"I Hate It When..."

Chapter 1
I Hate It When...

By Gypsymooncat

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.

I hate it when...

1. I yearn for a holiday, get some time off, then stress about how to spend it. After two weeks of winding myself up about how to spend my time off, I go back to work exhausted and wishing for another holiday so I can do what I should've done on the holiday just ended. So much for winding down.

2. I'm queued up at the supermarket checkout and someone pushes their trolley into the back of my ankles. And does it more than once.

3. I'm being served at the 12 items or less checkout and someone shuffles up so close I can smell their armpits. This happened to me a few weeks ago and after glaring at the boundary crosser with no good result, I shuffled sideways and nearly sent her flying. I still can't put my finger on the scent either; maybe sweat and Rexona.

4. I go to the self serve checkout and after scanning a couple of items, the bloody thing says "please remove item from bagged area". THERE'S NOTHING IN THE BAGGED AREA. But even after "removing" the phantom item in the bagged area, it asks me to remove it again. So I repeat the whole process to no avail, except to make me look like a weirdo, then it comes up with "please seek assistance". Thank you, I will. But the "assistance" comes in the form of an annoyed staff member who, by the look on her face, really has better things to do with her time. And who also can't find the offending item in the bagged area.

On that, why is it that supermarket staff who patrol the self serve checkouts seem more cranky and intolerant than those manning two measley checkouts with queues stretching to Uranus??

5. I go into the supermarket at the busiest time of day, and only one checkout is open, the self serve is bulging at the seams (patrolled by abovementioned cranky staff member) and the 12 items or less checkout has a queue stretching, this time, to Pluto. I feel so sorry for supermarket staff! How they keep a smile on their faces is beyond my comprehension, and I make sure to say something that will keep that smile on their face, trust me. This way, I manage to circumvent my irritation and annoyance by realising that someone else is worse off than me. If I were behind the checkout, I'd be guilty of mass murder or possibly a very vocal and very messy, suicide.

6. On 5. above, it's upsetting on the very rare occasions when I do say something positive and cheery to a beleaguered checkout person and end up with them looking at me like I have two heads with snakes coiled on both, or that I'm so incredibly stupid they can't believe what they're hearing. I guess my supposed faux pas will make good dinner time conversation when they eventually drag their exhausted, sorry bottoms home. I hope their cat is a good listener.

7. I'm driving down my road -- which is long, windy and not too safe -- and I'm behind an elderly person driving thus: 60 kilometres per hour (kph) or less, when the road is 80 kph all the way along it, and said elderly person insists on weaving all over the road, then sitting in the middle of it when we get to the only spot on the long, windy road where safe overtaking can happen. Then they move back to our side of the road and continue putting and weaving at 50-60kph. I hate to think how annoyed the drivers of the other two cars and the truck behind me would be if I'm anything to go by.

What is incredible though, is after all this carry on, we eventually get to the turn off to the Highway, and said elderly person who has weaved and putted for 8 kilometres, shoots on to the highway like a cannonball and drives ramrod straight at more than the 100kph speed limit. Then Idiot - meaning me - decides to get in to the overtaking lane and the old coot puts their foot down even more. Good God, what is with that?? Here was I, in the midst of my irritation, wondering if maybe this driver was ill or had some other problem, and they're driving like Ayrton Senna!

8. Toilet paper annoys the crap out of me (figuratively and literally). My reasons for this are not all that varied, but still, they're enough to set my teeth on edge. Here's why: I approach the toilet paper aisle with fear and trepidation. I don't know what to get! I look at what's on special. Kleenex (my favourite) is on special today. Lemme see...12 rolls for $4.99. That's pretty good. Oh wait, there's Quilton on special too! 12 rolls for $3.99, and Sorbent $4.99 FOR 18 ROLLS. But I like Kleenex best. Kleenex is 3-ply and longer. But Quilton's good too and a dollar cheaper. Sorbent may be cheaper, but it's got nasty these days. Oh, and what's this new brand I haven't heard of? 8 rolls for $1.99...

See what I mean? I can't make up my mind, and I also can't consult my cheeks to see what their preference is due to potential public embarrassment, so after half an hour of irritation, tears welling in my frustrated eyes and juggling Kleenex, Sorbent, Unknown and Quilton packs from hand to hand, I make my choice. Then proceed to the checkout area (and go through the whole rigmarole of boundary crossing, cranky staff at the self serve, etc).

Once home I place my loo rolls on my loo roll holder (my loo roll holder is actually a towel rail and it holds five rolls. FIVE). Now all is well if I've brought home Kleenex. However, if I've brought home another brand of toilet paper, then comes my next irritation with the stuff: Unrolling the roll. Why is it that toilet roll manufacturers insist on sticking down the beginning bit of the roll to the extent where half the roll is gone before it actually starts rolling?? Prior to that, it comes off in shreds and falls all over my recently cleaned toilet floor causing that familiar throb in my temples and my teeth to start gnashing. (Quilton never used to be like that, but it is now I've noticed. And it's got thinner.)

Once I've got the roll rolling I feel better. Until one or two of my cats comes in. I have to sit and roll the toilet paper up so none hangs down otherwise...well, you can guess the rest. On that, don't you just love the look of pure evil on a cat's face when he/she leaps up to the loo roll? It's like the Exorcist revisited.

9. On the topic of cats, I have three who are each six months old. They are very affectionate pussies for which we're very grateful. However, our young trio being smoochy and snuggly means that our sleep is often disturbed. For example, at around 2am, our little Chucky (a grey swirly tabby) likes to sit in the middle of us and lick our noses, chins and lips. Or, as happened the other morning -- a bit later than 2am thank God -- I slowly came out of my sleep stupor to a soft sensation on my left cheek. It was Chucky curled up in the middle of us stroking me ever so gently on the cheek. I forgot to mention that he purrs like a lawn mower, and dribbles. We love you Chucky, but please let us sleeeep!!!

Our little girl Luci -- a beautiful calico - likes to leap about between the two of us purring loudly, licking us, getting comfy then deciding to get up again, wandering around in circles and doing that thing cats do with paws and claws, generally disturbing our sleep/tv watching/reading until she makes up her mind and stays still. Then she has to show further affection by placing her paws on our chests, necks, arms, or wherever is bare, with her claws extended just so. Oh yes, then the little biatch goes to sleep while we're left lying there staring at the ceiling, too loved and irritated to sleep/watch tv/read.

Then there's Tig, who is our resident ginger cat. He stays away for most of the night, then when everyone's nearly asleep, he does an almighty leap on to the bed, skips from my chest to my partner's, then snuggles up on his side of the bed. He insists on being there every night. Poor Dwain can't get comfortable as he has the other two cats in between him and me, Tig snuggled under his armpit and our small dog Benji curled up between his feet.

As incredibly sweet, lovely and heart warming as this is, it's still annoying. I spend most days with my eyes hanging out on stalks. Dwain can't remember his own name. We catch nanny naps when we can, and sometimes dread bedtime. But we love our cats and hope that soon, our sleep deprivation will ease once our cute little bunch settles down and becomes a wee bit more mature and lazy. Like the dog.

10. Running out of cold water in the fridge. We keep a jug and a glass bottle of water in the fridge during those steamy summer months. Unfortunately, the bottle gets served out with dinner of an evening, and unless it's drunk down to nothing, it's put back in the fridge. And who's the lucky one who goes to get a drink of cold water the next day? Me. And as usual, there's only an inch of water in the bottle. On checking the jug, it's in the same condition. My frustration knows no bounds. I'm thirsty and the water out of the tap is warm. I'm so angry I could squeal and I know who to blame; when I see her in the mirror next, she's going to be black, blue and bleeding. And still thirsty.

11. Stubbing my toe. One of the things that bring tears to my eyes, loud expletives from out of my mouth and rather strange, John Cleese-like movements that could be called hopping up and down, is stubbing a toe. Like most of us, I've stubbed my toes on door frames, cupboard doors, steps, etc., and every time it feels like someone put those items there deliberately just so I can stub my toe on one of them. It's so unexpected, so unforeseen and always happens right when I don't need it. But then, how does one prepare for stubbing a toe? It's not possible, so the shock is always monumental, along with the pain.

Interestingly, the worst "toe" incident I ever had was in my younger days after a fair bit of alcohol. I was running through a doorway barefoot and managed to stub my middle toe. Well, I actually broke it, but didn't realise the extent of the injury until the next day when my toe was a funny shade of black, had swollen to twice its original size, and I couldn't put a shoe on it. I had to hitch-hike all the way home to my parents' house with my throbbing head and throbbing toe in a sock, which took hours. Dad took me to the doctor the next day who pronounced it broken. I was told to go home and not do anything. I was like an old person for a few days, hobbling around, using a walking stick, keeping my foot elevated (don't know why I had to do that) and generally sticking to what the good Dr ordered. The toe eventually healed on its own, though it took weeks before I could put a shoe on without pain. I learned my lesson after that: When inebriated, don't run. Or at least have steel capped boots on. One thing I was grateful for though, was that I didn't suffer the usual shock, pain and frustrated tears from stubbing my toe sober.

12. Sitting down to type up all those things in life that annoy the heck out of me, but can't remember one. I know what you're thinking: SHE'S WRITTEN OODLES. Trust me people, I had to leave the computer, distance my mind from all things potentially irritating and annoying and do things that calmed my soul, to actually be reminded of anything that came under the category of annoying. That annoyed me on its own really; a bit like walking into a room and forgetting why I'm there.

13. On that, I often seem to walk into our bedroom with great purpose, only to get in there and completely forget why I did (I'm a bit perplexed as to why it's always the bedroom too, but I digress). I get so frustrated with this that my head starts to throb again, I want to cry, because I've got better things to do than hang around purposeless, and then, in the middle of my forgetful angst, I notice the room needs dusting. So I leave the room to get a cloth and spray, then forget why I left. In order to preserve my failing sanity, I give up and sit down with a crossword. Once I'm almost comfy, I remember why I went into our bedroom in the first place. (Its usually because my feet are cold and I couldn't possibly settle down and do a crossword with cold feet). Back to the bedroom I go to grab some socks, then notice the room needs dusting. The crossword gets done another day. And my feet are still cold.

14. Auto-Correct. There are times I could happily slap Mr Auto-Correct fair in the vernacular because he corrects words that don't need correcting. Like the word "bugger". I was typing up a Facebook status a few weeks ago and typed bugger, which got auto-corrected to bugging. I ask you Mr Auto-stuck-up-yourself-Correct, how does it make sense to write that one had a hard day and was feeling "bugging"?? (This may apply to Facebook only, because I can't see a squiggly red line under "bugger", can you?)

15. I also use abbreviations, but not often, mind. Still, if I wish to use "atm" for "at the moment" or "btw" for "by the way" I will. Why oh why does Mr Auto-Correct-Neverwrong insist on capitalising atm (hang on, just backspacing) or btw to better?? I've noticed that "lol" is never corrected, nor is LOL. If one types lol in lower case or capitalised, it stays that way. I think Mr Auto-Correct-Smartypants needs to get with the program. I could fill a book with the amount of irritated expletives I use when posting a Facebook status, let me tell you, especially when I'm doing it on my phone. In his defence though, he has learned that when I type f**k I want it to stay that way. (Out of interest, when I first started typing this instead of the actual swear word, it used to auto-correct it to fink). Mefinks you can educate Mr Auto-Correct on some fings, but not all. (He'll also accept faaaaark. And American Express). Notice that "fings"has remained, with that wiggly red line under it? Dayum! I wanted to see what he'd do with "fings"! And he's left "dayum" alone also. I think the annoying little bugger has gone on strike!

16. Why is it so hard for someone who still has a desktop keyboard speed of 98 words per minute, to type on a bloody phone keyboard?? The backspace key on my phone will soon get permanently depressed from overuse; a bit like me when I recover from being annoyed.

17. I'm on a website and an advertisement comes up bearing a small cross which I presume is meant to close the ad. I press the cross, and I'm whisked off to another website far, far away.

18. Websites that ask for really difficult passwords, ie, a minimum of 8 characters including one capital letter, at least two digits and a special character. What further annoys me is when I use the asterisk as my special character, but it won't accept that. I don't want to use the hash key or the bloody oblique stroke!!! And btw, how am I supposed to remember this incredibly complicated password?!

19. Websites that won't let you read anything unless you sign up.

20. Signing up to a website so I can read things on it, only to end up with constant promotional rubbish in my email inbox, requiring me to unsubscribe.

21. Trying to unsubscribe and I have to jump through a hundred hoops to do so.

22. Trying to think of more things that annoy me and I'm all out. So, because I'm mildly irritated atm, I think it's best to finish this off before I get really, really ANNOYED.

PS: Remember back when Virgin Airlines was Virgin Blue? The planes were red.

Author Notes This is a lot longer than I thought it would be, and certainly longer than what I usually write. If you stopped by and took the time, thank you, and I hope you enjoyed reading!

Word count: 2,844

In Australia, our car speeds are in kilometers per hour, or kph.
"Dayum" is a more expressive way of writing the word "damn"
"Bloody" is a swear word in Australia, but not in America
"Capitalised" is the Australian-English spelling, hence "s" instead of "z". Same for "realised"
"Faaaaaark" is often used instead of, well, you know the word I mean!


Chapter 2
I Hate It When Chapter 2

By Gypsymooncat

I HATE IT WHEN...(Chapter Two)

Continuing on from Chapter One, here is Chapter Two in the continuing story of what annoys or confuses me or things I truly hate:

1. Naturally Chapter 2 will follow Chapter 1. Duh!

2. Easy Peel packaging. I hate easy peel packaging simply because it NEVER peels easily where it says "peel here". I try all four corners, go back to "peel here", try again, and end up stabbing the plastic -- and my fingertip - with a sharp knife. I wonder if these things peeled easily on the production line? Are they even tested before being unleashed on trusting consumers who are expecting to get their ham or chicken home and "easily" peel back the packaging? These things confirm my theory that everything is a government conspiracy to cause mass irritation.

(Imagine the mobs of frustrated, hungry people picketing the manufacturer's buildings. It brings to mind an image of what the placards might say: "TO PEEL AND PEEL AND PEEL AGAIN. THAT IS THE QUESTION" or "Easy Peel NOT" or "BRING BACK FOIL PACKAGING" or "BUY EASY PEEL AND STARVE" or "WE SHALL NOT BE PEELED". The possibilities are endless...meanwhile I can't find a bandaid and there's blood everywhere).

3. On 2. above, and this is the clinker for me, "Resealable packaging" complete with "peel here". Idiot, meaning me, has another go at "peel here" with, you guessed it, no joy. Oh boy, that sharp knife gets smartly pulled out of the block, and as for resealing the damn thing, forget it. I want to finish preparing my sandwich and put the remaining contents of ham/chicken back in the fridge quickly. I do not want to stand there trying to get those little bits to meet properly and actually RESEAL. These things bring tears to my eyes, and I question how much more we're paying for the privilege of EASY PEEL and RESEALABLE packaging that never works. Again, images of hungry, cranky people mobbing those abovementioned manufacturers springs to mind, with me at the helm, along with interestingly worded placards. The less said. Sandwich bags work better. And I didn't cut my finger this time.

3. My partner has one he'd like to add: He hates it when he's watching YouTube or Netflix and I start rabbiting on about this and that. Then have the gall to ask him "What do you think hon?" He looks at me with a rather blank expression and mumbles "Hnh?" to which I take extreme offence because he hasn't paid one scrap of attention to anything I'd been saying for the last 35 minutes. However, in his world, I interrupted that all important moment of a silly person somehow getting stuck under the front of a forklift, or that other pivotal moment in a movie where...well, you get the picture. I pull out my crossword book.

4. On 3. above, he has another one he'd like to include: When he wakes up in the morning sneezing and continues to sneeze for most of the day. He just got back from town as we speak and said "I'M SO SICK OF SNEEZING. All I did all the way to town was SNEEZE. I sneezed in Woolies, sneezed walking in there and out, sneezed ALL THE WAY HOME!!!!" All this punctuated by sets of three sneezes. I was as sympathetic as I could be, "Oh you poor dear (ATCHOO!) it's so hard (ATCHOO!) driving when you're snee(ATCHOO!!)zing!" I gave up sympathising after he sneezed right over the top of me, both figuratively and literally. Our loungeroom is currently awash with snotty stuff let me tell you. Including me. And you know what they say about blokes with a slight cold...

5. I literally hate it when I throw out something small, like a bottle cap, only to discover I actually needed it. I pull on my medi-gloves and fossick through the bin thinking I'll find it in two shakes. Why oh why is it that something just thrown in the bin sinks to the bottom of it?? My arm gets potato peels and other slimy substances stuck to it, some other cheesy looking stuff clings to my gloves and what the heck is that goo...? I'd rather not find out. I resort to fashioning a lid out of foil. Actually, I'm very good at that.

6. When I do something shameful in public, like go over on my foot, and try to act like I meant to do it. I mean, why bother trying to cover up something like that? It makes a person look more clumsy if you ask me. But I do a little dance, try to look like I was actually skipping, then nearly break every bone in my lower legs attempting to skip around, all to cover up my discomfiture. It would be easier to simply accept that I went over on my foot, giggle stupidly and hope I can walk normally afterwards. If not, I'm screwed.

7. When I have that awful urge to fart in public. Oh God, that is one thing I truly hate, and it always happens in the supermarket. Not in the toilet paper aisle either. I remember once having to let one go, so to speak, because the pain was so excruciating, then running quickly to the next aisle, only to discover I really needed something in the aisle now swamped in sulphur gas. I crept back to the offending location, to find a lady standing there waving her hand in front of her face, saying "Geeze, some people are disgusting aren't they?" To which I replied "They sure are!" We both laughed, waved our hands in front of our faces, said our respective "eeyeew's", and moved off, with her being none the wiser. Remembering this incident though, I wonder if that lady actually added some of her own to the "mix", considering the stench when I went back there. It surely couldn't have been all mine...

8. When I ring up Telstra or some other company and the person on the other end is from India. I know this because of the accent. My heart and stomach both sink as I hear the greeting:

"Hi there ma'am, I am Vihaan, how can I be help you today?"
"Well ... what did you say your name was?"
"Vihaan ma'am".
"Oh okay Meehan, I have no internet for the sixth time this week".
"Oh ma'am - Vihaan by de way - I am very, very sorry for to hear dat. Can I please to ask your name before proceeding furder?"
"No, Chris".
"Oh, ookay CWISH, you be describing your difficulty a bit more?"
"I HAVE NO INTERNET. And it's Chris by the way".
"Ah, okay...let me see here Cwish...yes, can you please be opening a browser?"
"I REPEAT: I HAVE NO INTERNET". Cwish will have to do.
"You can open a browser ma'am. Are you in front of a pee-cee or eye-pahd?"
"No. I'm talking to you on my laandliine because I have no internet."

And it goes on and on. I recall a conversation like this years ago, where I'd come home from a hard day at work, had sworn I wasn't going to have even one glass of wine, but after talking to an Indian girl called "Ananya" for over half an hour and getting nowhere, I poured one. As the conversation continued, my lack of understanding Ananya's thick accent, coupled with her not understanding my LACK of accent, ended up with seven glasses being consumed in a two hour call that resulted in me screaming down the phone "YOU PEOPLE ARE STUPID WHY DON'T YOU SPEAK ENGLISH I'M TIRED OF TALKING TO PEOPLE WHO DON'T UNDERSTAND AND I CAN'T FIGURE OUT WHAT THE HELL YOU'RE SAYING".

I'm not racist either. Just easily irritated. On the positive side, after that phone call with the lovely Vihaan, I ended up with a free antenna including installation. On the negative, Ananya hung up on me.



PS: Did you know that if you suppress a sneeze, you can rupture a blood vessel in your head or neck and die? I'd best tell my partner after I've cleaned up the snotty mess. Thankfully, he's stopped sneezing and is merely snuffling.

Author Notes Here in Australia, we have the joy of an Observational Humorist called Carl Baron. He's one of the funniest guys to watch and comes out with stuff that you find yourself saying "yep, how true" and laughing your head off at his antics. I'm hoping my written version of Observational Humour strikes a funny cord with you too.

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 3
I Hate It When Chapter 3

By Gypsymooncat

Following on from previous diatribes about what annoys the heck out of me, here is Chapter 3 in the series "I Hate It When". I hope you, dear reader, can relate to what I'm about to list:

I hate it when...

1. One of my cats jumps on my keyboard when I'm right at the vinegar stroke of literary genius. All that results, instead of class A prose or poetry, is "akdhhrkkekdl;b,dcoe94l';a;d;eklakdjdjdkdld;an cm ajdkaldzzzxxxxxqqqwqwqwqwqncncncncnmw,e3wccc0039301". I love my cats, but they can't write. In saying that, at least the above conglomeration lets a person know their paws explored every part of the keyboard. But gee, the least they can do is make an intelligible contribution! Instead, I'm backspacing again, and feel like I'm writing on my phone keypad...OMG, now he's trying to drink my bloody soup!!! Damn cat.

2. When I rush to the toilet only to find the floor carpeted in loo roll. Yes, I did mention this briefly in Chapter 1, but this is the actual, disastrous result of living with cats and leaving the toilet door open. I can't see the floor at all, because it looks like it snowed in there. And where is the guilty puss? Sitting in the basin. Well, curled up in the basin actually, like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, but clinging to one of his claws is a very suspicious, very tiny piece of loo paper. Suffice to say my rather urgent need to get to the loo is forestalled by picking up copious lumps of loo paper, extracting aforementioned cat from the basin, then trying to pick shreds of paper out of my luxuriously fluffy bath mats. I leave the loo, close the door, comforting myself that it's been restored to its former glory, only to realise that I REALLY NEED TO GO. I rush back there, fling open the door, forget to shut it, sit myself down and he comes again with that evil look on his face. I am ill prepared for this, and start to wildly roll the loo roll back up, but it's too late. There's another pile of snowy paper on the floor...I bend forward, intending to bang my head against the pedestal in frustration, but forget I'm not 35 anymore and pull a muscle in my back. It appears I'll be there a while with my butt sticking up in the air getting cold. Damn cat.

3. I work in aged care, doing mainly cleaning/domestic work. I am very fond of my clients, but can someone explain to me why they start a conversation while I'm vacuuming?? I can't hear a thing they're saying, but as time is of the essence (I've got another four to visit) I don't turn the vacuum off, and instead, nod my head, smile and say the odd "Yes...I agree!" or "Oh really??" Sadly, as was bound to happen, one client was actually saying they wanted to die. And here was I nodding, smiling and agreeing. That visit didn't end well.

4. On 3. above, some of the elderly are very fussy. I'm a good cleaner though, and pay attention to detail, but that isn't enough for the fussy ones. "Dear, you've left a streak on my mirror". "Excuse me! YOU GIRL! You missed a bit!! Did you actually vacuum in there??" I feel my temper rising and want to tell Madam Fussy-Never-Happy to go fix it herself. Instead, I bite my tongue, smile sweetly, and set about fixing the problem.

These sorts of people are few and far between thank goodness, but what I really hate is when I finish their job with five minutes to spare, and I have the utter stupidity to ask "Is there anything else you want done?" (Praying there's nothing)."Oh, no, I think that's all dear. Although...could you make my bed and take that bit of rubbish out when you leave? My back is giving me curry today". God save me, why am I so NICE?? I make the bed, which involves three heavy blankets, a bedspread, four pillows and two decorative cushions, placed just so. Then leave with an aching back, toting her "bit of rubbish" which weighs a ton only to discover her bin is out the back, which entails dragging the heavy bag down a dozen steps. I'm now convinced God doesn't exist.

5. I hate it when my partner serves up cake for us. The reason for this is because he cuts off a piece for me so big I could kill a Viking with it. And I'm too weak to knock it back, especially when he butters it and puts maple syrup on it...

6. When I look at my almost 57 year old body and compare it with my 47 year old body. Then am silly enough to compare it to my 17 year old body. Why is it that we think we're fat when we're 17, 37 or 47, but when we're 10, 20 or 40 years older than the supposed "fat days", we actually were pretty slim compared to now? I close my Facebook page and my photo album and vow to only eat carrot sticks and apples from this day forward. But lunch screams loudly, and out comes the pepperoni, cheese, bread and butter, with the griller turned up to high. There's still some cake left too. ( And I notice the carrots are mouldy).

7. I actually do eat apples. One a day to be precise. What I don't like though, is when I put the apple down for a second, only to pick it back up to take a bite and there, hanging off the apple, is a rather large bee. Now, I don't hate bees, but hate being stung by them. I also feel sad when they do sting and end up dying. So, while I have the apple in bite distance from my mouth, I am face to face with said large bee, wondering what I am to do. I put the apple down and hope the bee flies off. Nope. It clings to the apple, sucking what juice it needs out of it, while I'm watching it go brown. The apple that is. I flick the apple. The bee flies off the apple, straight towards me. I sit there flinging my arms around, trying to bat the bee away, then leap up, jumping up and down like I've got a full hive on me, still waving my arms around wildly, when in the middle of these antics, I notice that the bee has landed back on the apple. This is one determined bee. I'd get another apple, but I'm all out. I'm tired now and all I want is to finish my apple. But Mr Bee doesn't want to share. I sigh heavily, give up the battle, and go to the fridge and extract a mouldy carrot. I go back outside to check the situation. The bee is still on the apple.

8. We have a hammock in our front yard, which I love to lie in sometimes. There's nothing better than relaxing with a cushion for my head and a book for my mind. As I lie there, swinging gently from side to side, I am transported to exotic isles, flanked by pristine beaches, surrounded by crystal clear water, when suddenly, THUMP! My chest almost explodes under the pressure of one of the damn cats leaping on to me from nowhere. Suddenly, Mr Bee seems the lesser of two evils, as I am faced with a cat who hasn't quite got a grip on his swaying owner, and is digging the claws in trying to maintain his position, all the while slipping down, down, raking those claws across my ribcage...until plop! He's on the ground, then proceeds to lick himself trying to make it look like he meant to do that. Meanwhile, I'm bleeding to death, and I view my ripped shirt and flayed skin with utter shock. Those exotic isles are nowhere to be seen, and even though that's disappointing, I'm faced with another problem: I need to get off the hammock so I can treat my wounds.

Can anyone tell me how a person gets out of a hammock with their dignity intact? I have not mastered this yet, so I struggle from side to side, trying to sit up, then end up clinging to the edge of the hammock, trying to ease my butt over the side, but can't quite manage it. I almost slip under it, but can't gently drop to the ground because I'll squash the cat. I have visions of myself still doing this when my partner returns from fishing. I'll be bleeding profusely, still swinging in the hammock. The thought also strikes me that those stuck up, fit people walking by with their recently groomed little dog could lend me a hand,; they point and laugh instead. Hours pass. I'm exhausted and still swinging in the damn hammock. The blood has clotted at last, and the cat has long since regained his composure. It's a good thing in a sense that I'm still in the hammock though: I don't know where the bandaids are...

This concludes Chapter 3 in the continuing saga of I Hate It When...

PS: Did you know that the Mayans invented the hammock? Indeed, hammocks were originally woven from the Hammack tree, native to Latin America, hence the name, "hammock". Pity the Mayans did not include instructions on dignified ways to debunk from a hammock...

Author Notes I hope you enjoyed this latest instalment in the series "I Hate It When"! Thanks for stopping by!

PS: The accompanying photo isn't of my cat, but it's pretty close!

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