This post is not a memoir , the last memoir is post below.
This post is me being me. I am not changing styles, this is just how I am when I am wearing my around the house hotpants. Sassy and Spunky.
I like to be quirky and rude sometimes. I like to be a raging lemon. I like to trash my family a little , let em feel alive. Plus, they can't read.
I like to drop a few swear words.
Let's do it then.
Today, the BF and I were finally paid a visit by the 'Paint Fairy' who would strip the carcinoma inducing lead paint from our unit. We rent so basically we suck. We have no rights and no seriously cool electrical items. We don't rent our furniture though - so that's ok. The Real Estate have taken seven months to get back to us since we complained of the strange tasting lead flakes in our cereal. Apparently our paint was toxic as it is made from lead. Thank you Captain Obvious. I watch Jerry Springer - I know deformity !
Then I grew a penis and I was all like "Man , this lead is making me a man."
* This may not of happened.
So I am reassured that 'people of dubious painting expertise and infinite wisdom' will soon replace it with the stinkest paint in the universe !
But apparently it won't retard my brain anymore - so this is a good thing.
So he just turns up all of a sudden and we are all "Oh ffs, heavy lifting is a cunt."
First off, we did not know what this involved. My bf is a confused metrosexual ( but I love him) and me ( well you know me and I just don't "get" physical labour.) It is agreed that we both love food , shopping, sex and reality tv and more food. He hates cars and I hate tools and pubes on my face soap.
Sidenote ; Don't correct my grammar or my punctation - jumping out or not as I am tired and will slap you with a wet fish. I don't get brackets. (?)
Back to the post...
I do not understand Handyman. I also do not get why I am attracted to Real Dolls and the men who love them. But seriously .. all this DIY cock and bull. Whadafug?
Why do people get a horn over making shit themselves? Give it a bone. I mean I think it is lovely and handy but I am a disposable, fold out, easy ensemble, vacuum pump plugging kinda girl who loves easy street for a reason. It's easy ! Try DUI - Delegating Under Influence.
I am positive "renovations' is french (?) for "shitloads of mess that hangs around for days'. It is NOTHING like those renovation shows. No hot blondes turn up wearing cute overalls and pigtails, I am thrust into a world of grumpy old men with buttcrack and mobiles that constantly ring. It annoys me this man has more friends than me. I can admit that. I shut the door anyways as my ego shatters.
And the smell ! The paint, (not the buttcrack) is all I smell - I feel like I have drunk a thousand paint laced milkshakes - the stench has leeched into my sanity. I am the paint. I am delirious ! I am Tao with paint.
The shade is eggshell but to me it looks just like pidegon poo and just like poo - it is fucking everywhere ! ( Not that I spread my poo around - err )
Being the internet based hermit that I freely admit I am ( I travel on the cyber highway and that is it) I was determined to not entertain the Painter. I am not the smalltalk kind of girl. (Unless I get get fucked up on goofballs but that is another story ) The painter, who to his credit did charm me initially by affectionately calling me "Princess" but then after a few times ( like seven) in a less than five minutes I was wierded out - dude I don't know you, fix my shit and go home.
So I just read blogs and chatted to Rene and basically complained/bragged that I was getting high on the fumes. It was fun at first. Then I spewed. Not cool.
My dad is a sub contractor ( plasterer) so I know what a working class man needs. I know that they adore getting drunk, buying bags of weed, betting on horses and coffee. I would say hot women with huge norks but you have not seen The Stepmother ( and that is a good thing ) Reeow.
I only could offer the last one ( coffee not my stepmother) as I am a huge squarebear and my sister smoked all the pot last time she came to my house. I dragged myself from reading some riveting post (maybe yours) and offered coffee in my usual psuedo fashion.
Me: "I would offer you a coffee but the kettle is under the drop sheet." I stand there pointing.
Him: "No worries love. I brought my own - Princess." Motherfucker !
Breathe. I then remember I am wearing my "around the house hotpants" that I probably should be wearing knickers underneath or I should probably throw them out cos the elastic has gone in them. I could frighten small children with my fleshy flashes. Ewww ! See they ARE disgusting - but they are comfy in a totally gross way and no one cool will ever see them or my flange, so screw it.
This man is like seven hundred years old and Irish. I like his accent but still I don't want to get trapped in some "so you like making stuff with your hands" then we could mumble about spanners and more fucking paint talk. No conversation ! Instead, I go and put on some underpants because I am a good person.
Then, I am back to typing (surprise) in the summer heat, the fumes are making me dry gag . I am thinking that at any moment now I'm going to start melting my monitor with my chemical encrusted breath. Screw toasted sandwiches, I am seeing my monitor morph into this glowing alien head with huge black burning eyes. Crazy like a coconut time peoples.
I will leave my computer.
One point for the "get some fresh air and sunshine" fockers.
This is why I prefered to smoke behind the shed in Grade 8. Oh hang on, I did that because I was trying to be a little toughie and it made me look sexy to Jason Hoare ( SOOO glad I did not marry his ass) No, instead of being a tool in Shop A or "Workshop" or "Man's Secret Tool Shennanigans" instead of making wooden spoons and using "hammers" and "winches" - I cut class and shoplifted small hairclips. So I have no fucking idea what they are. Not a clue. Care factor zero and rising. That didn't make sense because it should not rise if I don't care. Riight.
So anyhow I go outside to gulp some clean "unfucked up" air and of course he is having a smoko break. My timing sucks . Period.
Although I took a book with me ( ?) I could see I would have to entertain him for at least a few minutes. After the hives subsided, I searched for something to say. Besides if I played my cards right he should vacuum up all the shit he was leaving all over the floor. Maybe I should put the hotpants back on so he would move the furniture back for me as well. It was worth a few moments.
Fast forward fourty-five minutes later - I am embracing this funny little man and smoking his ciggies , we are both laughing and getting it on. Ok, just seeing if you were still listening. But we were smoking ciggies and laughing. He told me amazzzzzing stories of his upbringing in Glasgow - stories of amazing poverty. It was straight out of Angela's Ashes. He used that reference and I use it now , to keep it real. He told me that he has worked everyday for thirty -five years to put his children through University and he just had his first grandson. I sensed that he was a proud and independent man and I knew a hard worker when I saw one.
Sure, he was uber-friendly - but I mean I can think of worse things. Like a rapist handyman pyschopath killer with rampant genital herpes. We spoke about my writing ( another signed book promised - that is like the 40th this week ) and he shared with me about his son, that was a prominent barrister for Microsoft. Uhuh. Doing very well , his father said with kind modesty and infringing pride.
So I am like , Wow you must be very proud. I wish I could be like that for my parents. I tell him my story ( like a director's cut version in reverse) That's when he told me the story of his son. The Microsoft Man.
The Painter Dad had saved up all his pennies to go and see his Son and new wife in Sydney and stay with them for Christmas. His son and gorgeous wife hosted many fine parties out on the condo deck, overlooking Darling Harbour.
On this holiday, a situation arose where The Father would be going to a function with his Son and mingling with VIP's and a veritable who's who of Sydney. He candidly admitted to me as I sat enraptured on the back patio, that as he worked with soley his hands and not his mind for his whole life , he was nervous to be around these society types, and feared embarrassing his Son. Of course, he knew the importance of getting ahead in life - he wanted his Son to have everything that he never had. For all his dreams to come true. So he was determined to try and fit in. He was keen to meet his Son's employers. He was proud of him.
So he said that he remembered being inside his son's sedan and they were traveling to the much anticipated luncheon. His son went over the types of people his Father could expect to see and he recognized several names.
"Dad, If they ask you questions about anything about you, just don't say anything"
"Son, it is ok I won't let em get me down, I know my roots and they ain't going look down their toffy noses at me"
He told me this story on the back porch and illustrated his words with his cigarette, so we both traveled in time. I was there. So was he.
"No dad." The Son paused, blushing profusely.
"I don't think you understand. I don't want you to talk to them about what you do".
Silence in the car. The insults hung suspended between them, the words preserved with sudden disbelief. As he told this story now to me, his hands were shaking all over again.
"Don't mention you are a handyman..Please."
The Painter , now a dad who still held onto so much lost hope for his son, told me that he was so hurt by this - so offended -he leapt from the car and did not speak to his Son for two years. He speaks to him now for he realized that he only ignored him as that was the only way he could hurt him back. He felt he had nothing else. But in the end, he was still hurting himself in doing that. He let it go. He became a dad all over again.
Well, I was amazed. I could not let this go. Apart from the fact that I love my nearest and dearest like I Tony off 'The Sopranos' on ecstasy - I think this Son is an asshole. Don't you? I struggled with telling him this nicely. I think I said the words 'ungrateful tool' and you busted your hump for his lily white gravy boat tooting ass'. Then I think I asked for his address. Somebody needs a little lesson in respect. He has never even given his dad any money back. I mean , this guy is loaded and his dad is breathing in lead flakes and unclogging shit from my toilet. Not that there is anything wrong with that. He is great at it. Which is wierd, but I digress.
I saw the father's pain and I am so glad that although I never had it easy - I am aware that grattitude is not hard to give. To be considerate. To be respectful. Where was the grattitude for this man. His hands bent and knobbled with arthritis - all he has is a wallet brimming with 4"X5" of miracles. He lived so much of his life to be different and in the end - he still could not face himself.
The Painter listened to a little bit of veiled history of mine and conceded that his Son never had to go through this. He said I was a good girl and for once I started to feel that maybe I was. I started to wonder. Would I be like this with my children ? So afraid that they would struggle like I did that I give them my all as if it's my fault all over again if it goes wrong? It seemed like this man, in all his earnest attempts to make his son a noble and successful human being had created a monster that not only knew his superiority over his father - but thrived on it. This son did not know, what he did not know. I feel sorry for his son, for he wastes what money will never buy - love.
I have just finished drafting a glowing letter to the real estate about the craftmenship and professionalism of The Painter. I just wanted to give something back to him as I think if only there were more parents like him, so keen to see children achieve and dream - the world would be a better place. We are lucky to have fathers like him and even if his own son is too spoilt to appreciate him - doesn't mean that he doesn't ever need to hear it from someone else.
He whistles while he works as that is what he does, working for his huge family, never complaining and always doing the right thing.
He left quietly and did not disturb me - maybe he was embarrassed at his honest and heartrending disclosure or maybe the job was simply done - in both cases I was suitably impressed.
I know he will be back as the bloody shower blocked up tonight. Again.
His coffee will be waiting for him this time.