{A reposted post from two years ago, which I'm hoping might amuse you unless you've read it before and then you are probably my sisters who were the primary readers of this blog two years ago. And in that case this awesome shot of my very grey hair taken yesterday is for you. Yes I can hear you both snorting on two different continents. I'm doing it. I'm growing in the grey. The end.}
Originally posted Tues 16 June, 2009
After I almost lost my hair tonight in the fireball I created by spraying Canola spray directly into a pan on the stove, a gas stove, (yes I know I'm an idiot), I am reflecting on the effects of my short cutting, my quick fixing and my life of interruptions.
I'd like to blame my mother. The master of the domestic short cut. If there's a way to do a chore quicker and better she'll find it because when you finish doing whatever it is, you get to read. Or play in the garden. Or do something fun. And that's worth a short cut.
So, no ironing. I grew up clothed exclusively in non-creasing polyester cotton, folded off the line. Hemming tape. Scuff stuff. Nail polish on a laddered stocking. The slice we'd make for morning tea was actually called "Lazy lady". (It was EXCELLENT. Essentially a speedy chocolate brownie. Will post the recipe. But I digress.)
When I'm done blaming Mum for introducing me to aerosol Canola I can consider the influence of my friends.
One of my dearest pals of all time doesn't even use pegs on her clothesline. She hangs the washing out and when it's dry it falls off the line and onto the ground. She and her children always look very clean so this system obviously works. Love you, Nessie.
I short-cut every single day. Some days it's no underwear. No butter under the vegemite. And don't even get me started on the cleaning short cuts I make. Eek.
Maybe that's why I'm doubly killed by the occasional need to write "home duties" next to "Your occupation". I'm so unbelievably crap at home duties that I almost set myself and the house on fire. My children quite frequently leave the house with spectacular bed head and I noticed in Woolies last week that Henry was still wearing his pyjama bottoms. I'd changed his top half and his shoes but neglected flannelette Elmo.
And it's not that I'm short cutting and reading or gardening, greater the shame. Some days it feels like roller skates down a really steep hill. On concrete. Without the exhilaration (and the great early 80's perm and short skirt. And legs, for that matter.)
I'm off to make an instant coffee, speed read the Sydney Morning Herald headlines online and not do any cleaning. Again. No cleaning except for the big black smudge on the wall behind the stove which is all that's left of my eyebrows.
xxx
