EEEEEEEEEEEE-yowwwwwwch

The post in which I bleat about whatever. But mostly about the FREAKING STUPID thing I did today.

It serves me right and I only have myself to blame, I was after all playing silly idjits with the LGBB. Hiding behind the couch next to the vacuum, it really was inviting trouble to pretend to be startled by her and duck back down at lightning speed. It only took two turns at this apparently most giddyingly satisfying game - if you ask her - for me to clock myself bang in the centre of my right eye socket on the protruding clip that the foot slots into (and for all those Dyson owners, you'll know the little clip I mean, the one sticking out uppermost at the back of the barrel). I applaud myself now for not letting out the most vile string of expletives ever put breath to and instead did a "funny mummy dance" around the island bench to the glee and delight of the bouncing toddler. I looked like a pirate with a hand for an eye patch, I take it.

Next on my list to complain about: for one night only. Husbands. God love 'em, I know, but mine does shit me to tears sometimes. Our anniversary is next week. It's apparently, at the eleventh hour, befallen me to get some babysitting organised for a night out next weekend. Fat chance I'll have. I might ask around at the occasional care centre but I don't like our luck. And not only that, but it also means there's nothing organised. Way to feel the lurve.

I know, I know. Shuddup. I will suck it up. And undoubtedly, there will be something sometime soon (if not to do with our actual anniversary or with Mother's Day, for that matter) which will come up and I will feel sooooo rotten for complaining. But for now, I reserve the right to feel just a tad unacknowledged or unloved or unsomething. I'll think of the something, don't you worry.

And what is it with screws on the bench?? Not the steamy, pre-marital, pre-life experience ones. I mean the shitty bloody "what are these from and do you need them for anything and why are we keeping them here" kind. Far be it from me to even contemplate what it is like for a single mother - I have said on here before, more than once, that I take my hat right off to these women, for I have no idea in the slightest how I would manage, either emotionally or organisationally - but for heaven's sake, I bet not one of them has a nondescript useless little pile of screws on her bench. Every few weeks, I find maybe one screw. Perhaps a bunch. WHAT ARE THEY FROM?? HOW DO THEY GET ON MY BENCH??

If there is one thing I ponder quite often, amongst other far more important and answerable things, it is this: just how much cleaning up after the other adult in the house can possibly go on and would it be far less work if one didn't subconsciously think this other adult was going to pick up after themselves (or certainly not make an obvious dent in the order to which you like to keep your home). I know that when I am aware Steve is going to be away out of town for a night or not going to be home til late for a couple of nights, it is actually easier for me to have a routine and get things organised. I know what I'm doing, I stay on the ball, there seems to be soooo much less cleaning up to do. And that includes the 21 month old.

Why is that? Anyone? Do you feel me? Please tell me this is not a phenomenon in this house alone. I won't believe it.