Procrastination is such a long word and seems even longer when your spell check isn’t working.
It’s a word that describes perfectly the way that I feel at the moment, for I am procrastinating.
I don’t want to write anymore. I am weak and lethargic. (also another word which seems long without spell check)
I truly feel as if I have lost the will to carry on through life and I see no reason for existing at all. My faith in humanity and all things good, has suddenly evaporated.
The reason for my lack of fortitude? My doctor has placed me on a low fat diet.
This has left me feeling a little blue lately. ‘Little blue’ isn’t too happy about this and keeps screaming something about sexual harassment.
Last week, my doctor told me that I had high cholesterol and now I have to go on a low fat diet. Stupid cholesterol. I’m a vegetarian for god’s sake, there is no fat in my diet…or minerals…or vitamins…or calcium…or anything else of nutritional value whatsoever. I get all the healthy goodness that my body needs, from eating what he calls, the ‘wrong’ type of foods.
I mean, how can chocolate be wrong? (Calcium) Or crisps? (Carbohydrates) Or those lovely chewy fruit pastilles sweets that come in a variety of fruity flavours? ( 5 a day)
The reason for the diet…such an evil word, isn’t because I’m fat, I think that we’ve already established in earlier posts that I am just big boned but it’s because some fatty tissue is building up around my heart.
The heart is non to pleased with this fact and keeps asking fatty tissue to go build somewhere else. Fatty tissue is adamant about staying put and is now threatening to start construction around my arse if it has to move on. I have told fatty tissue to stay exactly where it is.
The Spawn is spitting feathers at the idea of being put on a healthy eating plan and no, I don’t know why he was eating feathers in the first place either.
I have assured him in my most motherly fashion that if I have to suffer, then so shall he.
The problem is, that with all the goodies now out of the house, we’ve both become akin to a couple of junkies, running around in search of any remnants of food left over that may contain copious amounts of sugar.
Two days ago, we both remembered that there was one place left unchecked, that still contained the last remaining tasty treat in the entire house. On beating him, quite literally, to the kitchen, no seriously, I had to really use my fist to beat that child off, I was able to claw my way to the freezer to claim my spoils of war… the last ice-cream cone. And as I held it aloft like a flaming beacon of hope shouting, “YES! VICTORY IS MINE!!” I couldn’t help but notice the look of defeat appear upon his face, his shoulders slumped forward, completely demoralized and with all signs of expectancy gone from his tearful eyes.
As he looked at me, hunger clearly etched upon his delicate features, I felt a sudden sense of guilt. I had to end this madness immediately. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself knowing that I had just stood there, slowly and lasciviously eating an ice-cream cone, while my poor hungry baby stood by and watched. It would be cruel and heartless to prolong his agony in this way…so I quickly scoffed the lot…well you know what they say, out of sight out of mind.
Today I cheated and bought myself a packet of crisps, hiding them away under my pillow in readiness for a midnight snack.
But Spawn is like a police tracker dog sniffing out crack when it comes to crisps.
So as the clock struck twelve, I reached out for my tasty treat, gleefully opening the packet as the light of desire shone brightly from my eyes.
I forgot that my little man can hear the rustling of a wrapper from a 1000 yards away.
(Spawn sniffing the air like some strange boy/dog beast) “I can smell crisps”. (sniff sniff) “Salt and vinegar flavour”. (sniff sniff) “Made from Jersey Royal potatoes (sniff) and grown on a farm in Yorkshire.” (sniff sniff) “Yep, definitely Jersey Royals, I’d say. Not fried but baked lightly in an oven operated by Irish Leprechauns… Can I have one?”
(Me displaying wisdom and virtue well beyond my years) “Who are you gonna tell? The big bad doctor man? Now listen, it’s 12:30 and you’ve got school in the morning, so I suggest you take your non crisp eating butt out of my room and back to bed.”
A face eating chimp would be more maternal than you. I hope the fatty tissue builds up around your already huge bum, so that you’ll need scaffolding to keep your knickers up! I hate you!! (Storming out of my room and slamming the door behind him)
*I’m going to tell him that we’re having salad tonight, then take him out back and make him eat grass…little sod.