillowcases and sacking from the shed. You have to admit I tried my best, OK so it looked like a strait jacket for a cocker spaniel rather than the ‘California Casual’ advertised on the You Tube tutorial. It didn’t help that my head got stuck in tiny neckhole and husband had to cut me free with the secateurs – don’t worry it didn’t bleed that much and the ear will heal eventually.
We’re at very different places in our lives right now
And probably the most hurtful thing you’ve done is endorse and promote the achievements by those fitness crazy bitches during the lockdown. I can see you blatantly admire the number of calories burnt, miles run and pert bottomed flexibility that allows them to eat an organic apple whilst in the Handstand Scorpion pose. Admittedly my downward dog did seem to force out an extraordinary amount of air lurking in my intestines but that was no reason to write me off. Some girls are just better suited to sitting on the sofa on eating donuts – we’re all different. Don’t you keep saying ‘be kind’ and ‘don’t judge.’
But I can see that we’re at very different places in our life right now and we both want different things, believe me when I tell you it’s for the best to make a clean break.
Maybe, down the road, in a few months we could try again but you have to understand that I can’t conform to these wonder women you’re pitching me against; you have to accept that I have spent this entire time, lying on the sofa, reading books and watching Only Fools & Horses reruns – no novel written, no new skills learnt, no educational qualification achieved. I’m a chocolate guzzling, comedy loving, lazy arse. Deal with it, we’re over!
Today in NZ we’ve moved from total lockdown to Level 3, which is a little more casual but not total freedom, more a case of Lockdown Lite. I’ve been a model citizen and done everything Jacinda asked of me; I stayed home anchoring myself to the sofa, as the furrow in the carpet between the couch and the kitchen can testify.
And now with an impending sense of horror I realise that I haven’t worn clothes with a waistband since I left work on March 23rd. That’s five whole weeks in stretchy gym pants and we all know elasticated waists are the work of the devil. The only time I got out of Lucifer’s leggings was to pop on an A-line dress that could have looked quite at home in Demis Roussos’ wardrobe and even that was a little snug.
I’ve been smashing cake and hot cross buns in much the same way Donald Trump dispenses health advice; with absolutely no thought for the consequences whatsoever.
I’m almost expecting this unsightly roll of subcutaneous podge to be shouting vive la liberté as I try to shove it into the confines of my jeans. French is the only logical language due to numerous croissants that have passed my lips since Jacinda told us to stay home.
It’s not so much a muffin top but more like a patisserie counter.
And whilst my waistline has ballooned more than Kim Kardashian’s mouth, my personality has shrunk exponentially. I feel like my sense of humour has been liposuctioned instead of my hips. Even husband, who is usually my greatest supporter (and straight man) had to agree that I’ve had some sort of charisma bypass since being confined to the house and denied daily natters with anyone who would join in. So, I’m in debt to Jackson Mthembu, minister of the South African presidency who in yesterday’s press conference confused ventilators with vibrators which me laugh A LOT!
(Sorry, because I’m cheap I can’t embed videos to this blog, don’t be lazy, click it)
Question … Is this for private hospitals only or will the patients in state hospitals be receiving this fringe benefit as well? As a democratic country I sincerely hope so and now finally I can now understand why medical aid is so expensive 😊
In the meantime if anyone knows where I could purchase full-body ear lobe to ankle Spanx, please get in touch.
If you believe the above to be a lust filled display of affection and love, I suggest you think again.
Definition – An act traditionally performed by married couples who are sick of the sight of one another. It requires no physical contact and both parties remain fully clothed throughout. Occurs when encountering the other party in a narrow space, usually a hallway or similar.
Obscenities relating to the sex act (and travel) are hissed at each other during passing, whomever manages to deliver the final insult before the inevitable door slam, is declared the winner.
Jacinda, I beg you, free us from this incarceration.
A safe word is used by couples or groups when participating in unorthodox or sadomasochistic behaviour outside of their comfort zone.
This word is agreed upon before entering into the activity and is used to denote when one partner is about to cross an emotional, physical or moral boundary. Once the safe word is spoken all parties are to immediately cease their actions to ensure the well-being of their partner/s.
Our chosen safe word is OUT! This is also accompanied by an arm held at right angles to the body and pointing in the direction of the front door. The prefix ‘GET’ is also acceptable and the suffix ‘ELSE I WILL KILL YOU’ can be used, but only in exceptional circumstances.
On hearing the safe word the other party is to exit the property within 90 seconds for their daily exercise or shopping routine, be gone for at least an hour and when returning must avoid the bloody annoying behaviour that provoked the safe word being uttered shouted in the first place.
Because, being locked together for 4 weeks has to qualify as S&M, in its most basic form!
Husband has suggested that one way for me to get through this lockdown would be, and I quote, ‘to cook through it’. He is under the impression that me queuing at our local supermarket on a regular basis, foraging for ingredients and then coming home to prepare him a smorgasbord of delicious dishes and tasty nibbles would be the best way I could spend my time during our conjoined isolation period.
With that in mind, on the menu tonight is Boiled Head & chips!
Just when we thought the world couldn’t get any stranger Netflix brings us The Tiger King. This fly on the wall docu-drama lets us peep into the world of American Big Cat owners and animal collectors.
The central character, Joe Exotic, would be funny if he was a car mechanic and not someone profiteering from the breeding and sale of big cat cubs and juveniles. Watching him remove a tiger cub from the den just as it’s been born and hearing it cry is painful, especially as the mother is in labour delivering a second cub and unable to put up any defence.
In one scene he proudly parades through the crowd telling visitors to his roadside zoo that the cubs he was holding were only 2 hours old. Their continued mewling was a sign of their distress.
He is strangely charismatic and as you watch the series it becomes clear that he has been set up by his partners and we watch Joe go from flamboyant, red-neck homo as he descends into a crypt of paranoia, drug abuse and gun obsessed megalomania.
The supporting cast is made up of big cat owners, all of whom are reprehensible and Joe’s nemesis, Carol Baskin the founder of Big Cat Rescue, and it’s her mission to get him shut down that the programme centres on. Nobody comes out of this looking heroic or positively contributing towards wildlife conservation, money is the only reason these animals are alive. The overbreeding of these cats’ funds lavish lifestyles, drugs and other criminal activities.
I switched between wanting to cry and then wanting to launch the TV out the window.
One particular distressing scene shows Jeff Lowe cramming a tiger cub into a hardshell suitcase which he wheels undetected through a Vegas hotel in order for it be taken to a petting party. In his words ‘a little pussy gets you a lot of pussy’; he’s a disgusting, misogynist who flaunts every animal welfare law put in place to protect these wild cats.
In short, it’s puppy mills for big cats and is heart-breaking to see.
The documentary misses delivering a valuable story in documenting the abuses which are clearly visible and those not so visible, as the animals are eclipsed by the performances of the owners and ‘rescuers’.
At the end of the final episode only several seconds is used to tell the audience that there are between 5,000 – 10,000 tigers held in captivity in the United States alone, compared to less than 4,000 wild ones throughout the rest of the world. Sumatran tigers number less than 400, they are critically endangered and with such a small gene pool it is not known whether the population will ever be able to recover and produce healthy specimens without genetic disorders.
In short, NOT ONE SINGLE CAPTIVE BRED TIGER HAS EVER BEEN RELEASED INTO THE WILD. Captive bred animals from these roadside zoos do not contribute towards conservation and do nothing to build an insurance population. The owners are animal traffickers and I wish that message had come through loud and clear.
Every time you pet a tiger cub you are condemning it to a life in a tiny cage with little or no enrichment and you deprive it of being able to exhibit its natural behaviour. Those are the ones that survive, often when a tiger or lion cub has outlived its usefulness it’s destroyed, so by cuddling a cub you may as well put a bullet through its head.
Watch it, you’ll be gripped – mostly because the predatory behaviour being displayed is not by those with 4 legs but sadly those with 2.
There is a general consensus of opinion that disasters bring out all the weirdos.
With that in mind, if you haven’t yet seen the latest public health announcement from Madonna, do yourself a favour and have a gander.
You’re laughing right, please tell me you’re laughing
Step aside World Health Organisation, your work is no longer required as Dr Madonna dispenses sage wisdom and advice, all the from the safety of her bath!
Health Ministers and academics around the globe are stepping down as they defer to her superior expertise in micro-biology and the delightful common touch which endears her to audiences worldwide.
I mean what she’s saying must be important if she couldn’t even wait to dry off and put her pjs on.
Filmed, no doubt, at one of her many mansions, stark naked – why Madge, why? – in the bath, telling us that Covid-19 is an equal opportunities virus and to prepare for the worst. Once again she shows that her acting ability wouldn’t even get her cast on the next series of TOWIE.
What’s most perturbing is not the drivel she’s spouting but how she looks. Less like Madonna and more like a collection of random body parts that have been sucked, tucked and plucked together – an maudlin, waterproof, chat bot brought to life.
But my absolute favourite bit of whole thing was seeing that the Root Fairy has also visited Madge whilst she’s been in isolation, now that is the great equaliser.