First day of Spring

First day of Spring today (or yesterday now probably), hip hip hooray.

Me hole. As accent monkey would succinctly put it.

Don and the sidekick were on CBC radio bright and early this morning burbling about the equinox and springtime coming to Canada, and the ickle bunny rabbits and bear cubs and yadda yadda, and how it was a balmy 1 degree Celsius, but unfortunately Queenie hadn’t slept well the night before so it was all heard through a red mist that was so visible in the room, Himself hid under the quilt until she left for work even though he had promised to take her there himself, and then scarpered for the island at 9.20am, when he knew Her Royal Despotickness was chained to her desk for seven hours and could not give him the evil eye as he sped across the MacDonald Bridge.

Queenie forgave him. She knows what a bitch she can be in the morning. Sunday morning she opened her eyes and when he said ‘good morning baby, how did you sleep’, she started lecturing him about what a useless layabout he was and how he’d better sharpen up. Or else.

Or else what?

Or else she’d sarcastic him to death, probably. She didn't know. It’s not Himself she’s angry at. Queenie is angry at the whole world at the moment. The magic horse roundabout of stress has started up again, just because the world is waking up, and it’s going round and round in her head and driving her crazy at the moment.

Stress No. 1: Work permits, renewal of one in particular which is taking forever.

Why does Queenie have to ask permission to stay in a place that continuously moans about how it doesn't have enough workers? Why don't they have to ask her? Why can't she produce pages and pages of forms and get them to fill them out and then keep them on her desk for weeks and weeks pretending she's busy so they'll hire more staff so she can surf the internet when she's supposed to be working for the Canadian civil service?

And why can't she stay in one of those jobs, while we're at it.

Oh that's right, she had one before and she went mad with boredom.

Stress No. 2: Does Queenie actually want said work permit? Or would she prefer to hightail it home? To what? Apart from Everyone Except Himself??

This particular painted horse goes up and down like a demented hurdy gurdy in a badly made horror film and is worthy of a post of its own. Not today though, or the red mist will spray on the computer and blow the circuit board.

Stress No. 3: Why does Queenie live thousands of miles away from Everyone Except Himself? Why can’t they all just come and live here? God knows, there are enough houses for sale on the island for everyone to fit.

Stress No. 4: Why does capitalism think it’s a good idea for us all to leave our little towns and villages, perched on the edge of the lovely Atlantic ocean, and move to horrible big urban centres with too much traffic and not enough space to go around. Why does Canadian capitalism, operating in the second biggest country in the effin’ world, which is mostly empty, think this?

Because it wants us all to work in Walmart, that’s why.

Stress No. 5: Why does Queenie ALWAYS have to put the effin’ toilet roll on the toilet roll holder?

WHY?

What sin is she paying for?

She did it when she was young. Even though she didn't want to. It’s not like she never did any chores back then and has to pay for it now.

Canadians are terrible at doing chores. Really dreadful. Queenie has never seen anything like it. In Ireland it’s just boys who are crap. Here the women are worse.

Queenie and one other person are the only people who load and unload the dishwasher and clean the kitchen in work. Queenie is the only person who does it at home. The new housemate who is replacing PsychoB insisted on dragging Queenie out of work last week, to interview her for the job of housemate, and during the interview (which focused a lot on having people round – great – more dirt) commented on how clean the house was. Queenie sat there pretending it all happened by magic, poker-faced for a change, thinking, ‘dream on bitch, my time is OVER’.

Queenie sent a text to Himself complaining about being the house mom after having to pack Missy’s jeep full of her crap for her this evening because she’s too weak to do it herself, and he sent her back a text that was so RUDE she can’t even follow through on her threat to publish it on this blog, as the Queen Mother would read it some day when Queenie’s forgotten about it, and faint on the spot.

And the threat isn't working either.

Stress No. 6: What the effin’ hell is Queenie doing living in a house full of layabouts when she could be in her own little flat with all of her things and no toilet paper holder to worry about?

Because she’s in the wrong country of course.

Stress No. 7: Does Queenie want to go back to living in 590 square foot of North Dublin? And having to queue for the shopping on a Sunday evening at nine pm?

No flippin’ way sirree bob!

There's another post. If Queenie can ever think clearly about it.

Stress No. 8: Elections, or lack thereof. Would someone piss or get off the pot? Before Queenie's politicians drive her to drink.

Queenie keeps thinking of the 1997 Irish general election, when the voices of sanity, the ones saying ‘we can keep going another year, we have a mandate’, were quelled by the overwhelming urge of the elected representatives to get a shiny new mandate from the people. And the people did what the Irish Independent told them to and fucked them all out on their ear.

Half of Queenie hopes that sanity will prevail and half of her hopes that insanity will prevail, just to get it over with.

IF THE WRIT IS DROPPED FOR JUNE WHEN THE QUEEN MUM AND DAD IS OVER, THEN YOUSE ARE ALL GETTING IT WITH A ROCK SAW.

That’s all I’m saying on the subject.

My, Queenie is shouty today. She finds shouting at the computer calms her down in a strange sort of way.

That and obscene language. It’s cathartic.

Stress No. 9: Wage slavery in Bumfuck, Nova Scotia. How in the hell is anyone supposed to live on eleven dollars an hour? Queenie doesn’t see the McCains or the Sobeys or the Irvings or any of that crew living on eleven dollars an hour. More like eleventy.

Camel. Eye of needle. And if that doesn’t tickle your fancy....

Eighteen inch rocksaw.

That’s all I’m saying on the matter.

Stress No. 10: Where’s the effing Spring?

Queenie's snowdrops are up, which makes it about January, Irishtime, she reckons.

Sigh...