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Tuesday, August 14, 2007

A rose by any other name


On Sunday morning I debate whether it is feasible to clean the fridge or not? [translation = well overdue]

I glance at my spouse with his nose glued to a computer screen. I interrupt his concentration to ask his opinion. [translation = feasibility study mate] I translate for him why I need his opinion. [translation = will you look after the children so that my time is free to attend to the rot in your refridgerator]

“Sure!” he says with enthusiasm as his face turns back to the monitor. I spend far too long fighting the fridge, interspersed with chasing my children, until I am able to pronounce that the fridge is clean and the children are correspondingly dirty.

I examine the interior of my clean and empty fridge and dither. Shall I toss everything back in there and risk food poisoning, or should I sort and dispose of the more dubious items? I glance across at my spouse deep in the mire of designing a GPS system for the children. I dither. Should I disturb his endeavours and risk losing my children, or should I attend to my own mould, [translation = shower] or should I spend far too long determining the life span of limp spinach and other sundry items? I pull over the compost bin and set to it.

It occurs to me that I appear to have temporarily mislaid the raging feminist facet of my personality.

Later, I slam the fridge door with it’s nearly empty contents and skip to the big compost heap for a transfer. On my return, I dither. Should I shower or therapize someone or water the garden before it gets too hot? Maybe I could combine the first and last and skip a step completely? I wonder if my neighbours would appreciate this combination? I glance at my spouse deep in design. I interrupt his creativity to request assistance. “Is it o.k. if I nip upstairs and have a shower?” He blinks at me blankly, “sure, knock yourself out!” I translate. [translation = adult supervision of children is required] “Sure, take as long as you like.” I pout. I decide that I will not translate his missive and instead I shall take him literally. [translation = be a big fat meany and dilly dally]

I nip upstairs, three at a time and dive into the shower for my usual pit stop. Afterwards I attempt ‘drying’ with a damp towel, give up and dress with care. [translation = pull on an old sundress] I decide that if the feminist facet has eloped, then I shall expose the womanly wiles instead. [translation = serious personality disorder] I dither. Which one? Moisturizer, acne cream or wrinkle killer? I slap on a bit of each and hope for the best. I ram the bifocals back on and bounce down the stairs having completed my ablutions to the best of my ability in approximately four and a half minutes. [translation = getting very lax]

I present myself to my family. I decide to be helpful and give them a hint, “tad ah!” I spin, in my sundress, a swirl and a twirl.
“You are er…….dizzy?” asks one with a certain degree of uncertainty.
“You are dah princess?” is another tentative offer. [female attire always has this affect on them] They try again.
“You are dah flower?”
“You are dah colour…..ful?” We spiral down into a guessing game of twenty questions. [translation = or is that really ‘up’]
“Er…dah dress up?”
“No, no, no……I got it…..dah Power Ranger!”
“No, no, no…….dah hero guy!”
“Dat dog ……dah one wiv dah spots!”
“Ooo yeah, das right…….er……Lab……Lab…….Lab…..um…..Dalmation!”
I pout. [translation = I sometimes wonder why I bother!] My hands settle on my hips even though I try very hard not to adopt an attitude, as my daughter glances up at me from the sofa, “you’ve got white goopy blobs on yur face Mom!”

Note to self – check mirror before making next presentation

6 comments:

dgibbs said...

We do tend to rush even when we have the "Take as much time as you need" pass, don't we?

Jeni said...

Boy, what a dilemma! First, doing the nasty cleaning of the fridge which is always such fun, what with the fur growing items you find shoved hither, thither and yon - enough to begin one's own penicillin production at times and thankless job that it is, no one even notices anything has been done there when finished. And then, to go get a shower, all dressed, making attempts at keeping the skin and youthful and nice and no one sees or understands the transformation there either, boy, I hate when that happens too!
A spotted dog though? Must have been from seeing the extra blobs of white cream that brought that one on, huh?

Frogs' mom said...

I've had that dream - oh wait, it wasn't a dream. You're living my life (or vice versa)! I don't know which is worse, when your family doesn't notice any of your efforts (clean fridge or putting yourself together) or when your friends see you and ask "what happened to you?!" because the scratches, bruises and gray hairs stand out more when you get all gussied up :0)

Nicole said...

That is too funny! You're a great writer. Thanks for visiting my blog today. I'll be back to see you soon! :)

Drunk Mummy said...

I know exactly how you feel about the face creams - it's like 'painting by numbers' on my face these days.

The Shepcarpclan said...

Lol, thank you for this one. I so needed a giggle today.

 
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