I’m going to introduce you to a very well-known Aussie expression – I feel the need for a bit of a whinge. That is to say, I’m a tad peeved with things around me at the moment, and I have a burning desire to vent.
Numero uno. I don’t care which side of the political spectrum you choose, but having had a gutful – another Oz expression for you – of Congress as a whole, I would like to direct my well-oiled whinge at the Dems right now. You’ve been carrying on about impeaching Trump for three years now – probably longer if you could find a way to impeach someone who even vaguely thought about running for president. Meanwhile a penn’orth of naff all gets done in your august house, and I’m bloody tired of it. Piss or get off the pot I say. Stop procrastinating and get on with it.
I am peeved that I managed to dislodge a crown in the tooth department, to be told by the dentist that I’d somehow managed to break off a tiny bit of tooth along with it, so the chances of longevity of my now re-cemented crown are slim. I’m whinging about the cost of dental insurance vs. the benefits, and my jury is still out on the subject. Let’s see: Do I want to pay $600 in insurance for a year – as that is the time I have to wait for “major dental benefits” – just so that you can pay me $500 toward the cost of my $1,000 crown next year? Oh, it is to ponder.
I’m whinging on behalf of my boss who, minding his own business, was rear-ended at a stoplight by a driver who was “distracted.” (Distracted, in this instance, means “texting.”) If you are in charge of a multi-pound vehicle, pay attention! The poor man now has a concussion, has had to miss work and has to suffer many inconveniences while said texter just has to look forward to increased insurance rates. And to the “distracted” drivers on I-70 this afternoon who came to an altercation at Brooklyn, thus delaying my trip home, I have two things to say. Pay A-bloody-tention, and if you must be distracted, can you do it outside of rush hour?
I’m whinging that I managed, for the third time, to buy something on the strength of a Facebook ad. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times? Well, just smack me upside the head with a cast-iron skillet. I’m an idiot! Three of the four shirts arrived, all of them woeful, and it’s now taken three weeks, and 15 emails, back and forth, to come to the realization the seller has absolutely no intention of honoring their written return policy, so now I have the bank involved and I have to go through 83 circus hoops to plead my case. I won’t publish the name of the joint here – but do let me know if you’d like to be personally warned by email.
So, there you go, I’m just an old grump. I need a cup of tea, an aspirin and a good lie down.
Never fear, the bright and sunny me will be back next week.
Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at firstname.lastname@example.org.