A Shit Covered Guilt Trip for Katie

This blog is late, and for that I blame Tom.  Tom, who yesterday had me knee deep in dirt and covered in manure on the farm, desperately trying to be of service in his mission to set up the veggie patch to rival all veggie patches.  I should have been writing.  But Tom wielded a powerful weapon, a weapon used and abused for eons by conniving mothers, needy friends and petulant partners.  Guilt.  The bastard guilted me into it.  Allow me to digress. 

For the first time in weeks, I was able to join my boyfriend for the journey up to Wangaratta, our days off having finally coincided.  I was on the ass end of five weekend shifts on the trot, and was immersed in a mixture of self-satisfaction, exhaustion and anticipation for my days off.  But mostly exhaustion.  In the car, I planned the next three days in my mind.  I would write, rest, then write, then rest.  Excellent.  Tom as usual was heading up to tend the pigs and work on the garden.  All was right in the world.  

We got there and I put my plan straight into action.  Especially the sleeping and Facebooking part.  Tom looked very sexy shoveling great mounds of dirt for his veggie patch, and when I told him as much he gave me a rather weak smile.  Must be tired, I concluded, what a hard worker he is, and went back inside to resume resting.  On the second night I realized I had only succeeded in one part of my plan, and proceeded to say fuck a bunch of times before deciding I had better do my blog.

‘Tom,’ I announced to my beer drinking boyfriend, ‘I can’t drink and talk with you because I’ve got to write my blog.’

‘But it’s late!’  He protested.  ‘Can’t you do it in the morning?’  

Well, I didn’t want to deny Tom my company!  Of course, I said, I would do it in the morning. 

At 9.30 the next day Tom began shoving me and saying ‘Get up and stop feeding those computers to the monkeys!’  Or words to that effect, I was still emerging from dreamland. 

‘Fine, ok!’  I slurred, wiping the drool off my face.  I wrapped the doona round me and fell out of bed to clomp the six paces to the computer.  

‘What are you doing?’  Pestered Tom rudely.    

‘My blog!’  I reminded him, wiping sleep from my eyes. 

‘But you said you’d help me today!’

I had forgotten about that.  Still, I needed to write.  ‘But you said I should do my blog this morning.’       

‘Yeah, early this morning, not after-another-sleep-in-this-morning!’

I paused.  There had been no mention of this foreign early concept.     

That’s when Tom decided to switch on the guilt machine.  ‘You know what,’ he mused, ‘just do your bloody blog.  I’ll do all the work on my own like I have been every other day!’

What the what?  I hadn’t known I was meant to be helping!  I thought the garden was his hobby.  I pointed this out.  

‘So I’m supposed to tell you?’  

‘Um, YES!’  It seemed that once again, I was being punished for failing to read my boyfriend’s mind.  Great.             

    

‘I guess you were too busy lazing around doing nothing to notice that I needed help.  You should have had your writing done by now anyway!  But that’s fine, you do your blog.’

I slammed the computer shut.  ‘WELL I’M OBVIOUSLY NOT GOING TO DO IT NOW!  WHERE’S THE FUCKING MANURE?’

And then, the icing on the guilt trip cake.  ‘Nup.’  Tom looked as sulky as ever.  ‘I don’t want you to help.  I’ll slave away on my own.’

Don’t you hate that?  Don’t you really just FUCKING HATE THAT?  Not only are you made to feel guilty for failing to do something that was never asked of you in the first place, you’re then denied the opportunity to rectify your supposed wrong!

Well I wasn’t letting that slide for a second.  I marched outside, grabbed a bag of manure, and delved into it with gusto, collecting great chunks with my bare hands and smooshing them into the topsoil.  Tom emerged, and after eyeing me off for several minutes, yelled in obvious delight, ‘You’re doing it wrong!’