more bedroom confessions

Please don’t judge me too harshly.

I’ve had a little itch.

 

What?

No! I don’t need directions to an STD website.  *slap*

This is an itch of the ethical kind.

 

It all started when I read a fellow twitterer’s tweet about her devoted pact with her husband- basically they would not tweet mean stuff about each other. I read it in passing and tried to forget about it immediately.  

But it stuck in my brain like a lone popcorn husk that lodges itself under your gum. My tongue rubbed over it constantly. It lurked at the very corner of my smile, niggling to be dealt with.

What exactly was the mean stuff??? 

I was worried. Not tweeting about the *mean stuff* could potentially wipe out half of my repertoire. I have a wonderful husband. But he is human.

If I can’t make some fun of him- what on earth will I write about?? I panicked.

I have nothing. My life is boring! What will I do?  Then I felt calm. I haven’t really written anything “bad” per se about him already. Had I? …Had I? 

Oh yes…

I did tell you all that he snores. And I guess that is rather personal. 

So there’s only one way to deal with this. It’s time to even up the score.

I will now reveal to you all something personal about myself…something about my bedroom habits.

 Ahem…okay, here goes…

I snore too. 

 

And I dribble on my pillow. 

And I talk a lot in my sleep. 

 

Oh, and I also have that strange dream- where I think I am driving a stick shift in a long rally car race (…but my husband says he really enjoys it when I have that dream so I guess that doesn’t count.)

 

The snoring is pretty bad. The dribbling is gross. But the talking in my sleep is the worst. I grumble and moan and apparently say whole sentences quite distinctly. Our kids do it too. My son has whole conversations with his dream- pals every night at about 11.30pm. But my daughter, well she is something else. She talks AND sleep walks. When she’s doing it she actually looks awake…but…>insert twilight theme song here< she isn’t. She trolls through the house like a pint sized, golden haired zombie in Hello Kitty pyjamas. When she’s finished she walks back to her bedroom, puts herself back into bed and has absolutely no recollection of her nightly adventures in the morning.

Once, my hubby and I were startled awake- by the light in our bedroom flickering. Our daughter was just standing there, in the doorway, perfectly still, one finger flicking the light switch on and off. On and off. On and off.

On another occasion she came into our bedroom and stood in front of me. I very gently asked her what was wrong and [wait- first imagine really-creepy-little-girl-whispery-voice] she said “I’m looking for my mummy”.

I told her that I was right there.

She said… [hang on, now- imagine really-really-creepy-little-girl-whispery-voice ] “I know, but I want my real mummy.”  Shite!

 

So there you have it. My husband deserves a trophy.

That occasional snore and bum-cough of his I mentioned previously is nothing compared to what we- Dribbly, Chatty and Freaky, do during the night.

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Ladies it’s time to trim the hedges.

      

In Melbourne Spring arrives in suggestive doses.

A day of sunshine mingles with three or four of chill. Then there’s two days of sunshine in a row- teasing us to prematurely shed our coats and scarves (but not…I repeat not our knee high boots). Like true Melburnians we will then friggin’ curse that left at home jacket and temperamental friggin’ weather until we emerge fully from winter- triumphant at its’ proper passing.

But until then the very earliest signs of Spring mean several things to me.

There is a delicious tingle to the skin- marking the return of the sun.  There is a yearning for short sleeves and fake tan.  There is a craving for salad.  There is an eye brow raised in disdain at all the black in my wardrobe (which incidentally I never do anything about )…and…

There is the dreaded womanly review of the gardening that needs to be undertaken for the sunny season ahead.

It’s not a pleasant task.

Under scornful, almost averted eyes I began my survey yesterday. What I found was a mess- a mess that was only two short months before a neatly tended landscape. Ugh. It’s been a long winter.

In the northern areas what had previously been weeded religiously- showed the effects of my sporadic attempts at upkeep. Freezing mornings and water restrictions haven’t helped- but they are poor excuses for the patchy results. Diagnosis- damage done there is extensive- but fixable.

The case was not as charming upon surveying the entire southern section. Completely left unfettered this region was showing obvious signs of neglect. It had grown amok. I’m fearful that no whipper snipper or weed whacker will now suffice. I will have to seek help from the professionals.

Now before you scoff at me and gloat or email me pics of your perfectly-tended-all-through-winter-driveways please remember that I have been married for over fifteen years, have two kids, run a business (actually two up until earlier this year), study at Uni and wear pants all winter long. Gardening, I’m ashamed to admit, has not been a high priority.  All my Autumn resolutions of ongoing maintenance dimmed with the passing of daylight savings.

I’m not good at keeping promises to myself. But right now I’m feeling more than a bit sorry for the garden hose.

So garden hose here is my apology to you.

I’m sorry.

How you navigated that territory and did your best all through the cold season I’ll never know.

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