The Pool Pump.

Yep, it’s burnt out by the look of it.

The thing is, if it was something of his, he would muck around and fix it, get the parts etc. but I’ll be buying a new one and getting a pool bloke to put it in, when I could get one online and he could actually do it.

But, not his interest, so instead of $360 it will be over $500.

He could not even take the few minutes to turn the power on for me down in the shed while I was up at the pool, to check that it was the pump and not the power at the house. I was standing waiting for about 10 minutes after asking him, waiting to see if the pump would come on –  when I walked back down he’d gone off to feed his horses.

He had said earlier that day that we would go out for dinner.

I was looking forward to that. Not the company; the dinner – a break in the monotony, something cooked for me, something other than lamb chops.

Then he put the trots on and that was it. When I mentioned it he replied that I was f…g around with the pool for ages and then it was too late. He’s such an unbelievable liar! And not once in the 11 years I’ve known him has he EVER taken responsibility for anything! He had been up and had a skinful with the old alcho, he had stopped and was talking for about 40 minutes to the bloke down the road, and then he got on his computer, making bets. He came in at about 7:30. The only thing I had asked him to do was to turn the switch on down at the shed. That was it. All up about 5 minutes at around 5:30.

But, we didn’t go out for dinner…because I was f…g around with that pool pump.

No, he wanted to sit and watch the trots and put on bets. As he does every night.

I hear the trots, and it’s always on the TV. Always.

And I hate the sight and sound of it. Really hate it, and everything to do with it.

I can remember calling in to someone’s house once, years ago, and the races were going. I was still married then and I can remember thinking how I would hate to have that going in the background..really hate it. And I felt glad I was with someone who had no interest in that crap.

Geez.

Sunday.

A Right Lovely Fellow, He Is.

The other night he told me “Yeah, Fred, the bloke who drives a scraper at work, it’s his birthday tomorrow.” I looked at him. “You remembered it’s his birthday?”

“Yeah…”

No thought that it was strange that he remembered this bloke’s birthday, and would make sure he wished him a happy one…and the fact that he has never made the effort to remember when mine is.

Last night I went up to feed the two hens that I saved from a battery farm when the blue heeler next door had a go at me. There used to be a back fence but he pulled it down more than a year ago. It was never replaced. The dog came through and really looked like it was going to go me.

When I came back down I told him about the dog and asked how much it would be to fence the back off. (I’d pay for it) He went off his head. “I got f…n more f…n stuff that I need to f…n do than fix a f…n fence…and on and on it went.

I just wanted to pick up a frypan and smash his head with it.

But I blame myself for mentioning ANYTHING. I know not to. I was just a bit shaky from nearly being bitten by a dog in (what I’d laughingly call) my own home. The hens will never be able to be let out. It was a dumb thing to do to get them in the first place. I said I’d take two that the school had to get homes for, and then I realised once more that this is not the place to do anything “normal” like that – I was going to tell the Ag teacher that I couldn’t take them after all, but she had them ready for me that day.

I just don’t do anything that feels even slightly like I have any kind of future here.

Future, ha! I don’t even have a present.

2am Friday morning.

Takeaway Shit.

Usually when CEF has done something too horrible to contemplate, I go back to the mundane.

The mundane:- You may remember last Saturday night when he suggested KFC and then later in the night went off his head about said KFC. “I don’t eat fuckin takeaway shit!”

This Saturday night just gone – one week to the day and time of that statement – he said he might like KFC. I did say, “But last week you said you don’t eat that shit and went off about it.” He just looked at me strangely, with no recollection, OR, no perceived recollection. Anyway, I was going to get a DVD to watch, so off I went. I got all the way there and didn’t have my purse. I messaged him that I’d left it at home and would come back. He handed me my purse at the door – which was something, I guess,  – but considering he’d just won $800 on a horse..and he always has plenty of cash on him, you’d think that just maybe he could fork over the 20 bucks for the KFC that he’s requested – especially as I had to make two trips. Nope, not a cent. Not even the thought of a cent towards it – the same as he sat in the car the other night while I got petrol on the way to the club. Not a brass razoo.

Tuesday.

The Hangover.

And that’s mine this morning, but not from grog. From life, well, life lived with this absolutely evil presence.

He’s been quite happy the last week or so. He mowed the grass yesterday and told me how good it looked twice, then said, “Well, it does look good,eh.”  I was driving to the club and said that yes it did, but he hadn’t told me that when I had mowed. He just shook his head as if to say, ‘well why would I?’

I’d been asked to a friend’s birthday dinner yesterday afternoon and evening. I just knew that it would cause a drama I can’t be bothered with so I went around at 3pm when it started and left at 5:30. It was SO nice sitting out in her leafy garden, in the company of some very lovely, friendly interesting people. She is Dutch so it was a European mix. I’d told CEF that I’d been asked to go for the afternoon and stay for dinner. (He doesn’t know her and wouldn’t expect to be asked and he knew he would have hated it anyway) I said that although I was asked for dinner, I’d be back to take him to the club. Yes of course, I still thought he may say, “Don’t be silly, this is a friend from your work. You go and enjoy your dinner with her.” Nope. And again, yes, I could have just stayed, bugger him. But, it’s just not worth the carry-on. He was ringing me at 5:45 telling me we had to be there for the badge draw.

Mate, her son is a chef, and the food was wonderful. Fresh, light, tasty looking. He was preparing a lovely feta salad, baked beetroot which was probably going to be a salad, kebabs for the BBQ, melon and ham. It looked so bloody wonderful as I made my way through the kitchen.

*He won two meat trays and at 8:30 last night we sat down to fatty lamb chops and a slice of bread. If I don’t see another lamb chop for 2 years I’ll be happy. All I could see last night were those lovely salads and tasty dishes.

Worse was to follow. Later that night I overheard him talking to his old alcho mate about my little family.

He is an evil, evil person.

Priorities.

CEF can spend hours cutting up branches to put it over the council, he can spend time attaching a garbage bin lid to a stump, and yet when I asked him if he’d move the hose please, when I was on the ride on mowing, he said ‘Nah, I’m not f…n doin nuthin, I just got home from work,’ and continued slugging on a beer – and standing looking out across his vast holdings – a metre from the hose.

One mustn’t dwell…but one must also, never, ever forget!

Fri arvo.

Ye Olde Bird Feeder

The Garbage Trials.

CEF put out green waste for the cleanup. They didn’t take it. So, now, although he has 5 acres here, and a rough 5 acres at that, not manicured lawns, but long grass up the back through which firewood and bits and pieces can be found laying about, he has spent the last couple of afternoons cutting up the pine tree clippings into small pieces to hide in the general rubbish. Now, he could burn them. We can do this here. Stacked in a neat pile for next June, even, when it might be nice to have a small fire one cold evening. But no, he will try to get the better of the council by camouflaging the pine boughs in bags for the next few weeks. Even if it takes him hours of cutting up branches and stuffing them in feed bags.

Its all about getting one up on them that counts to him. He has to win. To get back. Life story of this man.

*He told me once that his ex wife asked for her rhubarb plant after they split up. He poured diesel on it before he gave to her.

He laughed when he told me – I was not fully aware of his personality at this time. I am more so now, although there’d be heaps I’d never know. But I’m wary. Very wary.

That was just a rhubarb plant – but there’d be heaps of other things he’s done (most likely got someone else to do) and got away with.

Wed.

The Bubble Has Burst.

The Crazy Eyed F…er has been in a good mood for about a week. Maybe a bit more, it was since he had quite a good win on the horses.

It came to an abrupt halt last night. This is when he gets picky. I’ve lived with it for 9 years. I can see it a mile off. Although, as always, I’m momentarily confused.

Life is just easier when CEFs in a good mood. No, he isn’t kind, caring, generous, helpful or affectionate. He’s just laughing instead of brooding and being rude and ignorant.

It all helps in the day to day of me putting one foot in front of the other.

Last night, being Saturday night – and the fact that I cook every other frigging night. I asked what he’d like. He used to quite often order a pizza. Something he enjoyed. I asked if he’d like that. He then suggested KFC. Yep, no worries. I’d had a shower but could go down and get it. (He can never drive anywhere because of the grog – every day after about lunchtime.)

He said he’d think about it later. Later became 9 o’clock and I got myself some toast and went in to watch TV. I knew he hadn’t been winning because there was no hissing and carrying on.

I came out for a drink at 9:40 and thinking it was getting late asked if he still wanted KFC.

“Well, is there any sausages in the fridge?” Was his answer to that. At fucking nearly a quarter to ten on a Saturday night!

Now, this has always been his ‘go to’ statement to get me to lose my cool. And it worked the rotten frigging prick.

I told him that no, there were no sausages (of which he will rarely ever eat anyway and then only from one particular butcher shop – the freezer is full of sausages from his meat raffle wins which he won’t eat.) and that it was ridiculous to expect to cook them at ten o’clock at night!

His answer. “I don’t eat fuckin takeaway shit! How hard is it to have f…n sausages in the fridge and I’LL fuckin cook em.”

I reminded him that it was he who said about getting KFC and that I should have known that he’d lost money and it was his usual way of getting back somehow, being a smartarse to me. If he had a f…g dog he would kick it. Of course he carried on. “All I f…n said was there any f…n sausages…”

“Yeah, sure, you fucking lousy stinking little c..t. Like all the other times you’ve done this stuff, like the time you wanted spaghetti bolognaise – I cooked it, served it up to you and then you f…g asked if there were t bones in the freezer!”

I went up to bed, where I lay down and took half an hour to get my breathing back to normal before going to sleep.

He’s not just the double whammy – huge gambler and drinker – he’s the liar, gambler, drinker and cheat.

I just overheard him tell his dodgy mate, Steve, that he mowed yesterday…and last Sunday.

I MOWED! He hasn’t mowed for 5 months!

It makes me physically sick when I hear him lie like that. He’s even taking credit for the place looking nice.

Sickening.

*I’m disgusted at what comes out of my mouth now. But I’ve learned from the best. It just flows now. The absolute hatred. It’s like I have no control of what I say. Bit scary.

**He talks at great length to his scummy mates about a mate of his from years ago. A drug dealer, possible murderer, and someone who ended up in a barrel. You would think he was the salt of the earth, this bloke, the way CEF talks about him. He was talking about an altercation he had at his workplace with someone a few weeks ago, and he said, “I woulda just had to make a call to ***** he woulda fixed him.”

Bloody hell. How did a well brought up country girl, happily married with a lovely family, end up like this.

Mate…The iPhone verses Samsung…again…

Last night. CEF talking loudly on phone as I washed up.

“What sorta phone hav ya got?” he calls over to me.

“An iPhone 6s.”

“She’s gotta a iPhone 6s,” screaming to mate who drives around Australia on his own in a huge mobile home.

“That’s what he’s got,” he screams back to me, then continues on to the mate. “Yeah she thinks she’s a real smart arse with this new phone,” and gives me that gap toothed maniacal grin. (He’s in the good mood and is joking. I’ve actually said nothing at all to the Crazy Eyed F…er about the phone.)

I smile inanely, behind which my teeth are gritted.

When he gets off the phone to dodgy mate who drives Australia relentlessly, we go through a conversation we’ve had, oh, so many times in the past…really.

“So what’s your phone?” he asks me again.

“An iPhone.”

“Is my phone an iPhone?”

“No, it’s a Samsung Galaxy.” (Those of you who remember this conversation from my previous blog – my apologies – but at least you will feel my pain)

“So, it’s a Samsung IPhone, eh?”

“No, mine is an iPhone. Yours is a Samsung.”

“But mine’s a iPhone too, eh.”

“No. They’re different brands of phone…remember when I said about the Holdens and Fords… different brands, like Nokia, Samsung, Telstra phones etc. all different brands.”

“Yeah, yeah…but I thought that mine is like a Samsung iPhone…like a Nokia iPhone…that’s right, eh – that’s what you said.”

“No. iPhone is the brand…like my iPad is not like your computer down in the shed.”

Silence.

“But mine’s a iPhone, too, eh?”

Walking in to have shower, sighing and running hands through thinning hair…”No. Yours is a Samsung Galaxy.”

I think I heard more Samsung/ iPhone murmuring, but I beat a retreat to the bathroom while I still had some hair left.

Sat. Morn.

Hi my name is…

Well, all went ok at the course yesterday. No dramas.

But I definitely need a generic response to call upon in moments like these :-

“Tell us your name, what you do, where you’re from and something interesting about yourself.”

Now, let’s face it, I’m in a room full of teachers. Generally speaking, they love to talk about themselves. And of course, they are doing interesting things.

“Hi my name is June, I’m a (insert really important sounding title) from Clipakid High School.  An interesting thing about me is that I am getting married next week.” Sighs and clapping congratulations follow.

As luck would have it they started on my side of the table and I was only three people away from divulging my interesting thing. I had nothin. Usually I can think on the spot. I can make some crap up. But, far out, it was a blank page – I could go for the laughs…but they didn’t look too funny, this lot. My mind was going crazy trying to think of something interesting that I do! – Hi my name is xxxxx and I live with a madman, I am very fond of my cat, I like to read, I have a patch of psoriasis behind my right ear that’s been there since high school…

I never talk to strangers about the precious things in my life. I don’t. Because they are too precious to speak of to people/strangers who, well, like me if they were talking about loved ones, just aren’t interested.

So here I was. Next bloke:- “Hi, my name is Allan and I’m (very important) from Ben Dover Public. An interesting thing about me is that I have taken up fencing. Onguard!” (Don’t know the correct spelling for that, but it’s something I’ve always wanted to do myself.) Then, “Hello my name is Audrey, I teach the gifted bitches at The Little Sisters Of No Mercy in Parramatta, and I’m pretty special because I write medieval plays.” A polite smattering of applause followed.

Shit…my turn!!!!

My mind raced and I had that look on my face like Jan Brady when she’s thinking about Marcia – her eyes go all cooky and her head jiggles with thought processes like – ok, don’t talk about Buzz. No one talks about their cat…If you say you like to write, they may ask what you’ve written…

The spotlight shone on me.

“Hello my name is xxxxx I’m a school learning support officer at xxx and have been for more years than I’d like to admit to…Well, I like my coffee shops, and there’s a really nice one close by called The Three Beans. I highly recommend it.”

They sort of looked at me strangely and then smiled…kind of. (Maybe they knew I had just avoided any kind of caring sharing – or they thought I was a dick.)

The nice looking bloke next to me then said “Hi, I’m Peter, I’m a teacher at (insert nice North Shore school) and I have LOTS of long service leave…but I can’t take any of it yet because I have an eighteen year old cat.”  Lots of ahs and ohs and laughing commiseration – they really liked nice Peter and his nice old cat. (Bloody cat story pilferer!)

Anyhoo, the lunch was decent and I more than held my own in the conversations and discussions…well, apart from the meet and greet. Ha!

Thurs.