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Rated: E · Non-fiction · Comedy · #2194874
...and on and on...
I Hate It When Chapter 3

Following on from previous diatribes about what annoys the heck out of me, here is Chapter 3 in the series "I Hate It When". I hope you, dear reader, can relate to what I'm about to list:

I hate it when...

1. One of my cats jumps on my keyboard when I'm right at the vinegar stroke of literary genius. All that results, instead of class A prose or poetry, is "akdhhrkkekdl;b,dcoe94l';a;d;eklakdjdjdkdld;an cm ajdkaldzzzxxxxxqqqwqwqwqwqncncncncnmw,e3wccc0039301". I love my cats, but they can't write. In saying that, at least the above conglomeration lets a person know their paws explored every part of the keyboard. But gee, the least they can do is make an intelligible contribution! Instead, I'm backspacing again, and feel like I'm writing on my phone keypad...OMG, now he's trying to drink my bloody soup!!! Damn cat.

2. When I rush to the toilet only to find the floor carpeted in loo roll. Yes, I did mention this briefly in Chapter 1, but this is the actual, disastrous result of living with cats and leaving the toilet door open. I can't see the floor at all, because it looks like it snowed in there. And where is the guilty puss? Sitting in the basin. Well, curled up in the basin actually, like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Suffice to say my rather urgent need to get to the loo is forestalled by picking up copious lumps of loo paper, extracting aforementioned cat from the basin, then trying to pick shreds of paper out of my luxuriously fluffy bath mats. I leave the loo, close the door, comforting myself that it's been restored to its former glory, only to realise that I REALLY NEED TO GO. I rush back there, fling open the door, forget to shut it, sit myself down and then...in he comes again with that evil look on his face. I am ill prepared for this, and start to wildly roll the loo roll back up, but it's too late. There's another pile of snowy paper on the floor...I bend forward, intending to bang my head against the pedestal in frustration, but forget I'm not 35 anymore and pull a muscle in my back. It appears I'll be there a while with my butt sticking up in the air getting cold. Damn cat.

3. I work in aged care, doing mainly cleaning/domestic work. I am very fond of my clients, but can someone explain to me why they start a conversation while I'm vacuuming?? I can't hear a thing they're saying, but as time is of the essence (I've got another four to visit) I don't turn the vacuum off, and instead, nod my head, smile and say the odd "Yes...I agree! Oh really??" Sadly, as was bound to happen, one client was actually saying they wanted to die. And here was I nodding, smiling and agreeing. That visit didn't end well.

4. On 3. above, some of the elderly are very fussy. I'm a good cleaner though, and pay attention to detail, but that isn't enough for the fussy ones. "Dear, you've left a streak on my mirror". "Excuse me! YOU GIRL! You missed a bit!! Did you actually vacuum in there??" OMG, I feel my temper rising and want to tell Madam Fussy-Never-Happy to go fix it herself. Instead, I bite my tongue, smile sweetly, and set about fixing the problem.

These sorts of people are few and far between thank goodness, but what I really hate is when I finish their job with five minutes to spare, and I have the utter stupidity to ask "Is there anything else you want done?" (Praying there's nothing)."Oh, no, I think that's all. Although...could you make my bed and take that bit of rubbish out when you leave? My back is giving me curry today". God save me, why am I so NICE?? I make the bed which involves three heavy blankets, a bedspread, four pillows and two decorative cushions, placed just so. Then leave with an aching back, toting her "bit of rubbish" which weighs a ton and discovering her bin is out the back, entailing dragging the heavy bag down a dozen steps. I'm now convinced God doesn't exist.

5. I hate it when my partner serves up cake for us. The reason for this is because he cuts off a piece for me so big I could kill a Viking with it. And I'm too weak to knock it back, especially when he butters it and puts maple syrup on it...

6. When I look at my almost 57 year old body and compare it with my 47 year old body. Then am stupid enough to compare it to my 17 year old body. Can someone explain to me why we think we're fat when we're 17, 37 or 47, but when we're 10, 20 or 40 years older than the supposed "fat days", we actually were pretty slim compared to now? I close my Facebook page and my photo album and vow to only eat carrot sticks and apples from this day forward. But lunch screams loudly, and out comes the pepperoni, cheese, bread and butter, with the griller turned up to high. There's still some cake left too. ( And I notice the carrots are a bit mouldy).

7. I actually do eat apples. One a day to be precise. What I don't like though, is when I put the apple down for a second, only to pick it back up to take a bite and there, hanging off the apple, is a rather large bee. Now, I don't hate bees, but hate being stung by them. I also feel sad when they do sting and end up dying. So, while I have the apple in bite distance from my mouth, I am face to face with said large bee, wondering what I am to do. I put the apple down and hope the bee flies off. Nope. It clings to the apple, sucking what juice it needs out of it, while I'm watching it go brown. The apple that is. I flick the apple. The bee flies off the apple, straight towards me. I sit there flinging my arms around, trying to bat the bee away, then leap up, jumping up and down like I've got a full hive on me, waving my arms around wildly, when in the middle of these antics, I notice that the bee has landed back on the apple. This is one determined bee. I'd get another apple, but I'm all out. I'm tired now and all I want is to finish my apple. But Mr Bee doesn't want to share. I sigh heavily, give up the battle, and go to the fridge and extract a mouldy carrot. I go back outside to check the situation. The bee is still on the apple.

8. We have a hammock in our front yard, which I love to lie in sometimes. There's nothing better than relaxing with a cushion for my head and a book for my mind. As I lie there, swinging gently from side to side, I am transported to exotic isles, flanked by pristine beaches, surrounded by crystal clear water, when suddenly, THUMP! My chest almost explodes under the pressure of one of the damn cats leaping on to me from nowhere. Suddenly, Mr Bee seems the lesser of two evils, as I am faced with a cat who hasn't quite got a grip on his swaying owner, and is digging the claws in trying to maintain his position, all the while slipping down, down, raking those claws across my ribcage...until plop! He's on the ground, then proceeds to lick himself trying to make it look like he meant to do that. Meanwhile, there's blood everywhere, and I view my ripped shirt and flayed skin with utter shock. Those exotic isles are nowhere to be seen, and even though that's disappointing, I'm faced with another problem: I need to get off the hammock so I can treat my wounds.

Can anyone tell me how a person gets out of a hammock with their dignity intact? I have not mastered this yet, so I struggle from side to side, trying to sit up, then end up clinging to the edge of the hammock, trying to ease my butt over the side, but can't quite manage it. I have visions of myself still doing this when my partner returns from fishing. I'll be bleeding profusely, still swinging in the hammock. The thought strikes me that those stuck up, fit people walking by with their recently groomed little dog could lend me a hand, but...no. Hours pass. I'm exhausted and still swinging in the damn hammock. The blood has clotted at last, and the cat has long since regained his composure. It's a good thing in a sense that I'm still in the hammock though: I don't know where the bandaids are.

This concludes Chapter 3 in the continuing saga of I Hate It When...

PS: Did you know that the Mayans invented the hammock? Indeed, hammocks were originally woven from the Hammack tree, native to Latin America, hence the name, "hammock". Pity the Mayans did not include instructions on dignified ways to debunk from a hammock...

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