Earlier this year it dawned on me that I probably won’t be getting nominated for “Girlfriend of the Year” in 2015. We had some guests over from Australia, and Sam, who is a finalist for “Wife of the Year” asked me where the iron was. I had no idea. I tracked it down eventually (there aren’t many places to hide in boyf’s house) but the whereabouts of the ironing board had me completely stumped. “Don’t you iron?” asked Sam, “oh hell no lady, I steam!”
That was around about the time I started a shit storm with boyf’s friends that resulted in our names being removed from many a Christmas card list. Boyf also mentioned that not only do I make no attempt to clean the abode, I don’t even tidy up after myself, resulting in a role play situation, with him playing the 50’s housewife and me doing an excellent enactment of a chauvinist salesman husband. I started experiencing mild anxiety at the thought of boyf trading me in for an ironing, cleaning, quietly spoken, friendly female, who is perhaps not quite so obsessed with cats – I needed to step up my game.
I decided to plan a weekend away, which is what we did in the good old days before weekends became about watering, weeding and washing. The planning of the weekend is the easy bit, choose a date, pick a place, find some accom and you’re done. Kind of.
I’m not a great traveller, I never grew out of my childhood car sickness, and any trip that involves a gorge or a winding gravel road is met with minimal enthusiasm. I picked a place a mere 40 minutes west of home base and chose a wee chalet – right up boyf’s alley, I prefer something with a day spa, a mineral hot pool and a buffet breakfast, but I needed the brownie points.
We’d decided to leave on Friday and return on Sunday, and this the hard bit: leaving.
On Friday at work I duck to Briscoes on a work related matter, and fall madly in love with a picnic set that’s also a chiller bag, and I start looking forward to a picnic in the sunshine with an amazing view and a fresh sea breeze. After work I go to the supermarket to stock up on delicacies, with what appears to be most of the population of Hamilton.
I make it home before boyf, who finishes work three hours before me on a Friday, and whose absence is noted. I pack away the perishables, and set about doing some prep – marinating chicken nibbles, cutting watermelon, harvesting tomatoes and boiling eggs.
Boyf finally stumbles home, I’ve no idea where he’s been, but judging by the muscle tee and the “tink-uh-tink-uh-tink-uh” of his shaker, he’s been throwing a bit of tin at the gym. Boyf asks what time we’ll be leaving, I mumble a vague response, he announces he is having a shower, I start packing the new picnic basket/chiller/best invention ever.
Boyf emerges from the shower after approximately 1 minute and 45 seconds, just as I finish packing the picnic basket/chiller/best invention ever for the fourth time. It’s my turn for the shower – we’re a one bathroom household, and so boyf starts his 20 second bag packing routine (three tees, sports shorts, casual shorts, jeans, jandals, socks, running shoes, casual shoes, a hooded sweat and no doubt a couple of pairs of fluro undies).
I emerge from the shower after approximately 4 minutes and 17 seconds and spray the bathroom with my balancing energy aura spray just as boyf busts in – he’s ready to go! I don’t tell him that I haven’t finished packing my bag.
I remove my panda eyes with my oil cleanser, and put on my anti-oxidant serum. Boyf comes back (with a mouth full of chicken), and asks if I’m nearly ready to go, I’m moisturising my face. I say “mmhmmm nearly” – still no mention of the half packed bag. I commence body moisturisation, I hear the TV go on.
I apply CC cream, and add some apple and elderflower tea bags to a bottle of water. I apply BB cream and complete body moistening (the feet get two coats). Boyf is now pacing the hallway, asking what time we’re leaving. I apply mineral powder foundation and say “sooooon”.
While I draw on my eyebrows and darken my lashes, boyf puts his bag in the car. Boyf returns from the car as I’m plucking some stray eyebrow hairs, and retrieves his toiletries bag. I feel a small sense of satisfaction that he isn’t quite as organised as he likes to make out.
Boyf returns from the car for the second time as I’m adding ice to my tea. I suggest he takes the rubbish out to try and buy myself some time.
I need a driving outfit. A boyfriend jean with a white tee will suffice, but I can find neither. A patterned comfy pant and singlet is the next best alternative.
I’m trying to focus my energy on packing, but packing is hard. How am I supposed to know what the weather will do tomorrow morning, tomorrow afternoon, or tomorrow evening, much less on Sunday. I need a casual jean, a dress jean, and a pair of fat pants. A summer dress for the picnic (which is going to be amazing – can’t wait to get some snaps for Insta), although if it’s chilly I’ll need a drape cardi to wear with the casual jean for picnicking. I need two options for exercising – a Saturday outfit and a Sunday outfit (colour coordinated down to shoes and socks).
I need heels and evening flats, as well as day flats and a pair of sandals. If I can’t be bothered shaving my legs, I’ll need a maxi. Do I need a blazer? What about the shirt that I bought to channel my inner Nina Proudman? Could I give that a whirl? Black blazer, white blazer, or black and white blazer? Maybe the hot pink blazer? Heck how about all four – cover all bases.
Ten minutes later and the bag is packed. Well stuffed, like one of those rolled chicken roasts in the string bag. Speaking of chicken, I remember that the chicken will have cooled enough to be put in a container and into the new picnic basket/chiller/best invention ever (which boyf has packed in the car). I’m concerned that the chicken has been in the “danger zone” for too long, but she’ll be right mate!
Back to the bathroom to collect up my scattered cosmetics. I’ll also need shampoo and conditioner, with some serum to tame the mane. Mustn’t forget the razor, the tweezers, the nail clippers, a nail file, and my collection of nail varnish in case I feel the need for a self service mani/pedi. I decide to give my teeth a quick brush, but of course boyf has already packed the toothpaste.
Boyf has been playing Pet Blast for 26 minutes, and spent 13 minutes on Facebook watching Kevin Hart clips. I catch my crochet bag out of the corner of my eye and remember that he said I wasn’t allowed to take it away with us. I need to think fast and get it into the car before he notices (it’s easier to apologise than ask permission).
We’re finally leaving the house, I’ve grabbed my black and white Chucks and my grey and white Chucks on the way out the door, and I spotted my black jandals in the knick of time – they’re safely stashed in my handbag! We’re in the car, we’re backing out the driveway and I remember the tea! I need my tea! Boyf says “you don’t need the tea”, and I give him ‘the look’. He goes inside and gets me the tea. Without the lid. “Where’s the lid? Did you forget the lid? Did you not think that this one litre glass vessel would require a lid at some stage during the journey?” Oh, it’s the little things in life.
So now I’m trying to drink the tea, out of the large bottle with jar like opening, and looking very ladylike, when boyf asks where we’re going, “head East!” I announce with enthusiasm. It takes about six minutes for me to realise that it’s actually West, we need to be going West.
I know you’re thinking “she doesn’t even have kids, it’s going to be impossible for her when she has kids”. You’re right, it will be, and that’s why ‘it will be impossible to go away anywhere’ is in the ‘Con’s’ column of the ‘Having Kids Decision Making Chart’, underneath ‘no more sleep ins’ and above ‘you won’t be able to spend all weekend in the garage playing with concrete’.
The best bit of this story, is that we didn’t have that picnic. The picnic basket/cooler/best invention ever didn’t make it on its maiden voyage, boyf had cheese, kumato and salami on crackers on the couch instead. I also forgot my running shoes, which is a misnomer, because I never run, or maybe boyf forgot my running shoes – we’re agreeing to disagree on that one. Boyf didn’t drink any of the six beers I packed him, which led to accusations about wasting space in the picnic basket/cooler/best invention ever. But boyf loved the chalet, and the birds and the nature stuff, and the highlight of his weekend was catching up on X Factor. Looking forward to blogging about my dress options for the awards ceremony at Claudelands later this year.