Wine really does make everything seem better.
I know this because I am not drinking until Thursday night and am about to knaw off my own hand in desperation. This is not entirely the fault of my new diet, but a big plate of freshly cooked chips, garlic mayo and a Guinness from the Celtic would go a long way to improving things for me.
There are a few things on my ‘Fuck It’ list:
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My car is still at the garage… really… it is still there and just keeps getting more expensive.
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My diet is giving me all sorts of energy, really focussed thoughts and fantastic blood sugars while simultaneously taking away my will to live. Tough choice.
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I am hormonely-challenged and keep growling at my children and anyone who doesn’t tell me I am pretty every 15 minutes. I almost cried this morning because my jersey was too itchy…
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I am sitting on my bed wearing a pink sparkly crown being read Dr Suess by an equally beautiful fairy princess and I am still grumpy because all I can think about is what on earth to do with the chicken I have to cook for dinner (and how it all wouldn’t matter if I could have a glass of wine to enhance my culinary creativity).
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My house was tidy for 35 minutes in the weekend.
Now that I have that off my chest I must say that I had a lovely weekend. My diet allows two “open” meals a week where I can eat non-caveman food and I had a wonderful roast meal cooked for me with lashings of roast potatoes, kumara and pumpkin all swimming in a vat of gravy … drool … then we watched the All Blacks/France rugby match before I loaded two sleeping kiddies in the car for the chilly trip home.
I even got a little bit of gardening done, started a worm farm, and started on my room full of filing.
Even cooler than the filing was going for a ride with my matey (a road-bike virgin) and hooning around the uni carpark like 10-year-olds. He totally whipped my arse and I spent most of the time staring at his… in a very platonic, can’t-catch-up-to-him kind of way. By the time we got back, I was dripping in sweat with a bright heart-attack-red face, while he had one small eye-lash on his cheek and barely a gentle misting upon his brow. Fricken mountain goat.
Well I have procratinated long enough. It is time to face the chicken.