Yesterday I was cursing the school holidays as I spent hours stuck in traffic which eventually forced me to stop for a snack in one of the richest suburbs of Melbourne. 2 coffees, a quiche and half a baguette cost $30 and we never reached our destination. The day was a failure on all counts.
When I was a kid I lived for the school holidays. All kids do. Because school is just an interruption to fun, right? School holidays for me meant I got McDonalds, sleepovers and a whole lot of time to do whatever took my childhood fancy. Now, school holidays are a hell I would rather live without. And I don’t even have school aged kids which is what I think makes it all the more fucking irritating.
School Holidays have only one bonus. Less peak hour traffic. Meaning 95 year old Ethel driving at 12 km/h at 8.30am is made slightly more bearable. I don’t give her the finger as often as I usually would, and I lay off running into her heels with my trolley at the supermarket after the daycare run just to give her wounds time to close over a bit. I might even help her reach the tissue boxes for her parcel tray when she’s stocking up on the specials. Sometimes I smile. Sometimes I don’t.
Yeah school holidays fucking suck because you can’t book a getaway for less than 3 times the normal price, that is if you can get anything at all. I want the budget of a swanky island resort with babysitting, but I have the budget of the caravan park with the bogan spawn pissing in the pool and the nasty film of boogers and sunscreen on top of the water.
Even if I did book a holiday, the traffic leading anywhere decent and back is shocking and the swarms of little hyperactive arse bandit kids make you want to stick pins in your eyes. Other peoples kids are just annoying and loud. Me no likey. Mine are barely tolerable at times, but they came from my crotch and I’m supposed to look after them until they come of age. In school holidays the shops are packed, the movies are packed, the roads are packed, the attractions are packed and I just want to run and hide.
So imagine my horror when I accidentally found myself in a very tragic, run down wildlife park with my two kids on Easter Monday. It was meant to be a bit of a leisurely drive just to get out of the house and away from the Easter egg pile. The Husband and I hurriedly packed the kids into the car around nap time and hit the freeway. They were meant to sleep on the way but didn’t, meaning we got to this wildlife park right on lunchtime with a couple of stale vegemite and cheese sandwiches and some overripe bananas in a plastic shopping bag. The Husband had pointed this park out and said we must stop as he had heard it was pretty amazing.
Well if whoever the fuck told him about this place thinks bogan families sizzling $2.99 a kilo sausages from Franklins that smell like a corpse on some coin BBQ’s with Kirks soft drinks and VB stubbies overflowing from the styrofoam Eski is a good time, they are sorely fucking mistaken. The crowds doing this were barely distinguishable from one another as their tattoos all looked the same and they were all wearing the same fucking Kmart uniform. You could interchange the kids too. After all, they are probably from the same lineage of bogan so who the fuck cares hey? Just do a quick head count and make sure you drive home with the same number of kids you drove in with. Kayden, Jaydon, Baydin, Kailee-Jayde. “Present”! Homeward fucking bound.
I must sound like a snobby bitch. Maybe I am. But I am not claiming to be a better class citizen, I just know what I like and what I don’t like.
What I don’t like is paying $24 per person to drive into a dusty bogan-filled hole where my kids preferred the fenced in kiddy play area which can be found in any Bunnings or McDonalds for free over the “attractions”. And where I had to buy kangaroo food from a shitty cafe in which nothing was edible and made me smell like an old dim sim. The stale vegemite and cheese sandwiches and overripe bananas we brought with us looked pretty fucking gourmet.
These sorts of places always have horrific public facilities with one ply toilet paper. One ply toilet paper is only useful in jail for writing ones memoir, as it’s so fucking stiff and dry that you’ll cut your bum open if you try and wipe with it. It isn’t at all absorbent and if you are unfortunate enough to find yourself having to wipe a number two with it, you’ll rather use your sock than risk severing an arse artery on this cheap shit. Since I was in the bush I should have taken a bit of paperbark with me instead, it might have taken away from the stunning skid mark design marking the porcelain made by the dam water used in the dunnies. While you know it’s semi clean, you still feel a little uneasy going in a toilet that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in centuries.
Then there was this sign outside the facilities that had me baffled.
I couldn’t figure out why anyone would want to have a function in a room with no doorknob in the saddest place on earth. Do they mean bodily functions? Or do they have fucking weddings and engagement parties in there?
I tried to stay positive throughout this ordeal and let the kids have their fun. We ate the stale sandwiches and patted the ponies. Then took the obligatory photo where you stick your head through a hole on a painted mural.
Leaving was such sweet sorrow (actually I was fucking ecstatic and flattened the pedal on the way out) and we vowed to come again soon (vowed to shit on it on Trip Advisor). The traffic was absolute shite going home and the kids still didn’t sleep as they were jacked up with excitement after feeding kangaroos and getting pecked at by some rabid Emus.
I guess it wasn’t all bad. We were at one with nature I suppose. But I’ll tell you this, I will happily pay triple the rack rate to be anywhere else than this crap hole next Easter Monday.
Fuck You shitty expensive attractions that suck. Fuck your gross stained toilets and one ply toilet paper. Fuck your stinky dirty kitchen oil that permeates my clothing and fuck your inedible dim sims and nuggets.