I am a domestic goddess and don’t you ever let my mother tell you otherwise.
Yesterday, in a fit of gym-avoidance, I tackled some outstanding chores. This is fascinating stuff but I am still basking in the afterglow of martyrdom so you’re going to have to excuse me. Most of the bathroom was cleaned (shower grouting be damned! Hate hate HATE), visible bits of the floor were vacuumed, bedding, towels and clothes were washed, the gas hobs were scrubbed, shirts were ironed, surfaces were dusted and pictures were hung.* I cooked the best damn roast I think I’ve ever produced, thankyouverymuch. All while P was out playing golf (also yesterday? I worked out how to bend the space time continuum so that we regressed to the 1950s, apparently). I felt terribly smug about it all (can you tell?) and I’m now crowing about it to anyone who will listen. You’d think I’d be embarrassed to admit that I don’t do this every week, wouldn’t you? I treated myself to a wee rose wine as a reward for being so wonderful and that turned into three so I felt SPECIALLY good by the time we did the dishes.
Also on the agenda for last weekend: a meal out on Friday night and a wedding Saturday. Dinner was disappointing, sadly. Fabulous company (thanks P), but too expensive and it appears I’m well over this degustation business. I inevitably end up feeling sick and it takes far, far too long. There was an outstanding dessert involved in the meal I must say, but generally, while the food was nice, it wasn’t as outstanding as we thought it would/should be. I won’t link to the restaurant because I like to celebrate success, rather than bash local business. I mean, tell your friends if you enjoyed something, right?
The wedding was lovely - aren’t they always? I thought the groom was going to keel over as his bride walked down the aisle which was massively entertaining/heart warming. I try to act all cynical and what-not but I love attending celebrations (except perhaps for children’s bday parties, because I ALWAYS come away feeling ill yet hyperactive and wishing I’d ingested a little less food colouring. Yes, it still has the same effect on me as it does on a three year old. You should see me after coffee).
Net weekend result: housewifery, parties and dinners do not give a girl the skinnies. I’m trying busy to get skinny again today after a weekend of abject skinny-failure but it’s so damn hard when there is leftover roast beef sitting in your fridge. I WILL head to the gym this evening to assuage the guilt. I would dearly, dearly love to be properly skinny but I am having to come to the conclusion that I enjoy consuming tasty treats too much to ever get there properly. Last night Notting Hill was the Sunday Night Feature that played in the background for a while before I went to bed. (Side note: one of the Greatest Rom-Coms of Our Time, right up there with You’ve Got Mail and Sleepless in Seattle). I tuned into the scene where Hugh Grant has taken Julia Roberts to a dinner at his friends’ house (Bernie = Lord Grantham!) and they compete for the last brownie with the biggest sob-story. Part of Julia’s pity party is that she’s been on a diet since she was 19, which basically means she’s been hungry for a decade. I sighed: is that really what it takes? If so, I know which side of squidgy I’m going to keep landing on. You shouldn’t need to be hungry, but then, I do eat at times when I’m not hungry for the sheer pleasure of it so I’m really my own worst enemy.
This is not to say that I’m particularly overweight – for what it’s worth, I’m within the “healthy range” (albeit towards the upper end). But I’d like to look better in something heinously skintight that a Kardashian would wear, you know? I want them judging me for a whole OTHER set of reasons. Lesson to be taken I guess: eat/drink less, get off chuff more often. GENIUS, aren’t I?!
Oh, and also, please send some sparkly-hippy-good-karma-vibes to my mother, who is managing a viral crisis amongst the newborn calves on the farm. She’s wearing herself out trying to make sure that the babies who can’t drink from their mummies are being tube fed and that they’re not infecting too many others. It has still managed to pass between mobs of cattle and despite her tender loving care there have been a few deaths, which she takes very personally. That’s much more important stuff than my waistline whinges – do I really believe in the power of positive thoughts from others? Yeah, I think I do. So it would be good, ta.
*Opinions on the Oxford comma?