Dirty
I did many things over the Australia Day long weekend, none of which I'm proud of. Or rather I am proud of some of them, but that in itself is a source of shame.
Let me explain by comparing what I should have been doing, according to popular culture and the TV, and what I actually did. According to TV, I should have spent my Australia Day long weekend on the beach, wearing a floppy hat and an Australian flag knotted about my shoulders, playing cricket with a tennis ball and a stick and drinking beer until I puked in my esky.
But I didn't. I washed the car and my scooter, re-oiled the deck, bought a new microwave to replace the one that blew up on Friday, spruced up a dowdy cabinet, cleaned some of the dirtier windows and applied a liberal dose of TLC to my long-suffering house plants. I may as well have put on a housedress and pranced about the house listening to Tom Jones.
The dining room was worst. Not only did I clean and prune my plants, and clean sap off the floors and walls, and use my dustbuster to annihilate an ant colony living under a potted bromiliad, but I even went so far as the clean behind my paintings. Apparently the local bugs consider the reverse side of my art to be some sort of cross between a restroom and a graveyard, and the walls were quite frankly revolting, but that's a poor excuse. Once you start cleaning behind paintings you're only a step away from polishing the back of the fridge and windexing your lightbulbs.
So here I am. If I'd done the right and manly thing I could now have sunburn, a hangover and the need for a new esky. Instead I have a lot of healthy plants, a startlingly clean dining room, a deck that looks like new, a gleaming sports car and a sexy new stainless steel microwave. I'm so ashamed.
Let me explain by comparing what I should have been doing, according to popular culture and the TV, and what I actually did. According to TV, I should have spent my Australia Day long weekend on the beach, wearing a floppy hat and an Australian flag knotted about my shoulders, playing cricket with a tennis ball and a stick and drinking beer until I puked in my esky.
But I didn't. I washed the car and my scooter, re-oiled the deck, bought a new microwave to replace the one that blew up on Friday, spruced up a dowdy cabinet, cleaned some of the dirtier windows and applied a liberal dose of TLC to my long-suffering house plants. I may as well have put on a housedress and pranced about the house listening to Tom Jones.
The dining room was worst. Not only did I clean and prune my plants, and clean sap off the floors and walls, and use my dustbuster to annihilate an ant colony living under a potted bromiliad, but I even went so far as the clean behind my paintings. Apparently the local bugs consider the reverse side of my art to be some sort of cross between a restroom and a graveyard, and the walls were quite frankly revolting, but that's a poor excuse. Once you start cleaning behind paintings you're only a step away from polishing the back of the fridge and windexing your lightbulbs.
So here I am. If I'd done the right and manly thing I could now have sunburn, a hangover and the need for a new esky. Instead I have a lot of healthy plants, a startlingly clean dining room, a deck that looks like new, a gleaming sports car and a sexy new stainless steel microwave. I'm so ashamed.
posted by Blandwagon at 10:02 PM
4 Comments:
I wish my microwave was sexy.
If one day you'd come to Europe, do hop by.
And bring your duster too.
Don't forget the traditional A-Day punch-up and clogging up of our Emergency Rooms!
So like Moe Syzslak: 'I've done stuff I ain't proud of; and the stuff I am proud of is disgusting.'
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