Frank and the Third.

Let me be frank.
And as Frank, let state as my first order of business that I actually edited my last blog post.
No, not proof read, but actually typed out, analysed, then re-typed the bulk of it before hitting “Publish” and wasting another tiny chunk of your precious time.

As a person who aspires to be a writer (I do currently write, I just don’t get any money from it) putting time and effort into re-writing and editing a blog post seems stupid as this is just a platform for me to vent my brain-spleen. Or brain gall-bladder.
Brain-bowels?
It’s also terribly counterintuitive to a fancy new mindset I’m in the process of adopting thanks to a self-help book (insert cringing and shuddering here) written by a blogger called Mark Manson.
I’d recommend checking out his website BUT I’m yet to read any of it. Or finish his book for that matter. But the chap does seem to swear a lot so we’re kinda on the same fucking page.

This book is teaching me to give less fucks. And despite not actually finishing it yet It’s kind of already working. I say ‘kind of’ because I’m still giving a fuck about a stupid blog post evidently.
My hope is that by the end of the book, I’ll get my ass around to doing something worthwhile in a wordy sense.

But I do have an example of a way which it HAS been working for me. And in the spirit of me writing shit down so you can then read it, I’m gunna throw that example at you riiiiiight….now.

I showered at the gym today.
‘Bully for you!’ I hear you shout in an interesting mix of a Teddy Roosevelt accent and a crippling quantity of sarcasm.
And who can blame you? I shower at the gym all the damn time seeing as I tend to go before work.
The only thing different about this occasion is that I did not actually participate in any form of physical training at the gymnasium prior to using their amenities.
It’s not the first time either. The first time was a few months back when I was picking up my sister in law and her partner from their work dinner then had to drive back home so I ducked into a local franchise of my gym to take a shit at midnight. They’re 24 hour card access places and the states lousy with them.

Anyways back to today. I went to my gym with the express intent of using their showers and that was all.
I even had some high and mighty rant about how I pay my membership and should be allowed to use any part of the gym I see fit whenever I please but there was nobody there for me to indoor yell at.
Pity.

I did this for two reasons. One is that our hot water cylinder is cactus and it’ll be a few days before we replace it.
Two is because several days ago, I was Third.

What’s Third?

Third means that, after a complex system of boiling the kettle, emptying it into a small pot on the cooktop, then putting it into an even bigger pot on the cooktop when the small one was full for some reason, we had generated enough hot water to add to the glacial cold skimming of liquid at the bottom of our bathtub in order to wash our Mini Monster.
Which in turn morphed my blessed little wonder of life into the human equivalent of an octopus on speed because she didn’t have a constant trickle of water coming from the tap to distract her so her arms and legs were flying around every way to Sunday while I wondered if it was ethical to hog-tie a toddler and give them the old ‘Srub and dunk’.
If you’re wondering who she got her attention span from, excuse me a moment I think I just saw a flashing light.

I’m back.

After extracting her from the bath, the Wif informs me that she has another pot boiled and ready to go. ‘Cool’ I thought, ‘Pasta for dinner.’

Nope.

It was bath night. And it was her turn. Which meant I was to be Third.

Now I haven’t done this since I was a little kid, but I can tell you the experience of attempting to wash myself in the collective warm soapy filth of my direct family has put my desire to bathe as a modality of cleaning oneself at the bottom of a very long and frankly quite silly list just under “Train flesh eating beetles to only take off half of one layer” but above “Acid vapour”.

But when there’s no hot water (and you’re too much of a bitch to have a cold shower on a cold night) there’s not much that can be done.

The small mercy I had was that I managed to stop the Wif before she shaved her armpits in the exact same water I was about to wash myself in. (I haven’t been that lucky in the past)
The even smaller mercy was that she had a pot on the boil ready to go for me when it was my turn in the tub.

I remember staring at the roiling water on the cooktop and briefly questioning just how bad the burns would be if I simply poured it over myself and let the sterilizing capacity of 100 degree water work its magic.

Instead, I opted to empty the contents into the milky coloured, tepid bath that was waiting to accept my filthy hide.
And there I sat. With my fully clothed Mini Monster standing at the side of the bath in unimaginable excitement, fully fucking fascinated that SHE was outside of the bath and daddy was currently IN the bath!
Her fascinated reverie interrupted only to stop and stare intently at my junk, sitting one third submerged in exactly 6cm of water before pointing at it and shouting ‘wassat?!’ on no more than five separate occasions.
All the while my loving Wif stood at the basin, defying all logic as she managed to not shred her armpits to ribbons with the razor which I fully expect to happen at any moment as she was almost doubled over in laughter at our daughters reaction to seeing all of daddy crammed into a tiny bath.

She then thought it was funny to tell me we only had one towel as well.

This was thankfully a lie, but even a fresh towel didn’t help remove the smell of soap from me.
Normally a good smell, but not when you know it was the soaps third time around.

On the plus side, the Wif was in her bra and panties the whole time her and the Mini Monster were in the bathroom with me so at least I had a pleasant view for my bath.
They were both there for 98% of said bath in case anyone was curious. Because family means ‘Fuck privacy’.

It could only have been a more ‘family’ bath time if we all hopped in together. Which I had to stop the Mini Monster from attempting twice.

And despite the evidence above, being that I went to the trouble of writing out the entire convoluted story of how shitty it is to currently not have hot running water… I couldn’t really give a fuck.
It’s a problem with a forthcoming solution.
I’m better off saving that fuck for something really worthwhile.

Like the cost of the new god damn hot water cylinder.

– Frank.

Leave a comment

%d bloggers like this: