We recently ripped up the carpet in our bedroom and replaced it with a vinyl/timber hybrid that, according to the man at Harvey Norman, is fully waterproof.
More importantly, it’s vomit, diarrhea and urine proof so now when it’s 4:00 am and gentle heaving sounds emanate from under the doona and we feel a Chihuahua scrabbling desperately up through the bedclothes to get to the bathroom, then ten seconds later, hear short exploding sounds from under the bed, we don’t have to panic quite so much.
It’s life changing really.
Also, it’s a relief to know that whatever sins the previous owner, a little old lady according to the real estate agent, exacted on the carpet… animal sacrifice, orgies involving messy liquid ejections, experiments involving the use of leaking test tubes in order to isolate the ebola virus… we no longer have to have them in the back of our mind when our delicate, pink, bare feet slide across the carpet.
Vacuuming is much easier, I found the hand cream I lost three years ago when we moved the bedside tables and we don’t have to store all our suitcases under the bed to prevent the cat from using it as a litter box forcing us to pull it out by the tail as it lies on its back playing dead anymore.
I want to hybrid the entire house including the walls and ceilings, that’s how much I like it.
There were a few moments when I wanted to take a photo and post it to Facebook and Instagram but I suddenly realised that all my friends post photos of cute babies, overseas holidays and sunsets so a picture of my hybrid floor probably wouldn’t get anyone excited.
I was also going to post a picture of some gnaw marks on a wall where Polly the sausage dog likes to chew, but I’m sure that’s not very interesting either, even though a dog slowly eating a house one wall at a time is a first for me.
I’m kind of glad Instagram has decided to hide the likes because now nobody can see how I don’t get very many because of my incredibly boring photographic choices.
Bit like this blog post really.
The truth is, since giving up the booze and embarking on a healthy diet regime, I’ve become a terribly boring person. Giving up alcohol has physically and mentally aged me.
Even though I’m now free to drive after 6:00pm because I’m not ten sheets to the wind, I absolutely refuse to leave the house after dark.
We go to matinee sessions at the movies and the last three movies we went to were Aladdin, Toy Story and The Lion King. Even then, I felt the music was a bit on the loud side.
My social life consists of a cup of tea with my eighty-year-old parents once a fortnight (if they’re free).
Last Saturday morning, Scotto and I became unreasonably excited at the extra-large sized Pink Lady apples on display at Coles.
We’ve stopped watching Sunrise in the morning because of the ads and have started watching ABC Breakfast.
I stopped wearing makeup and switched to zinc-oxide sunscreen because I’m afraid of the chemicals in normal sunscreen.
I had my hair cut into a bob with a fringe.
The optometrist told me I have the beginnings of cataracts and I keep checking in the mirror to make sure I don’t look like the guy from Kung Fu.
Only a boring teetotaller would remember either the show or that the guy from Kung Fu had cataracts.
It’s life changing really.
Also, it’s a relief to know that whatever sins the previous owner, a little old lady according to the real estate agent, exacted on the carpet… animal sacrifice, orgies involving messy liquid ejections, experiments involving the use of leaking test tubes in order to isolate the ebola virus… we no longer have to have them in the back of our mind when our delicate, pink, bare feet slide across the carpet.
Vacuuming is much easier, I found the hand cream I lost three years ago when we moved the bedside tables and we don’t have to store all our suitcases under the bed to prevent the cat from using it as a litter box forcing us to pull it out by the tail as it lies on its back playing dead anymore.
I want to hybrid the entire house including the walls and ceilings, that’s how much I like it.
There were a few moments when I wanted to take a photo and post it to Facebook and Instagram but I suddenly realised that all my friends post photos of cute babies, overseas holidays and sunsets so a picture of my hybrid floor probably wouldn’t get anyone excited.
I was also going to post a picture of some gnaw marks on a wall where Polly the sausage dog likes to chew, but I’m sure that’s not very interesting either, even though a dog slowly eating a house one wall at a time is a first for me.
I’m kind of glad Instagram has decided to hide the likes because now nobody can see how I don’t get very many because of my incredibly boring photographic choices.
Bit like this blog post really.
The truth is, since giving up the booze and embarking on a healthy diet regime, I’ve become a terribly boring person. Giving up alcohol has physically and mentally aged me.
Even though I’m now free to drive after 6:00pm because I’m not ten sheets to the wind, I absolutely refuse to leave the house after dark.
We go to matinee sessions at the movies and the last three movies we went to were Aladdin, Toy Story and The Lion King. Even then, I felt the music was a bit on the loud side.
My social life consists of a cup of tea with my eighty-year-old parents once a fortnight (if they’re free).
Last Saturday morning, Scotto and I became unreasonably excited at the extra-large sized Pink Lady apples on display at Coles.
We’ve stopped watching Sunrise in the morning because of the ads and have started watching ABC Breakfast.
I stopped wearing makeup and switched to zinc-oxide sunscreen because I’m afraid of the chemicals in normal sunscreen.
I had my hair cut into a bob with a fringe.
The optometrist told me I have the beginnings of cataracts and I keep checking in the mirror to make sure I don’t look like the guy from Kung Fu.
Only a boring teetotaller would remember either the show or that the guy from Kung Fu had cataracts.
We watch television in bed every night and we refer to our favourite programmes as ‘our stories’.
“Let’s hop into bed and watch our stories,” I’ll say to Scotto, pulling my flannelette pyjama bottoms up to my armpits and shuffling over to the stove in slippers to heat milk for cocoa.
But the most boring metamorphism my friend is the anti-social introvert I’ve turned into.
I call into the same service station twice a week and for the first time in two years the lady at the counter struck up a long pleasant conversation with me. My over-riding thought as I drove away was that now I’d have to find a new service station to patronise.
Very bloody boring person I am now.
