For those of you who follow me on facebook, you may have noticed a status a few months back about how I got well and truly punked by by my Mister.

I had a more than a few inquisitive comments and even a nosey PM about what happened so as the steam from my ears made typing extremely difficult at the time, a few months after the crime, I thought I would share.

If you happened to see my home tour video before it was not so ceremoniously yanked from the interwebs (#videogate), you would have seen that upstairs in our home there are only two rooms which we use as bedrooms. Because our home as it is now wasn’t originally designed as a practical house 120 years ago when it was built, there are no bathrooms upstairs or any sort of plumbing. I am assuming we are sleeping in what used to be offices or interview rooms or whatever the station at the time needed them for. As the station has gotten smaller, the OIC residence has gotten larger and it really is an odd home; no open plan living about it at all!

Anyway, back to it.

Leading up to the two bedrooms is a double flight of stairs; 25 in total which you have to go down in order to get to the loo in the night. So 10 steps from bed to landing. Once down the stairs there is another 30 or so steps to the loo (yes I just stepped it out). Then there is the return back of 30 steps and another 25 stairs up and the 10 back to bed. By the time you are back from a 2am pee, you are WIDE awake.

Since we moved here Mr Point Five has been threatening my sensibilities with the use of a chamber pot. He has been rinsing out 2L juice bottles and leaving them on the stair landing before bed just to mess with my mind and it has been a continual point of contention between us. Over my dead body will I sleep in the same room as a bottle of pee I said, and until now I have been fairly sure, but not entirely convinced, of his deference to my position.

So one night we were heading to bed and hubby announces enough is enough; he was sick and tired of the nocturnal ambles. He brings the 2L contained in on his side of the bed and says he has every intention of using it and me and my femininity would just have to suck it. Ugh!! I was completely grossed out and was tempted to sleep in the spare room downstairs to prove my obstinacy; but our bed is much more comfy and our bedroom was infinitely cooler on a 35C night. Dont you hate that??

He had a 6am start the next day and with as much steel as I could muster through gritted teeth, I told him that I would divorce him if the boys or I caught sight or smell of his “wee-bottle” in ANY shape or form in the morning.

SO GROSSED OUT.

So anyway, upon getting up the next morning, I check his side of the bed and it was clear. Thank Christ.

THEN I go downstairs only to discover THIS…
2014-12-19 09.29.41

…on my KITCHEN FUCKING BENCH!!!

To all intents and purposes it looked as though he had indeed followed through with his threat, wrapped it in a bag and then “forgotten” to take it out to the rubbish. This scenario was completely plausible as Mr Point Five is not a morning person and he would have been well zombie like pre his 6am work start time. I could TOTALLY believe that this was indeed his wee-bottle left on my bench, albeit by accident.

DAFFYDUCK

This was me – one VERY angry little black duck!!!

These were the texts I sent him….

Man I was ropeable. I cannot even BEGIN to describe the depths of my anger. I fumed for the better part of two hours; oh MY did I fume! He would be begging me to divorce him when he got home.

So he comes home for crib about 11.30am, saunters in actually, leans over and gives me a casual peck on the cheek.

Hi honey he says. Stony silence.

What? he says?

What??? I say, what the actual FUCK???

Oh he says, you mean the piss-bottle. Yeah, sorry about that.

Oh you will be I say. (I hadn’t touched it and it was still on the bench) Open it.

What? he says.

Yep, you heard me. Open it and I am going to pour it over your head.

You wouldn’t, he says.

Try me.

OK he says, unwraps it and takes the lid off.

But you can’t really tip it on my head he says, cos I have to go back to work so I will wash my hands with it. He then proceeds to pour it out in the sink all over his hands and up his arms.

Effing wanker had filled it with diluted apple juice and soap.

Men.

Cant live with them, cant shoot them.

Have you been punked?  Was it your spouse? Would you have divorced your husband given my circumstances? What should his payback be?? 😉

Signature-30mm