Springtime in Wonderland

Today reminded me bipolar is like an teetering mound of crockery: it seems well placed and balanced until you try to take a plate out, and the whole pile crashes to the floorand shatters into a million pieces.

Here's how I remember the day:
I slept in as per normal Sunday routine. But instead of waking slowly to peaceful bird calls and mountains of laundry, early nineties death-metal assaulted my tired ears. Gav's weapon in the battle-on-grime. As pleased as I was to see the dinning table emerge from a small army of grocery bags allied with last weeks garbage, I can't say I was amused at being roused from my slumber. My mood must have shown on my face as I entered the lounge. Gav shot me an evil stare and turned up the music. Good morning to you too. I promptly took shelter in the office. It seems the silent treatment evolved overnight. As you know, patience and understanding don't describe me on a good day. Right then, they didn't describe any fibre of my being. So, I armed myself with "The Very Best of Sheryl Crow," a pair of militant JBL speakers, and a poorly insulated wall, and waged war on death-metal. In retaliation, I suppose, Gav attacked some pots and pans, launching the grill guard from the stove into the lounge. Unfortunately, my long-range battle plan was poorly constructed. My castle contained no vittals to prolong my protest. My stomach, who hates me, began lurching awake. In his trademark style, he grumbled and moaned threatening bloody violence if I don't find food. I aquiesced and slipped out of my fortress. Amidst Gav's war-zone kitchen renovation, I stealthily snatched a bowl of cereal and milk, then returned to my bunker. There I sat, happily munching away at my breakfast and watching random videos on youtube.

After three hours of watching strangers scream at sleeping housemates, I figure its time to do something with the day, not to mention scrounge for more food. I pack the dogs in the car and head to Gav's parents. There I explain to Di, Gav's mother, how evil Gav has been lately. She understands and fully agrees that he is crazy and acting out. Together we set up my greenhouse (6m x 32m....its fucking huge), as the dogs politely play with each other and pass me tools as I need them. Perhaps this should have been a clue; I mean, clearly Ozzie lacks the opposible thumbs required to lift a wrench with his paw. I return home, head inflated, knowing that I'm perfect and mean ol' Gav's to blame for all our problems.

And then I wake up to the harsh song of a magpie, perched outside on the rain gutter of the veranda. I slowly remember that the music war actually happened but at four in the morning, before I came to bed. Not too sure if I ate cereal, so I force myself out of bed and grab a bowl.

Amazingly the house is clean, and now I'm wondering just how crazy I actually am. I didn't drink the night before, and I don't think I got high. I remember wanting to, but I'm pretty sure I was too lazy to leave the house. Did Gav clean during the music war? No way to know, since I'm still receiving the silent treatment.

To his credit, he did mention, albeit to no one in particular (certainly not me), that my mom called earlier. She and Heather went to Rob's yesterday to visit the grandkids and I've been impatiently waiting for their return. I wolf down my food and dial the number. Ring. Ring. Hang-up. Oh the joys of cheating the phone company. Thirty seconds later the phone rings. As expected the call leaves me feeling mostly at fault for my current predicament, which isn't necessarily untrue.

While cleaning my dishes at the sink, Gav re-opens communications asking me random short questions from the office. An awkward conversation follows. Something like this:

G: What are you doing?

J: Cleaning.

G: Why?

J: Because.

(Two minutes of silence)

G: Where are you going today?

J: Why?

G: I need the car.

J: Why?

G: Because.
I've been thinking alot this morning...
(silence)
I've come to some decisions...
(more silence)
I don't want to fight anymore.

At this point, I turn purple. I'm not done fighting; I haven't even had a chance to begin. Who the hell does he think he is getting all different shades of shitty with me, then giving me complete silence for days. I don't even get a chance to retaliate??? More uncomfortable chit-chat follows. I explain how the cycle doesn't work for me:him upsetting me, my reaction, then his shut-down. He tries to convince me it was all my fault. Then, a miracle occurs: we agree to just let it go. This is a first for us. We reason that both of us are angry, but we won't empathize, so we just drop the whole thing and move on.

We spent the rest of the day building the greenhouse (which really is 6m x 16m) at Gav's parents house and formulating a plan to cover it with plastic tomorrow, and have the plants out there by next weekend. During the ordeal we aggravated each other a few times and certainly lots of old triggers were tested, but we managed a whole day together without loss of blood. Whats more we actually hugged and are sleeping in the same bed. Life seems to be returning to normal

So this past weekend sucked ass for so many reasons. For starters I had to work saturday (LAME!) and the people who come in are all bogans! I had a family of 16, (14 fucking ankle-biters running around the store....okay most were at home, but the one present and on a sugar-high, reeked of pee and stank up my store for at least three hours) who wasted my time applying for a phone they could never afford (like we're gonna give unemployed people a contract - geez people are dumb). Next I had the family from Zimbabwe speaking click-click. Alright, that may sound a bit harsh, perhaps even a tad racist, but honestly if your in and English speaking country dealing with an English-speaking clerk and you yourself speak English, you think you'd get the idea that I could be more helpful if you actually USED English (fucking ass-holes). Its not as though they had trouble speaking English, they all had been here long enough to develop Aussie accents. Did that stop them from trying to speak some foreign fucking language to me? Oh, hell no! Then, they had the gall to tell me to hurry up! >GRRR<

After the longest five hours of work ever, I'm finally free to go play tennis! Small explosions of happiness occur inside my brain as I skip to the car. And how does the world reward me for my patience at work, you ask? naturally, I'm punished. All the courts are full, and I have to wait thirty minutes to play. On a good Saturday I can squeeze in about three hours of tennis after work; today I managed to play two sets. Two measly sets. One hour of play. What a tease. As I try for the third, Gavin appears and rips into me for not being ready to leave for Shepparton. I can't believe I forgot; he's been beating it into my head all week that we have to go visit his friends (Freudian slip I'm sure...sabotage and what not).

I'm rushed home and throw a shirt and some nice brown pants in a bag, along with underwear and toothpaste (no toothbrush though....damn), and within ten minutes we're on the road. Lucky for me Gavin's behind the wheel because its dusk, a time when I don't see particularly well on the road and, conveniently, when the kangaroos all decide to come out and play (a fact I mentioned to Gav as we leave town). Perhaps its a curse I put on myself mentioning the kangaroos, perhaps its our bad luck, perhaps just bad karma. You guessed it, we hit a kangaroo thirty minutes out of Shepparton (kinda makes you wonder about his karma). For those readers who have never encountered a kangaroo in a zoo or otherwise, know that a meeting with one head-on at 100kmh tends to get ugly.

Luckily #1 for us, Mr hippidy-hop elected to jump in fright right as we plowed into him, and was sent flying over the car to hop away and return to his life of bangin' the missus and disrupting the flow of highway A39 (not sure what the highway is actually called). Unluckily for us, his thigh managed to destroy the bonnet (hood if your in the states) as he became airborne. Seeing as we have a rare car for this country, all the parts have to be imported and will take over a month to fix and cost $6000, labor inclusive. Luckily #2 for us, Gav updated the insurance two days before and added a rental clause, so we get a car for the mean-time. I'm not sure what our excess is, but its guaranteed we aren't forkin' out more than $500.

You thought that was the end of my bad luck, you miserable fool! I spend that night and the following day with Gav's friends (bleh!) who try and force me to drink (bastards!) and ruin my year of sobriety. Sometime in here the car started making unhappy sounds from the general area of the engine and leaking colourful liquids. It was at this point that Gav rang the insurance company and set up the rental car. After hours of dull chit-chat, and a damn good souvlaki, we hit the road to celebrate father's day with Gav's old man. An uneventful drive home lulled me into a false-sense of security. It seems safe enough to pick up the dogs on the way to the 'rent's, so we do. It's really the only sensible thing to do for poor wittle puppies who spend the night outside in the cold. Upon arrival at the 'rent's house, we let the dogs out to run up the half kilometer driveway (a common practice which they partake in every time we visit...and yes, they live on a farm). And little Brown-dog in his teenage doggy angst decideds I need punishment. He bolts straight into the neighbours paddock and attacks a sheep. As it's father's day Mr. Bogan (owner of the land) is out with his son playing with his sheep (interpret that however you like). Fearing for Ozzie's (the dog) life, I scale the fence and chase after him and the sheep whose neck he is tasting across the yard right to Mr. Bogan's spherical blob of a son who joins the pursuit cussing and throwing anything he can find. and as we pass Mr. Bogan he lines up a great kick which sends Ozzie flying two yards. Fortunately, this knocks some sense into the little shit and he starts listening to my frantic shouts to get the hell out of this psycho's yard. We tear off across the fence, hop in the car and floor it as Mr. Bogan runs for his shotgun.

We spent a stressful hour at the 'rent's house going through the motions of dad's day before returning to the sheep- and kangaroo-free sanctuary I call home.

I'm paranoid the RSPCA will turn up at the door any moment to claim my dog, who proved he is a menance and danger to livestock. Wonder how long it will be until this feeling evaporates. Also wish I knew how long this rut is gonna last....To say the least, I'm avoiding all trips and driving at night.