No, I’m not Australian. I’ve never been there, even. I live in a much colder part of a much less interesting nation. But I do have a friend that lives in Australia, and she’s got me hooked on saying it. Maybe you can pretend I’m talking like an Aussie and it might sound more interesting. Everything sounds cooler in an Australian accent. (Unless you’re Australian, then I guess American accents are THE thing to hear.)
In truth, my vowels are hard and nasal, and my backyard wildlife tends more to deer and bluejays than koalas and kookaburras. I have decided to jump on the bandwagon (a few years delayed) and actually create a blog. I have no idea if any of you will find any of this interesting. You never know. I have been told on occasion that I am witty. Some have even been foolish enough to suggest I create a blog, ensuring me that LOTS of people will read it. I have no such illusion, I just figure if I type out what is going on in my head, one of three things might happen:
1. I might save myself some money on therapy. So far, the sarcastic wit has helped me immensely, but my kids are getting old enough to realize that not everyone’s mother is like me and have started to take three giant steps sideways to prevent people from thinking “I’m with them”.
2. You might see a bit of yourself in these stories and know you’re not alone. Or you might just use me as one of those preventive examples and do whatever it takes to not be me.
3. You might go away and never come back. Doesn’t matter, I can’t see you anyway. Really, I can’t see you.
So the facts of my life are that I’m highly educated, highly intelligent, and I have four kids that I decided to leave the working world to raise. Most days I wonder what I was thinking, but the fact is that I didn’t trust anyone else to raise “MY” kids. No one told me that with motherhood comes HOUSEWORK, which I loathe. I didn’t get a Master’s degree so that I could learn the proper way to wipe boy urine off the tiles around my toilet, but there’s the truth of it. I have many degrees and yet I am still wiping bodily fluids off of many surfaces in my house.
The bodily fluids don’t always belong to people in my household, nor do they even necessarily have to be human. My dog died last year, so I really thought I was past having to clean up animal messes. Ha! I have somehow managed to get caught up on my laundry, so I am down to just the bucket of gross clothes that my husband does yardwork and vehicle maintenance in. I’m not sure why we bother washign these, they really don’t look any better when they come out. So, I’m chucking one piece of clothing after another into the washer, and as I do so, out wafts this odor that is halfway between armpit and roadkill, and as I get closer to the bottom of the bucket, it gets less armpit and more roadkill.
Want to know why?
Well, that would be because I HAD roadkill in my laundry bucket! Now I know why they make laundry baskets with holes in the sides, and why solid buckets are not a good idea. You see, when a mouse SOMEHOW manages to scale up the side of a slippery bucket that is nearly two feet high, and then he falls in, the baskets with the holes in the side would allow him safe escape to be caught sensibly in a trap on a different day.
My laundry basket, without this wonderful design option, actually trapped said mouse, who perished a most thirst-filled and hungry death. (Unless he died from inhalation of armpit aroma) So, after a week or two, Mr. Deadmouse turns into a squiggly, awfully disgusting smelling buffet for the bottom-feeders of the insect world. And that, my friends is how my husband wound up with two shirts and a pair of jeans thrown right into the garbage without second thought!
Today, I was the EXTERMINATRIX. Mmmm… get me the conical boustier…