As promised here is Part Two of the gripping saga that is my life. Read on for drama, suspense and intruige.
PART TWO
Micky Blue Eyes has now returned and I am booted from the computer. What to do now? There are several truck loads of washing to be put away. This strikes me as tedious, so I flick the tv on for entertainment while folding.
First channel. Infomercial about funeral plans. Too depressing, as I realise I don't really wish to plan for my death.
Flick to the next channel. Infomercial about miracle weight loss programme and exercise gadget. Too depressing, as I realise I desperately need to lose weight.
Flick to the next channel. Infomercial about some wonder mop that will make mopping effortless, leaving all floors gleaming. Too depressing, as I realise that the highlight of my day may involve mopping my filthy floors. And there will nothing remotely wonderous about it.
Sighing, I switch off the tv. Haphazardly, I start folding clothes. On closer scrutiny it appears that most of them require a hideous process known as ironing. This strikes me as tedious, so I convince myself the crumpled look is in and put them away as they are.
Then, I survey the living room. There are toys everywhere. In order to vacuum/mop I will need to clear approximately 20 tonnes of clutter. Bugger that. I procrastinate by making another cup of tea.
Mick is still working away on the computer. He starts talking to me about something Accountant-like as the kettle boils. I try to not to look bored. I retreat into the bedroom with my tea.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I flip through my biography on Karen Carpenter for the millionth time and zone out. Seems like only ten minutes go by but possibly an hour later, I glance up and catch sight of myself in the mirrored wardrobe. I have a disgusting roll of belly flab, thunder thighs and a humongous double chin. I am horrified.
Grimly, I pull on my holy joggers (as in they have holes in them, not as in they are sacred) and put on an exercise dvd. Within minutes, several pert, patronising aerobics instructors are beaming at me from the tv screen, looking scarily fit and promising me I too will have rock hard abs, buns of steel and melt away pounds if I work out with them. So I do.
I begin the warm up, marching valiantly. This is okay, I think, happily. The pace picks up. I start sweating. The scary women bounce along effortlessly. "You're doing great!" she shouts. Why don't I feel so great?
"Time for some push ups!" she announces as cheerfully as I would announce "Time to sit down with a cup of tea and a cakie!"
"Drop and give me twenty!" Bugger that. I jog on the spot instead. I puff and pant. Bugger that. I march on the spot instead.
Scary Woman bounces back up again. "Now, go and get your Fanny Lifter. " she says.
My what??
"Position yourself over the Fanny Lifter." Ummmm...okaay. It appears to be some kind of bench/step thingy. I improvise and do the squats without one. Then we are huffing and puffing again.
There are several more references to the Fanny Lifter, which strikes me as a completely ludicrous name for an exercise gadget, so I am too busy laughing to exercise properly. I improvise as best I can for several more minutes, before giving up and skipping to the cool down section. At least I have managed to break a sweat, I tell myself, as well as make my head pound in earnest.
I swallow some painkillers and head for the shower. Once there, I recoil in revulsion at the state and smell of the bathroom. Might have to pull out the tub of Gumption first. I half-heartedly give it a once over, then take a shower. That done, my stomach growls. Lunch time.
I then proceed to sabotage all my exercise effort by making Mick and I ham and cheese toasties. Then guiltily gobble a biscuit or other sweet treat with a cup of tea after the sandwich.
There are several truck loads of washing up to be done. This strikes me as tedious, so I dart back to the computer as Mick has disappeared outside for a few minutes. I check my Facebook again. Yep, I am still a crashing, heaving bore compared to everyone else.
Mick comes back inside armed with yet another giant basket of washing from the line that I eye wearily. He comments on the glorious weather and how it just makes him want to jump in the car and drive to Darwin. I try not to look alarmed.
Dismally, I do the dishes, wondering what to have for dinner. I get the chops out. Seemingly only 15 minutes have gone by but it is already time to get the boys. I set of to get Master 3 while Mick goes to get the other two. This is the true highlight of the day, for when Master 3 sees me he his little face lights up, he runs to me joyfully, and I scoop him up in a big bear hug. We head home.
Mick and the boys are back. "Hi Mum," says Master 8, looking around dubiously "what did you do today?"
"Muuuum!" Master 10 shouts, already in his recliner/throne. "Can you make me a cup of tea?"
Stay tuned for Part Three, the stunning conclusion. Coming soon.
PART TWO
Micky Blue Eyes has now returned and I am booted from the computer. What to do now? There are several truck loads of washing to be put away. This strikes me as tedious, so I flick the tv on for entertainment while folding.
First channel. Infomercial about funeral plans. Too depressing, as I realise I don't really wish to plan for my death.
Flick to the next channel. Infomercial about miracle weight loss programme and exercise gadget. Too depressing, as I realise I desperately need to lose weight.
Flick to the next channel. Infomercial about some wonder mop that will make mopping effortless, leaving all floors gleaming. Too depressing, as I realise that the highlight of my day may involve mopping my filthy floors. And there will nothing remotely wonderous about it.
Sighing, I switch off the tv. Haphazardly, I start folding clothes. On closer scrutiny it appears that most of them require a hideous process known as ironing. This strikes me as tedious, so I convince myself the crumpled look is in and put them away as they are.
Then, I survey the living room. There are toys everywhere. In order to vacuum/mop I will need to clear approximately 20 tonnes of clutter. Bugger that. I procrastinate by making another cup of tea.
Mick is still working away on the computer. He starts talking to me about something Accountant-like as the kettle boils. I try to not to look bored. I retreat into the bedroom with my tea.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I flip through my biography on Karen Carpenter for the millionth time and zone out. Seems like only ten minutes go by but possibly an hour later, I glance up and catch sight of myself in the mirrored wardrobe. I have a disgusting roll of belly flab, thunder thighs and a humongous double chin. I am horrified.
Grimly, I pull on my holy joggers (as in they have holes in them, not as in they are sacred) and put on an exercise dvd. Within minutes, several pert, patronising aerobics instructors are beaming at me from the tv screen, looking scarily fit and promising me I too will have rock hard abs, buns of steel and melt away pounds if I work out with them. So I do.
I begin the warm up, marching valiantly. This is okay, I think, happily. The pace picks up. I start sweating. The scary women bounce along effortlessly. "You're doing great!" she shouts. Why don't I feel so great?
"Time for some push ups!" she announces as cheerfully as I would announce "Time to sit down with a cup of tea and a cakie!"
"Drop and give me twenty!" Bugger that. I jog on the spot instead. I puff and pant. Bugger that. I march on the spot instead.
Scary Woman bounces back up again. "Now, go and get your Fanny Lifter. " she says.
My what??
"Position yourself over the Fanny Lifter." Ummmm...okaay. It appears to be some kind of bench/step thingy. I improvise and do the squats without one. Then we are huffing and puffing again.
There are several more references to the Fanny Lifter, which strikes me as a completely ludicrous name for an exercise gadget, so I am too busy laughing to exercise properly. I improvise as best I can for several more minutes, before giving up and skipping to the cool down section. At least I have managed to break a sweat, I tell myself, as well as make my head pound in earnest.
I swallow some painkillers and head for the shower. Once there, I recoil in revulsion at the state and smell of the bathroom. Might have to pull out the tub of Gumption first. I half-heartedly give it a once over, then take a shower. That done, my stomach growls. Lunch time.
I then proceed to sabotage all my exercise effort by making Mick and I ham and cheese toasties. Then guiltily gobble a biscuit or other sweet treat with a cup of tea after the sandwich.
There are several truck loads of washing up to be done. This strikes me as tedious, so I dart back to the computer as Mick has disappeared outside for a few minutes. I check my Facebook again. Yep, I am still a crashing, heaving bore compared to everyone else.
Mick comes back inside armed with yet another giant basket of washing from the line that I eye wearily. He comments on the glorious weather and how it just makes him want to jump in the car and drive to Darwin. I try not to look alarmed.
Dismally, I do the dishes, wondering what to have for dinner. I get the chops out. Seemingly only 15 minutes have gone by but it is already time to get the boys. I set of to get Master 3 while Mick goes to get the other two. This is the true highlight of the day, for when Master 3 sees me he his little face lights up, he runs to me joyfully, and I scoop him up in a big bear hug. We head home.
Mick and the boys are back. "Hi Mum," says Master 8, looking around dubiously "what did you do today?"
"Muuuum!" Master 10 shouts, already in his recliner/throne. "Can you make me a cup of tea?"
Stay tuned for Part Three, the stunning conclusion. Coming soon.
