Thursday, 20 September 2012

Einstein's theory of stab-ativity

Lae is known as the city of potholes. You THINK you know potholes until you come up here. Our potholes are on 'roids. Big, deep and breast-shatteringly, kidney-damaging craters. Husbang and I did a bit of off-road 4WDing in our day, but with no word of a lie, EVERYONE up here drives a big all-terrain diesel monster because a sedan simple wouldn't make it to the shops. Think of a fairly extreme off-road tour, and that's my daily drive.

In 2009, there was a pothole so freaking deep on Coronation Drive that a PMV (local public transport, usually a minivan, held together with Blu Tak and dick cheese) got stuck in it and abandoned.

And then looted. And set on fire.

The local council's solution to this pothole was to fill it with 44 gallons drums. That's plural. DrumS. Which were then promptly stolen on a nightly basis by the local louts.

So, you think you're tough enough to expat in Lae? You've "Pffft"-ed at the descriptions online that it's the most dangerous city in the world outside a war zone, You've laughed (somewhat maniacally) at your friend/family's concern over typhus and malaria, and you've learned to say Hello and Thank you in Tok.

Bullshit. You aint ready, Freddy.

You are not ready to expat in Lae until you've had a bespoke bra made, Mine is called "The Spandex Monster" It's glamorous in a Russian Female Weight-Lifter kinda way. But baby, it holds the puppies in place on the drive to the market!

Forget Ah-Bras, unless you want the "ah" to represent "Ah just gave maself a black eye with ma own tittie"

And here's where Einstein's theory comes in.

I have Double E breasts. I cheerfully refer to them as Annapurna One and Annapurna Two.

So, add EE x 2, divide by menopause to the power of having your period and you get stabby.

Really. Fucking. Stabby.

It's like driving the Baja Rally with 2 large plastic bags of boiling water strapped to your upper chest. Some dude that The Husbang bangs on about did the Baja in record time, WITH A BROKEN FINGER.

I am all like whoopty-fucking-dooh, Basil. Try driving to Foodmart, with your period when the Spandex Monster's in for a wash.

One day I'll blog about the joys of being perimenopausal since 32, but when every bounce in the road moves your torso about 7 inches in every plane, while your breasts are pumped up on hormones, and every kidney-slapping jar makes your uterus try and expel itself from your body in a scene reminiscent of John Hurt's death scene in Alien, THEN I'll give you some props. And I do this every.fucking.day.

Broken finger? SERIOUSLY?

So some douche-canoe better not cut me off, or pull out on me, or step in from of my car or look at me the wrong way when I head up to pick up Vop later on, because I am one bleeding, sore-breasted angry hormone-driven mutha right now, and someone's going to get stabbed.

Fucking broken finger, my ass.

2 comments:

  1. Bahaha!!!!! Miss you, girl!!! xx

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    1. MY FIRST COMMENT!!! **spins around with happiness**! How are you, darl?

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