Author: comfortablymum6

I spent the majority of my teenage years fretting about my body image and how I would be judged by others. I have learned, and am trying to teach my teenage daughters, that you are who you are and that’s what people love about you no matter what your figure is doing at the time.
I have always, however, even at my present advanced age and state of droop/bulge of my body, let it all hang out on holiday and eschew the one piece swimsuit at the beach or pool, preferring to wear a bikini.
My theory is this – most others are so busy obsessing about their own body image that they won’t give me a second glance and those that do and think I am a bit fat will immediately feel better about themselves so I am doing them a favour.
I see it as a public service to women everywhere.

Just had the shortest swimming session in history. Was halfway down my second length when a lifeguard started jumping up and down, shouting and pointing at me. Was a tad concerned that I had unwittingly shed the bottom half of my swimsuit as I dived in, but on careful self-frisking I seemed to have adequately covered nether regions. It transpires that a small person has barfed in the pool during her swimming lesson and everyone has been ordered out and the pool is shut for disinfecting. Changing room hell has followed with every small, damp local child and their parents battling it out in tiny cubicles. I’m hiding in mine till they’ve all gone.

I am officially offensive.

I just tried to boost one of my posts to increase its reach and it was rejected by the FB censors due to “profanity”.

Quite proud, actually.

Is playing insomnia poker. Reluctant to go to bed unless completely knackered. Has folded washing and unloaded dishwasher. Has hot milk with Baileys. Every other living being in the house is fast asleep. Watching McMafia and propping my eyes open. Do not want to see 2am, 3am, 4am. 5am I could handle. Waiting for past midnight before attempting to fool my brain into sleep. Crossword next. Middle age sucks sometimes. Menopause always does.

Who’s bloody idea was it to leave our gargantuan Xmas tree up till now because it seemed a shame to take it down?

Oh. Mine.

Have just spent the best part part of two hours trimming it down with secateurs (causing each branch to immediately jettison all its needles), manhandling it out of the door and down the garden in the dark and then clearing up the mountain of needles left behind on the carpet. 
This part of the operation necessitated multiple unblockings of the Dyson which consisted of dismantling, disembowelling, Dynorodding and what can only be described as colonic irrigation of the bastarding machine to get the repeated log jams of needles from the varying combinations of tubes, orifices and brushes. I used attachments I had no idea I possessed and discovered fascinating (and frankly lethal to one’s extremities) internal workings (Must remember to unplug it before sticking my fingers in it..)
Our hall has now been reclaimed, the dogs have emerged from their hiding places and the Dyson finally reassembled for the nth time.
I have needles in my hair, up my nose, in my ears, in my socks and inexplicably, in my pants.

I have a feeling my offspring may be regretting the “joke” stocking filler present they gave me this year. I have loaded all 5 CDs of the 70s disco compilation into my car and now spend my journeys singing word perfect and very loud accompaniment to the magnificent garbage that was the soundtrack of my teens. As I yell along to “Disco Tex and the Sex-o-Lettes” and “Lady Marmalade”, I reminisce fondly about nights at the Walton Hop with my best friend, wearing a cap sleeved T shirt, Oxford bags (so flared that one could put an unfolded Daily Telegraph in the pocket on the legs) and some rather fabulous yellow, patent, platform clogs (so clumpy that each shoe had to be transported home from Dolcis in a separate carrier bag). The finishing touch was electric blue eye shadow applied with abandon. Ah, the memories.

Senior daughter back to university today.

I shall not miss:
Being unable to see her bedroom carpet for dirty/clean/strewn clothes
Endless washing
An empty towel cupboard with all radiators/chairs/beds/bannisters draped in damp towels.
Breeding dirty mugs/plates/glasses in her room.

Oh, Tesco. The minute the clock chimes midnight on Xmas eve, all the decorations (which have been up since Hallowe’en) are ripped down in favour of New Year’s fare, and now the Easter eggs are on the shelves.
I have, however, benefited from this pure market force consumerism by purchasing a wheelbarrow load of heavily discounted Christmas lights for next year’s tree in an attempt to avoid the annual fairy light disappointment i.e. the inevitable sudden malfunction of the bastarding things as soon as they are on the tree when they worked perfectly the year before.

Note to family. The dishwasher is not scary. It is not rocket science. It is also not a magic, self running or self emptying machine. It will not bite you if you put stuff in or take it out. It also works better if, when you do risk life and limb to put dirty stuff in, you add dishwasher soap and actually TURN IT ON.
*Sigh*