Blokes with balls

A girlfriend of mine once rang me in fits, tears and snot evidently dribbling from her facial orrifices as she laughed. Once I was able to lasso in some logical syntax, this is what she told me.

I came home to a spotless kitchen and the whiff of some gorgeous smelling risotto. My husband ushered me to the couch and pressed play on the DVD. It was Love Actually, actually. He then served me a glass of red and joined me for his brandy and dry. We chatted, in a somewhat surreal space to my mind, about the weather, the overgrown lawn, educational theory. Then he ran back to the kitchen, clanked and clattered a little and produced said rustic Italian feast which we ate by movie light, side by side, on our worn out blue sofa. I watched him watch me eat my last morsels of rice. Watched him watch me put my fork down in the bowl. Watched him watch me place my bowl on the floorboards. Watched him watch me settle back in to continue with the movie.

And he suddenly paused it, jumped up and flicked on the light.
What?! I cried. His pace suggested he'd left a burning cake in the oven. Or had suddenly developed a loose bowel.

He returned to the couch. Sat down beside me. Smiled. Into my eyes smiled.
What? It was a bit much.
Then he looked down at my empty risotto bowl and nodded at it. 'Good?'
'Yum?' I answered, hoping this was the correct response.
'Cool,' he replied. Grinning. Frozen. Waiting for....

Suddenly realising the entire set up was a ploy which, no matter how seemingly romantic and altruistic in nature was actually an enactment of the universe's most fundemental, archetypal bluff, I began to laugh. Indeed, I descended into a torrent of hysterical fits, gushing forth, Versuvius like.

And that's when I rang you.



He's still sitting on the couch waiting for her reply...



International Man’s Day



If she gets a day, then so should I.
The time is nigh, but I don’t deny
she pulls her weight around the house
and her cooking’s grouse (she’s quite the spouse),
but since we’ve had, oh, what do you say?
That Women’s Day, that purple display,
to celebrate me, I’ll clean the place
at such a pace she’ll think I’m ace.

I’ll even scrub the feral wok.
Soap suds will flock; she’ll think I rock
and then I’ll tidy up the yard;
it can’t be hard and buy her char-
donnay, the best; it costs five bucks
(I think it sucks), but she’s deluxe
and for her I will also tote
a post-it note(and will not gloat)

that tells me to PUT DOWN THE SEAT.
Now, what a treat. That’s hard to beat
and she will not scream from the loo
as she’d normally do in such a stew
for not just will the seat be down
but a full roll wound I cleverly found
with the other loo rolls she hides so well
on the window sill. And I’m no dill.

After all these jobs are done
I’ll suck up scum, as vacuuming’s fun
and dust her precious ornaments
and ceiling vents and pay the rent
and other bills and fines and fees
(it’s such a breeze If yur organeezed).
I’ll scour the laundry and shower too
and TA DAH! The loo, with flair, I do.

And scrub the sink of facial hair,
the shavings there beyond compare,
and then the bath, I polish it well.
It sparkles ‘til my head does swell.
I then pick up my path that flows
of winding clothes and socks and shoes.
Ecstatic she will be tonight
I’m a bit of all right. She’ll show delight.

Especially when I cook the dinner
and tell her she’s thinner, she’s with a winner.
No chore undone, a spotless home
and bubbly foam in a bath to roam.
My darling will be in such bliss
in the bath’s abyss and I’ll blow a kiss
and because I’ve cleaned ‘til the house shines bright
I’m a shining light and if my cards play right,

oh yes, we had that Women’s Day
(they’re quite ok in the strangest way).
But if she’s had HER day, tonight is MINE
and because I shine and she thinks I’m fine,
I’m sure she’ll want to thank me, yes,
for I ‘m the best and she is blessed.
So off I pop into our bedroom now,
where I’ll “take a bow” and she’ll purr “meow”…

                          …if she ever gets out of the bath.

Pin the Tail on the Shonky Donkey

In my final (Wembley Primary) school year, the most exquisite girl in our class had an impossibly large birthday party. I remember this vividly, for I was not invited.

There's nothing like being invited to a rocking good party. In Australia, we're totally lucky because every few years (or few months, depending on one's keenness for pin the tail on the political donkey) we're all invited to two parties. At LEAST two parties. Of course, we have a slight problem here in that they're invariably on the same day, at the same time. But our job is to elect one to attend.

For example, a little while back Julia Gillard's party was sort of or not really ok. Tony Abbott's party was not that gay either. No one really liked either and most of us ultimately went to one so we could prove we didn't go to the other.

And the third half was busy scamming illicit tickets for a boat ride out of the country.


Pin the Tail on the Donkey

He invited everyone to come to his great party.
Every kid in every class, he thought he was a smartie.
Problem was that she did too, she asked them all to come.
She’d pin the tail on donkeys and they’d have just loads of fun.

He said it would NOT BE HOT! No hotter than last week,
But he’d give them sunscreen and nice party hats with peaks.
She said they would play indoors on her WHIZZ BANG COMPUTERS!
Plenty fun for everyone, even distant commuters.

He soon heard his plan was flawed because some thought him dud.
She soon heard he might have scored because she was not Rudd.
On the day they sat in wait in fancy schmancy clothes.
His mum asked, ‘How many Tony?’ He replied, ‘God knows.’

Tony’s mum said, ‘Ask Him then, I’m baking sausage rolls
and fairy bread -’ Tone interrupted, ‘Can’t have them Mum, no!’
‘Tony!’ his mum glared at him. ‘OK, Mum, just this once,
but fairy bread’s for sissy’s and I ain’t nobody’s dunce.

Meanwhile, out at Julia’s, her mum tried being enlightening,
saying, ‘dydd Sadwrn, gwlad, cors.’ My goodness, Welsh is frightening.
What happened to all the vowels? And when does it not rain?
Anyway, this is digression. What’d she say again?

Oh yes, that’s right, young Julia’s mum said, ‘It’s party day, my dear,
and, as you say, they’re all your friends! I’m sure they’ll all appear.’
So Tony had his fairy bread, despite his inclination
and Julia had done her hair and taken up her station

of standing at the front door, the gates of chance now open
as Tony cycled round his yard, his nerves of steel unbroken.
And soon they all arrived. The guests come out to play.
Some they went to Julia’s and some the other way.

Then some more to Julia’s, then a bunch to Tone’s,
‘til there were just five kids left and THEN kicked in the groans.
‘But Muuuum,’ whinged Julia out loud, ‘why didn’t they all come?
Near half of them are all next door at Tony’s place. Not fun!’

‘Oh stop your whinging little girl, your strine’s like blackboard nails.
Maybe there are others coming, drifting in like snails.’
And Tony, well, now he was sweating, seventy-something counted.
Sort of Mr Popular, his campaign fully mounted.

‘I guess you’re right,’ said Julia, to her mum as kids played,
‘my friends, they all have spoken but who knows what they did say.’
Tony scanned down to the fence upon which five friends sat,
right ‘tween his and Julia’s and he thought…bottom, drat.

The celebrations dwindled and all the kids they left,
quite bored with both the parties, the right one and the left
and waved out to that fivesome perched as if it didn’t matter,
still deciding which to choose, including BobKat Katter.

And there they perched for days and weeks, sore bums, ‘twas rather odd.
Jule’s she offered lemonade and Tony offered…God?
And finally, they all decided which party best fared,
by which time it was footy finals, so no one really cared…




© Elise Batchelor 2010