Sheridan’s Blog

Tonight I cleaned my microwave. And let’s call the microwave Christopher, even though that’s not his real name. I feel the need to protect his identity in this kind of forum. Anyway, I cleaned the inside of Christopher. And what the hell goes on in there when you put food in him? I seem to recall occasionally using him and retrieving food from him. And when I do, I distinctly remember the food being generally in the bowl or on the plate, not all over him.
So, in a vain domestic frenzy, I spray my Tropical Grapefruit flavoured Spray and Wipe scenario in him and wait until it ‘penetrates’ (tropical grapefruit? why, Sheridan, WHY??!? What moron thinks tropical and rotting food go together?) So I wipe all around and then I swipe this ceiling. I can feel that there’s clearly stuff up there. Goodness only knows what. So I stick my head in there and there’s all kinds of crap on the roof!! How did it get up there? I certainly don’t cook things for long enough for them to adhere to the roof in such a manner. And adhere is the only word – some of it is stuck in there so firmly it’s as if it has taken on a role as part of the microwave, instead of just some parasite. I was scrubbing away in there for a good 3 minutes and still had not dislodged anything. I decided to rest and consider just buying a new microwave. Sorry Christopher.

In unrelated news, my trainer at the gym (let’s call him Peter, even though I call him by a whole other name. And sometimes I just call him words, such as ‘evil’ and ‘minion of the anti-Christ’) has been putting me through my paces at the gym. Mind you, I pay him to do so, the sadist. It seems to be the only thing that really works, plus it’s nice to off-load some of the responsibility onto someone else. I turn up to the gym each time I say I will, and I put in my very best effort at doing exactly what he says (when I say it like that, he is possibly the luckiest man in Melbourne, maybe even Victoria). Except for the other day, when I just wanted to crawl away and hide under a big man performing push ups or something. I just couldn’t get it happening, and what’s worse is that I didn’t particularly care. It was by far the worst performance ever.
I always get this feeling that I will fail at what he asks me to do, and I guess it’s that I care so much about not failing that I somehow (normally) make my way through. That and the fact that he is economic with his words, and he’ll just stand there until I finish what I’m meant to be doing. This kind of scares me. His body language seems to say ‘ I’m going to stand here until you do all 15 reps, fatty. I have all day! DO IT NOW!’ Auuuggghhhh. Well, he probably wouldn’t say fatty. Not out loud, anyway.
This week, the need for rest was far greater than the need for approval. Plus I was all dejected from the dance thing being over after 6 months working on the stupid thing. And I have suffered since.
The origins of my downfall might be traced back to a 30th I went to last Saturday night (which was ace, by the way), followed by a dance competition on Sunday arvo (which was stresssful but still kind of ace). All the while (due to the aceness of Saturday night) I may have been feeling slightly seedy. And let me enlighten you: having some British chick poke you in the eye with an eye-liner for an hour when you’re hung over is not anyone’s idea of a good time. Trying to drive when wearing false lashes is also not. I don’t even think they were worth it, since I look like a drag queen in the pics.

So as I stare out my window at the commission flats (hey – at least I’m not staring out the window of the commission flats), I ponder the past week – realising that I’d rather spend my time without hangovers or false eyelashes and instead with the treadmill (and re-runs of Sex and the City). And possibly someone to massage my butt.

What a weekend. I generally enjoy sitting around and doing very little, but did very little of this last weekend. On Friday it was a dance class and then a movie. No surprises – I may or may not have fallen asleep in the cinema.
Saturday was a 30th birthday party, one with a 1930′s theme, which we realised about 2 hours prior to the party. After a speed shopping trip, we arrived in full 1930′s regalia at the function. Lucky thing, too, since on entry, we seemed to have stepped back in time. When you get a lot of decent, intelligent and funny people together, they tend to have a good time. And that we did. I had sort of planned to have an early night given my dance show the very next afternoon, but arrived home around 2.30pm. And since there was a generous tab on the bar, it seemed rude not to have a drink. Or 11. And although I thought I was sticking to the rules (one red wine, one water), apparently I got the sums wrong. I have since been informed that it’s: one red wine, one water, one red wine, two waters, one red wine, three waters…I will remember for next time.
Consequently, I was unable to take advantage of the included beer/wine/food the following night, due to the previous night’s efforts sucking the very lifeblood out of me. But I did have a nice bit of a dance, which always takes the mind off splitting headaches. And it was great to see some really good dancers show me how it’s done. Next time it’s supposed to be another medal (ballroom). Another opportunity to buy more dresses and shoes. Trying to convince boyfriend to come along. Then he’ll have something to do when he is forced to come along. I don’t allow him to dance with other women. Well, maybe his mother, but that’s it…
In other news, I’m off to NZ in November. Should be good.
Went to the Melbourne Show today. Enjoyed lunch overlooking the Coca-Cola arena’s live entertainment. Now, maybe I’m a bit jaded entertainment-wise, but I fail to see what is so entertaining about big wheels stuck on a car (with equally large suspension arrangements) driving over other cars. I just don’t get it. It did make a lot of noise, but that’s no cause for a Mexican wave. But I will admit to kind of enjoying the motorbikes going up the ramp and into the air and then down another ramp on the other side of a truck. Now that’s entertainment.

Well the week is happening all around us. Just today I have busied myself with sewing the buttons back onto many of my pairs of pants. Why do they not stay on? I’m hardly in the couture-pants-purchasing arena, but generally I purchase a very reasonable set of pants (you have to when you’re as tall as I am), and I expect that the buttons won’t start popping off, except maybe of course after a substantial meal. But here they are, falling off all over the place. I had to ask myself today – do I dress (or rather undress) in a too violent or aggressive manner? How do you tell? I don’t routinely watch other people undress, so I wonder how I am to learn if my undressing skills are not up to scratch? I’ll be taking more notice from now on.
And it’s not even just the pants – it’s the shirts and jackets too. I have considered the speed with which I undo my pants. But as a general rule, I’m hardly ripping them off in a sexual frenzy (or bathroom emergency).
So as I sit here bingeing on spicy capsicum dip and bread, I welcome your suggestions for button care.

In other news, apparently Home and Away now has sexual themes. What the hell is the world coming to? Last night, 2 x 17yo’s were having an argument because he wanted to get married (so they could have sex). He clearly wanted to wait until after he was married, and obviously thought he’d speed things along a bit. She did not take this well. In fact, I’d go as far to say she fully cracked it.
Not that I was watching or anything.