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House Move 101 - Dont murder hubby!

I have come to the conclusion that packing up house while I have a severe bout of PMS is very bad for Dalekins health (mental AND physical).  The poor lad has been desperately hanging onto his bollocks and has taken to wearing a cricket box around me should the urge strike me to take a potato peeler to his nuggets in a fit of rage…. Because you know… he asked me a perfectly normal question, or because he couldn’t get the cello-tape off the roll fast enough. *packing up 6000 glasses and wrapping them lovingly in newspaper* (Co-incidentally our domestic, the lovely Betty lugged an entire wrapped up bag of “Rekord” newspapers all the way from home for us… I’m thinking the entire Mamelodi woke up sad last week to no Game / Makro specials… sorry for you boets)

Dalekins: “Let’s just get rid of some of these glasses”

*turns around with Demonic PMS face* (0 – BITCH in 1.5 second)

Me: “Are you fucking out of your MIND!!! Why do we want to just toss glasses away like we’re the Oppenheimers Dale!!!”

Dalekins: *blink blink* *takes step back*

Me: “What the fuck are we supposed to do one day when we have a party and run out of glasses hmmmmm?!” “HMMMMMMMMMMMMMM” *inches toward him* “Are you expecting your friends to drink out of the TOILET BOWL!!! Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!! Jaegermeister stains porcelain… just SAYINGGG!!” *glowy eyes*

Dalekins: “No… they’d just drink out of the bottle” *small voice* *blink blink*

Me: *picks up scissors*

Dalekins: “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeuuuuuugh” *runs*

Thank God the man loves me. That, and the fact that he has taken to packing with one hand because he keeps a braai tong in the other hand incase I advance on him and he needs to poke me in the eye.

So we’re moving house.  Yay for us.  And about time too because we are literally starting to peel out of the sides and I can no longer swing a cat around the lounge (let alone a cow) without hitting something.

To put it in perspective, our wendy house outside which is used as our “storage facility” is more like the mouth of hell where things go never to be seen again (mostly because they’re buried under piles of other shit).  It’s gotten so bad that if I want to sweep the patio and go to get the broom out of aforementioned wendy house, I know that it is going to be like opening a Lucky packet… *opens door quickly grabs first thing your hand touches and slams door shut* Awesome, I’ll just sweep with these hedge clippers!

It’s all a mystery as to what you’re going to find.  Only because to open the wendy house door completely for longer than 2 seconds means sure death by landslide of things like… Dales Alfa gearbox (Yes, I also don’t know) that weighs 7 tons and the Christmas tree and 500 tikki torches…(yes get one of those up your bum, it’ll ruin your day).

So oh happy days we have bought a bigger posse! More packing space HALLELUJAH *spirit fingers*

Dalekins is pleased because he will finally after 4.5 years of us living together have a cupboard all for himself, and won’t “surprise surprise” get to work wearing one of my bra’s and a pair of 3 quarter exercise pants because “it was on top of MY pile of clothes Tash”.

Now if only we can make it through the packing phase without me losing a husband.  It will take me a very long time to get the spade and bag of lime out of the wendy house…

Pink Foot Phobia

Stranger Danger!!

Stranger Danger!!