Not much good considering the running (jogging) lark was supposed to make me svelte and tomed, as it has now reached holiday countdown time. In seven days I am going to visit my parentals in Florida. Which means in seven days there is the potential for swimming costume wearage. Yes, swimming costume - did you not read what happened last time I wore a bikini? Yes, very funny - but not worth trading my ability to hold my head up high for.
My little sister told me yesterday that the tree is up - but needs decorating, the crackers need making, cocktails need to be chosen for evenings in the hot tub, the house needs decorating and there is shopping to be done.
An Aside
When my little sister told me that the crackers needed making, I spent some time puzzling over why we would be making crackers and - despite my recent culinary achievements (I surely told you about the giant fondant fancy and the pink "birthday boy" cake?), making crakers, I fear, is beyond even my culinary genius? (I use that word "genius" lightly. Very lightly) So to put you out of your puzzlement(or maybe it's just me?), she meant Christmas crackers - the kind you have on the table, not the kind you have cheese on.
And they're saving it all for when I arrive. (I have to admit that I am feeling a little excited, but don't tell anyone, because it is imperative that I maintain my hard exterior). I have left all my wrapping for when I get out there and have cut down my CSI intake in preparation for the overload of american TV on arrival. Well it's either that or cocktails in the hot tub every evening - and there's only so many hangovers a girl can have in front of her parents before it becomes indecent. (Actually, on further consideration, I think that's a lie. My mother is the worst for encouraging cocktail-drinking behaviour. Last New Year... actually, I think it's probably best not to start on that... there are only so many stories a daughter should tell and with christmas coming up, I should think about being careful what stories leave the comfort of my memory, for fear of being carted out of the hot tub and into the icy clutches of the minus 10 degree pool. We'll keep your secrets safe for now mum. For now).
I am, rather sadly, looking forward to getting my greasy paws on my little sister's nintendo DS. She has that game that tells you the age of your brain and I am determined that I have maintained my eighteen-year-old alertness (despite evidence to the contrary appearing on what seems to be a daily basis). First time I had a go, it said I had the brain of a seventy four year old, for heaven's sake. Seventy four! (For those of you who do not know, I am most certainly not seventy four). I managed to work my way down to within a few years of my age - but listen, I need my brain to be young - how's a girl to maintain her dignity when waltzing about with a brain the age of a seventy four year old? (Not literally waltzing - I said the brain of a seventy four year old, not the personality - mind you, I suspect I'd like a good waltz, given half the chance...)
But this time, I would like to have the brain of an eighteen year old, thank you very much. I mean, is that really so much to ask? Fine, then - how about a twenty one year old? God, fine, I'll make do with a twenty five year old. Besides, what do eighteen year olds know? Exactly. Sod all.
God, I haven't half gone on. Please excuse my rantage. I'll let you get back to your business now. Besides, the house is simply awash with carrots - I've simply got to do something with them before they take over.
Adieu.
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