Feed on
‘I’ve heard people say that
Too much of anything is not good for you, baby…’

What the fock is THAT?” I say pointing at a lump sitting on the dresser in my bedroom.

“It’s the stereo I  found,” my dear hubby says. “You know really I can’t believe that someone’s thrown it in the rubbish like that… all it needed was a friggin’ three cent amp!”

I’m irritated.

He looks very pleased with himself as he twiddles the knobs tenderly and gives it a good spray’n’wipe. 

“Oh no, But I don’t know about that…” 

And I guess he should be…   pleased with himself that is… 

I’ve never known anyone as handy with a screwdriver and soldering iron as he is.

He can open a toaster, a computer or the arse-end-of-the-dolly-that-wees and work out within seconds what’s wrong with it.

Then a minute later the guts are pulled out, tweaked, reinserted and VOILA!  it’s fixed.

It’s amazing.

But there’s a down side.

He’s really attracted to rubbish. 


Hang on!… That doesn’t paint me in a very nice light. I’ll just rephrase that. 


He’s really attracted to the art of “fixing things”.  

Don’t get me wrong…he’s not cheap or nasty…but he does effen-love-a-tight-arse-bargain. 

He is the Aldi to my David Jones.

It’s a constant source of annoyance for me, all that trolling through the cheap and nasty aisles of every freakin’ two dollar shop we come across… but most of all I dread the time of the year when it’s: Hard Waste Collection Week.

That’s when everybody puts their unwantables at the front of their houses- and on a designated day burly-beef-cake-council-men (traditionally in manky stained singlets) come and haul it all away.

That whole week I wait, wide eyed-petrified, wondering what pieces of useless garbage dear hubby, and his mini-me-accomplice-sidekick (aka the son) will haul home… 

This year I beg and I plead…please let’s throw out heaps of stuff and things and bits from our garage (otherwise known as the repository for everything other than the car) and he miraculously agrees!

>cue angels from heaven singing and playing harps

On collection day I walk out all excited…  and see… one single-paint-tin on the front lawn. 


Inside my garage instead of lovely clear spaces is now an even bigger pile of junk.

This year’s collection of unwanted shit treasures seem to have a musical theme, there is:

a guitar,

a karaoke machine,

an electronic disco light ball (I fockin’ kid you not.)

a stereo

and possibly some other crappy-things lurking in the corners.

I tippy-toe sneak in and find him and Master 11 hunched over something, heads close together… tinkering away with their frankenstein creations and enjoying themselves immensely. 

How can I be angry about that? I think… and really… after all, it’s all  in the garage right? … what’s the harm?


But now it has crept into the bedroom…MY bedroom…  

“There’s many times that we’ve loved
We’ve shared love and made love
It doesn’t seem to me like it’s enough
There’s just not enough of it
There’s just not enough
Oh oh, babe…”

He stops fiddling with the stereo when he notices that I’m still standing there, arms crossed, perfectly still.

He looks at me and his eyes grow wide as he realises that I now resemble a character from myth and legend…

I can see him thinking…hmmm, oh yeah…what… was… her… name?  Snakes-for-hair-chick? The one who turns grown men into stone?? Oh shite yeah- MEDUSA

He knows he has some serious damage-control to do.

He leans in close, pulling out the big guns…

“You know,” he whispers, “… I just thought you’d like some… muuusac in the bedroom… mmm…” 

Music? In the bedroom?

Is he fockin’ insane??  We’ve been through this before , I like quiet…silence…a complete lack of digitised-audio in the bedroom. 

“My darling I, can’t get enough of your love babe
Girl, I don’t know, I don’t know why
Can’t get enough of your love babe…”
“What the fock is THAT?” I say, (seemingly-oblivious-to-the-fact-that-my-anger-has-rendered-my-usually-eloquent-speech-useless-and-I-am-repeating-the-same-nasty-sentence-over-and-over.)

“Oh, some things I can’t get used to
No matter how I try”

 Is THAT Barry White?” I say. 

“mmm… maybe…” he looks at me sheepishly. 

FOOOOR-get it!” I say, clutching tightly to my resolve, furious with the junk and bleedin’ rubbish that is invading my bedroom and my house… “Just like the more you give, the more I want And baby, that’s no lie…”oh Barry… my oh my, you do have such a… What kind of love is this that you’re givin’ me? ” deep…throbbing…voice….mmmm…rubbish Carla…don’t forget how much you hate the rubbishhh…. “Is it in your kiss or just because you’re sweet?’” and suddenly I’m all gushy and melty …“Girl, all I know is every time you’re here…”  and maybe even a little wobbly at the knees…

I feel the change, Somethin’ moves…”

and the last thing I remember… as my resolve buckles under that thick-husky-croon…is thinking …okay,well maybe music in the bedroom might not be so…


bad afterall…

“I scream your name…Do whatcha got to do…”  



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