Bad Mummy Diaries - Part 1*

Today has been one of those days where the Stepford Wife in me took too much Xanax and passed out in the tub. I just haven't been able to muster up any concern for the state of my floors, the ever-growing laundry pile or the fact the people who live here might expect to be fed occasionally.

Part of it has to do with the fact I started reading Jen Lancaster's book, Bright Lights, Big Ass, and just couldn't stop. It's seriously funny, cuttingly honest and appallingly addictive.

Seriously, it's totally not my fault that her book is so fricking funny and addictive that I stayed in my pj's til 2 this afternoon reading it and letting GG destroy the house around me. More than once I choked as I tried to stop myself from snorting coffee out my nose. More than once GG would dart in from her playroom, asking "wha 'appened?" when I burst out laughing.

Then, I dragged myself off the couch to honour a promise to GG that we'd go to my Aunt's for a swim. Several times now my husband has reminded me I need to get petrol. Several times now I have rolled my eyes at him and said "FFS, stop treating me like an irresponsible child, I am perfectly capable of looking at a gauge in my own car, and looking after myself. I did manage quite nicely for the 26 years I walked this earth before I met you. Honestly!!"

So I get in the car and blithely head off. About a minute down the road I decide that we really should go back and get Scout the Loyal Hound, he loves running free range on her acreage property and playing with my Uncle's dog. On the way back, I glance at the pretty little orange light on my dash. "Hmm, has that always been there? I don't think I've noticed it before?" It is, of course, the fuel light. Fuck.

I check the cool whizz-bang gizmo that tells me how many k's I have left til I run out of petrol. 10. No drama, there's a service station just down the road. We continue home, pick up Scout and head off to said station. I pull up, pop the petrol cap thingy and am about to get out of the car when I realise I just threw towels and keys on the front seat, I didn't grab my bag, and I certainly didn't grab my purse. Fuckity fuck.

I slink out of the service station, go home and grab my purse. I check the whizz bang thingy again and it has gone down to 3 KILOMETRES!!! WTF!?!?! The servo is only a k at most down the road!! Stupid, lying whizz-bang thing!! Further avow my deep distrust of all thing technical. At this rate, I will run out of fuel imminently. I am NOT prepared to be stuck on the side of the road in my cossies, with an impatient child and boisterous dog in tow. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

We make it back to the service station and I am stuck with a dilemma. Hubby insists I use nothing but the super-expensive, high-performance, ultimate, this-is-what-you-put-in-your-Vanquish fuel. Sadly, I have only $15 in my account. This will be but a drop in the tank. Sorry honey, but I put the cheapest combustible liquid I can get my hands on in our spunky little sporty car, a leftover from our more financially secure days. Had I had a dishrag used to mop up metho, this is what I would've wrung out into the tank. Love you!!! Guess I can add Bad Wife Diary to the title.

After our swim, it occurs to me GG may become hungry soon. She ate a healthy lunch, but only because I had the forethought to freeze some meals for work next week. I am distinctly underwhelmed by the prospect of going home and constructing a meal, so I do what all independent, resourceful women do. I go next door to my Mums and invite ourselves for dinner. Luckily I have an awesome Mum who sees all my tricks but lets me get away with them anyway. Score!! I do however, wash up for her, as she is sadly sans-dishwasher. And very good at reminding her children how lucky we are, without actually saying anything.

Hubby arrived home from his work Christmas do, having been at Eagle Farm races all day, surprisingly more human and less shambling gorilla-like than I expected (he's a hilariously simian-like drunk) a while back, whereupon I feigned interest in his day long enough to warrant the decree that tomorrow is Daddy Day Care Day, and I shall be absconding to do some Christmas shopping. Or possibly catching up with friends for coffee. The less he knows the better, really.


* Cos I'm sure there'll be more!!