It’s Friday afternoon. It’s 5.20pm and I’m still at work. yes, I have a ludicrous amount to get through but really, the reason I’m still here is because I’m just too tired to go anywhere else.
Because it involves the bus, and worse, the walking.to.the.bus.stop.palaver. and at this point, I just don’t have the energy.
I’m wondering if I could sleep here or at least hold out until AB feels sorry for me and comes and picks me up. This is not going to happen.
So I’m trying to psyche myself up to:
a) stand up,
b) leave the building,
c) walk the 10 minutes down the road,
d) stand in the bus queue and then
e) get on the bus and endure the trip home.
See, its exhausting just thinking about it.
About the only thing inspiring me is Bec’s phelgm induced epiphany to overhaul our routine to solely focus on food, sex, celebrities, the occassional parental info dump.
This will come as no surprise to Incubator Kim, but appetite is a really weird thing, is it not?
I’ve been hit by a Flu Train this past week – more like 10 days now – and apart from the appalling weakness, narcolepsy, coughing and migraines, the very worst thing about it is the loss of appetite.
For 10 days now I’ve suffered from a lack of Me. Me = varied and spiced foods, liberal quaffing of wine, double shot lattes and daily menu planning and ingredient-foraging.
All gone; all, all gone.
I’ve tried to get Me back. I’ve watched as much Lifestyle Channel as migraines and an Iain Hewitson allergy will allow; I’ve picked up recipe books in my pale and trembling hands and put them straight back on the shelf; I’ve stared into the fridge for minutes on end, hoping that something, anything would make me want to eat again.
But no Me anywhere. Not yet, at least.
I felt a flicker of hope with today’s Australian Magazine devoted entirely to spring food and wine. Weirdly, though, I found myself reading it for the articles rather than the recipes, and then I fell asleep. Again.
When I woke up I tried again because the picnic recipes did look a bit attractive and I’d noticed the two tart recipes were shaped for my own favourite tart pans. But again, weirdly, no genuine Me interest emerged: I got obsessed with the very impractical outfits the female picnic models were wearing and could tell you more now about the ridiculously expensive Dinnigan top than the quiche ingredients.
And that’s not like Me at all.
If there is any justice out of losing Me for a week or two, it should manifest in at least a couple of kilos lost. I doubt it will be that much, however, as my lack of food intake is offset by my total lethargy. If there is any loss it won’t be enough to inspire a celebration but it might serve another, quasi-scientific purpose…
That is, I could – 21 Grams style – measure the loss of my appetite in the loss of weight from this dastardly disease. After all, it’s the closest I can come to losing my soul while I’m still breathing.
The nice thing about nuns these days is that they are so versatile. Even while they’re carrying out such a medieval task as a bedside vigil, they can still take on a dying request like posting a blog entry to a slightly off-colour website like ours.
Mind you, ever since the Pope declared Australia to be godless we’ve noticed these nuns drifting around the streets of Marrickville offering all sorts of services and I’m starting to think maybe there’s something in it for them. Has he put a bounty on soul conversions? Is there a Heavenly Rewards Points program where the nun with the most souls gets tickets to the opening of the Catholic World Youth Day in 2008?
I’d hate to impugn their motives, but the old fat one sorting my underwear over in the corner is looking shiftier by the minute and there is a certain amount of jostling to be closest to be bed each time I start hacking my lungs up in a coughing fit.
Enough of the nuns. I’ve had an epiphany. Our Rousing Routine needs a makeover.
To save you flicking around this link, the routine in brief was:
Monday: dirty laundry
Tuesday: nude news
Friday: buried bones
Saturday: sports scandal
It seems to me that we’ve made a reasonable fist of weddings and nude news, had a crack or two at library, philosophised very rarely and shown an entirely predictable lack of interest in sport (except for Shane, who only counts for nudity and marriage).
Now this is not the epiphany.
It seems also, to me, that as we’re about to be the tired cranky and retail-deprived mothers of six, rather than 5.5, kids, we need tocut our routine a little slack, turn our thoughts a little more to the home front and remember that other great part of our lives (here comes the epiphany) FOOD.
How could we have left FOOD out of the list? Half our posts (and I’m thinking here especially of you punishing your mother by depriving her of dessert) focus on FOOD and more than half our lives is devoted to the consideration, pursuit, preparation and consumption of FOOD.
I mean, where are the recipes? Where is the cookbook lust? What about the fact that I’ve had almost a week at liberty to do nothing but watch the Lifestyle Channel?
We need to refine, we need to revamp, and we need to re-focus on the three things that really matter to us: Food, Sex, and bitching about celebrities.
Gotta go. One of the nuns just found the Professor’s porn.
as Bec is laid up with some dreaded lurgy that befell me last week, as work consumes all my energy, as the incubus compels me to be horizontal at any opportunity, Glamorouse has suffered.
I have nothing particularly enlightening, humorous or deep to comment on as at this point in time, my state of mind is exhaustion.
But… if you want to know how to piss me off really easily, its writing, and then reproducing articles like this one. It seems appropriate the author’s name is Ablow, as he can ablow his thoughts up his own arse as far as I’m concerned.
whoever he may be, deserves every unfortunate, blood on his hands type incident, coming his way.
So wrong. So very very wrong.