Rinse Aid

I never thought I would care about rinse aid as much as I do. It’s spectacular. I don’t understand the science, and I don’t care to check, but it’s remarkable: without rinse aid, I have dishes with water on them; with rinse aid - none. 

I never realised how much I hate changing lightbulbs. Why are there so many different lightbulb fittings? My shoulders are ill-equipped, and I go to the gym. Michelangelo must have been jacked. I had to use AI to understand how to change one the other day. 

My self-esteem is 100% though because I’m happy to buy a lightbulb without knowing exactly if it’s the right size. I could use a photo with my camera - but that’s dumb. 

I never thought I would love a pressure hose. My driveway is cleaner than a high school urine test, if you know whose urine to test. 

Moving abroad tested me in ways I can’t even imagine telling you. Especially in the garden. Weeds attack you out of nowhere like the apes in the movie Congo. I used the chainsaw the other day and couldn’t stop imagining what would happen if it bit into my leg. Ryobi is a mid-life skin tag. Except no Dr. can remove the need for a Ryobi One+ 18V Cordless Garden Cultivator. 

Listening to Get Back by Ludacris in my earphones with old trail running shoes on, shorts shorter than the next sentence. Dale wept. And a shirt tight enough to divulge the exact number of beers I had the night before. Not even I could find what’s under this bucket hat sexy. Not right now anyway. 

I pull out a weed killer I purchased at Bunnings just before I smashed a sausage sizzle with no research. The weed killer - not the sausage. I don’t want to know what’s in either. 

Out of the corner, I see a human. 

“YEEK, YEEK, why you all in my ear? Talkin’ a whole bunch of shit that I ain’t tryin’ to hear.”  Ludacris shouts from my headphones as I remove them. 

“Did you know you can kill weeds with boiling water?” 

“Thanks, Lorraine, but I like pesticides; I grew up in Welkom. It has nothing to do with this or to validate my point. I just talk when I’m nervous or feel like I’m being judged. Also, your husband's a prick.” 

She walks away. furious.

I put Ludacris back in my ear. I dance, leading with my belly. Shooting weeds like they done me wrong. My hips bop, my head follows slowly. Like a boa digesting a bushpig. 

If you’re not coming round to hydrate me, don’t bother me whilst I garden my garden. 

Or clean my driveway. 

Or compost.

I walk into the house - singing. Loudly.

I can weed clearly now Lorraine has gone.