Middle Age

Today can be summed up so far by the word squelch or here, I'm feeling awfully generous so have another, soggy. Isn't that a vile word? Rather like scab or gash or better yet, pus. Nothing good will ever come from those words.

I'm wet and not even in the 'why hellooo Mr Northman' kind of way. Nope, I'm soaking wet as in like a drowned rat. Lucky me. Isn't that Just extraordinarily attractive.  Can you even get blonde rats?
Since yesterday I have had to actually do housewifey stuff and real actual parenting on my own. Don't worry, I'm being careful, I'm not actually about to buy an iron or break out the dusters or anything too dramatic that may endanger me into becoming domesticated.  However I did have to do multiple school runs, an evening dash to the chemist and shops and a trip to the post office as well as bath time....on my own. Sans The Husband. I rarely venture out on my own what with my social anxiety and being somewhat of a total scatterbrain, virtually incompatible with normality.

And why exactly am I being forcefully thrust into this cruel world? Because The Husband's back has gone. Gone where? On holiday for all the use it is. Yes, The Husband is temporarily incapacitated. Fuck (or actually not judging by the state he's in). Although I will admit to finding his frustration at being incapable of even wiping his own arse proficiently somewhat amusing ditto to him having to enlist the aid of Thing One to put his socks on ( I simply don't do adult feet, ever. I'd rather swallow vomit then touch them.) He asked for some encouragement to push through the pain and get onto his feet and to the loo. I think he expected me to be a cheer leader. What he got was me singing Nickelback whilst putting The Housewives of Orange County on the television. What? It made him move!

So there I am this morning walking back from the school run and The post office, in the rain. Not a shower nor drizzle but hardcore rain. My glasses were steamed up, my jeans wet up to my knees, my converse were going squelch with each laboured step kindly enabling my socks to need wringing out, once i'd managed to peel then off my feet.  The Toddler was taking part in the Toddler Conspiracy of operation 'no I won't have my rain cover on' as he constantly committed all out assault on it.

I'm walking past the random homes, lovely warm dry homes with my grey mood matching the sky and I'm momentarily engulfed by porch envy and hall envy. Yes, really. Bloody hell. I'm middle aged. I mean seriously....porches and halls? What has happened to me? Why didn't the hospital tell me that when they dispose of your placenta (no I didn't make a smoothie with it and bury it in an elven glade) they also dispose of sense of self.

It gets worse. Much worse. Rather then lust over boots, corsets, gigs and glitter I find myself mooning over ..... kitchen appliances and cookware. Cute animal shaped waffle makers, ice cream makers and the holy grail of the domestic goddess .... the stand mixer (red please sugar daddy). I day dream of a quirky retro kitchen with a Smeg fridge, pastel coloured Sundae glasses and appliances that match and not just because they're all from the same value range at the supermarket. Hell, I'm even getting drawn to Le Creuset stuff...I am finally turning into my mother. I remember absolutely not getting it at all when she filled her kitchen with that stuff when I was a kid and look at me now.... I want it! Kill me now. Please.

When did browsing the Terrorizer forum turn into browsing Stangers Cookshop?

I need a lie down and to play music very very loud whilst contemplating Armand versus Eric. Oh and the blonde? Has to go (Sorry mum) I need my Purple back.

The Toddlers phone is ringing, best answer it, those singing ducks can be dreadfully persistent. Besides, he'll probably ground me if he wakes up and sees me ignoring it. It doesn't matter who you are, if a toddlers phone rings, you answer it.