Shackin’ up with mum.
What with the rising cost of both petrol and choice cuts of beef in these trying times, I have decided to move back in with mum for a few months to sort out them finances. Please, don’t be fooled into believing for a second that I have given up any creature comforts for the sake of saving cash – nothing could be further from the truth. I write this I sit in a room with a 150 cm rear projection television blaring Foxtel-quality entertainment as I type into my Mac with cable internet connection and built in testicle massager.
Let it be known – thanks to Biff Lewis vacating the premises, I am back in the high life again, Steve Winwood style.
Three are of course a few pitfalls when re-entering my mother’s uterus. There’s just so much complicated etiquette to follow. For example, usually I leave my dirty clothes in a pile on or near the bed until James picks them up, washes them, dries them, folds them, places them in a neat pile on the bed again, waits for 24 hours and then places them inside the wardrobe himself. This is often just in time for me to get home from a sleep in day, followed by a two hour shift tutoring, only to Demand My Dinner Because I’ve Been Busy And You’ve Been Wasting Precious Cooking Time Cleaning The Bathroom, Fool. Nowadays, I don’t know who’s supposed to be doing my washing – mum or Mr. Mum.
I’m also enjoying the passive aggressive exchanges that mum and I experience on a daily basis. After heading downstairs for another glass of wine a few minutes ago, I walked past mum who was sitting on the couch eating from a bowl that contained both a slice of cake and half a custard tart. I was almost about to say “Muuuuuuum… You’re binge eating” in a sympathetic tone with my head cocked to the side in a concerned and sympathetic manner, when I realised that just fifteen minutes ago I had eaten the larger end of a box of peppermint chocolate pods and had just started on a large bag of roasted peanuts in the shell.
Another great exchange occurred early this morning after a cripplingly short eleven hours sleep on my behalf. Usually, our extremely complicated morning rituals will run separately because mum leaves for work at approximately 8AM and I usually set my alarm for an excruciating 9AM start. On Wednesdays however, mum has the day off and chooses to wake naturally at 9AM, throwing my morning routine into pandemonium.
On a normal day (after my 45-minute snooze quota is filled) I like to slowly make my way to the ensuite where I brush my toilet, pee in my teeth and then waddle to the shower. After this, I demand a naked Mick Jagger-strut through the lounge where I make my way to the stereo, switch on Neil Mitchell’s dulcet tones and let the word on the street according to only Melbourne’s most educated delivery drivers and Toorak housewives fill my freakin’ ears. I’m in heaven as I jiggle to the main bathroom with breasts akimbo, where soon I will set the makeup gun to whore, fire it point blank into my face and then wobble back to the bedroom ready to put on my brown tracksuit, beige skivvy and orange Homy Ped loafers.
But oh no – not on Wednesdays my friend. On Wednesdays, there’s no Naked Neil ‘til Noon. With the main bathroom right next to mum’s bedroom, I feel too guilty to even make the sound of drying my hands with a towel let alone using the hair dryer. Despite my efforts this morning, somehow I managed to wake mum from her Magic1278-induced snooze-fest, resulting in us crossing paths in the hall just before I was about to leave. It was at this time that I was confronted by mum’s alter ego, Senior Constable Lewis. “So why did you use my toothbrush this morning? I just wanted to know… that’s all,” says this flannelette-clad Columbo. “What What WHAT?” says I, taken aback by her accusing tone. Of course, we all know that I brush my teeth pre-shower, as often I’ve often no time for breakfast if I want to make it to uni by 10.30 (in time for a forty five minute coffee session). Shocked, I told her I had used my own toothbrush and didn’t know what she was talking about. I was then led directly into the crime scene where I was shown her wet toothbrush (Exhibit A), and a spot of toothpaste on the basin (Exhibit B) that “could only have been created by Emma Lewis”. At this stage, I led mum into my bathroom, where I presented her with my own toothbrush (Exhibit C), a brush suitably soaked with moisture as to suggest use approximately 15 minutes previous to that time. After solving the crime I grabbed my things and made a run for the door, leaving mum to compile her report and add it to her log ‘Lies and Deceit in the Lewis Family Home Volume XII'.
I must now vacate the computer so that mum can check her email and I can get some bed rest (only eleven sleeping hours before rise and shine). Since I just caught her typing her own email address into the address bar of Explorer on James’ laptop, this may take a while.
Figure 1 - Mum and I inspecting the crime scene at 9.30AM this morning.
Let it be known – thanks to Biff Lewis vacating the premises, I am back in the high life again, Steve Winwood style.
Three are of course a few pitfalls when re-entering my mother’s uterus. There’s just so much complicated etiquette to follow. For example, usually I leave my dirty clothes in a pile on or near the bed until James picks them up, washes them, dries them, folds them, places them in a neat pile on the bed again, waits for 24 hours and then places them inside the wardrobe himself. This is often just in time for me to get home from a sleep in day, followed by a two hour shift tutoring, only to Demand My Dinner Because I’ve Been Busy And You’ve Been Wasting Precious Cooking Time Cleaning The Bathroom, Fool. Nowadays, I don’t know who’s supposed to be doing my washing – mum or Mr. Mum.
I’m also enjoying the passive aggressive exchanges that mum and I experience on a daily basis. After heading downstairs for another glass of wine a few minutes ago, I walked past mum who was sitting on the couch eating from a bowl that contained both a slice of cake and half a custard tart. I was almost about to say “Muuuuuuum… You’re binge eating” in a sympathetic tone with my head cocked to the side in a concerned and sympathetic manner, when I realised that just fifteen minutes ago I had eaten the larger end of a box of peppermint chocolate pods and had just started on a large bag of roasted peanuts in the shell.
Another great exchange occurred early this morning after a cripplingly short eleven hours sleep on my behalf. Usually, our extremely complicated morning rituals will run separately because mum leaves for work at approximately 8AM and I usually set my alarm for an excruciating 9AM start. On Wednesdays however, mum has the day off and chooses to wake naturally at 9AM, throwing my morning routine into pandemonium.
On a normal day (after my 45-minute snooze quota is filled) I like to slowly make my way to the ensuite where I brush my toilet, pee in my teeth and then waddle to the shower. After this, I demand a naked Mick Jagger-strut through the lounge where I make my way to the stereo, switch on Neil Mitchell’s dulcet tones and let the word on the street according to only Melbourne’s most educated delivery drivers and Toorak housewives fill my freakin’ ears. I’m in heaven as I jiggle to the main bathroom with breasts akimbo, where soon I will set the makeup gun to whore, fire it point blank into my face and then wobble back to the bedroom ready to put on my brown tracksuit, beige skivvy and orange Homy Ped loafers.
But oh no – not on Wednesdays my friend. On Wednesdays, there’s no Naked Neil ‘til Noon. With the main bathroom right next to mum’s bedroom, I feel too guilty to even make the sound of drying my hands with a towel let alone using the hair dryer. Despite my efforts this morning, somehow I managed to wake mum from her Magic1278-induced snooze-fest, resulting in us crossing paths in the hall just before I was about to leave. It was at this time that I was confronted by mum’s alter ego, Senior Constable Lewis. “So why did you use my toothbrush this morning? I just wanted to know… that’s all,” says this flannelette-clad Columbo. “What What WHAT?” says I, taken aback by her accusing tone. Of course, we all know that I brush my teeth pre-shower, as often I’ve often no time for breakfast if I want to make it to uni by 10.30 (in time for a forty five minute coffee session). Shocked, I told her I had used my own toothbrush and didn’t know what she was talking about. I was then led directly into the crime scene where I was shown her wet toothbrush (Exhibit A), and a spot of toothpaste on the basin (Exhibit B) that “could only have been created by Emma Lewis”. At this stage, I led mum into my bathroom, where I presented her with my own toothbrush (Exhibit C), a brush suitably soaked with moisture as to suggest use approximately 15 minutes previous to that time. After solving the crime I grabbed my things and made a run for the door, leaving mum to compile her report and add it to her log ‘Lies and Deceit in the Lewis Family Home Volume XII'.
I must now vacate the computer so that mum can check her email and I can get some bed rest (only eleven sleeping hours before rise and shine). Since I just caught her typing her own email address into the address bar of Explorer on James’ laptop, this may take a while.
Figure 1 - Mum and I inspecting the crime scene at 9.30AM this morning.
posted by FEMBOTanist at Wednesday, May 31, 2006
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