It’s 12.37am and I’m sitting here, writing this, and stalking people on Twitter, and yawning a bit, and picking the skin on my feet.
DISGUSTING BEHAVIOUR KLAXON.
Not the stalking. That’s legit. I mean the picking of skin. On my FEETS. Feet are farking heinous. This is a FACT. I am not a fan of feet in any way, shape, or be-toed form. The thought of foot skin – dried, yellowing, crunchy old foot skin – is making me barf a bit in my mouth as I think about it. So why do I pick at my feet? If it makes me feel so squeamish?
Habit, I guess. I can cope with my own feet. However, I cannot – PHYSICALLY CANNOT – run away screaming from my own feet. That is a nonsense. But other people’s feet? Oh my farking gawd, no. Do not come at me with your feet. Do not presume to wave them afore my eyes. I will not claim to turn uber-violent upon the presentation of your feet into my immediate sphere, but yeah, I will END YOU WITH DEATH if you try that lark. You foot weirdo.
Feet! I dunno why! It’s the toes! They’re AN ODD SHAPE. Tinily phallic, and not in a good way. And way too wiggly. Sometimes, too independently wiggly, as if they were not related to the rest of the human being at all?
Most people DO NOT keep their feet in acceptable condition. Now here’s where I get dead squeamish. Y’know those Ped-Egg ads on TV? Where the person SHAVES THEIR FEET INTO A BIN? Yeah. YEAH. That’s it. Ped-Eggs are basically cheese graters for your feet. VOM O’CLOCK. Dead foot skin is my Kryptonite. Which I probably should not admit on my blog, but y’all won’t get near me with it anyways. I can sense dead foot skin from miles away and take the necessary precautions, that is to say, arm myself with weapons that will hurt you permanently, if you try to throw dead foot skin in my face. I’M READY FOR YOU, you bastards.
The bile is rising. Seriously. So squeamish. Some other things that make me shudder and go ‘eeeeewwwwwww’ are:
- needles, going INTO skin, and maybe also going straight through and coming out the other side
- bin juice/sink crap/plughole hair
- stepping on slugs/snails/raisins (the fulsome ‘squish’)
- other people’s eye crap (for the LOVE OF GOD, wipe your eyes)
- vomit. Jeezus, all vomit. Ever. Can’t do it. EVER. Just the idea of it is making me BOAK which is a CRUEL IRONY
Ack, y’know, this whole blog post is now making me feel oh-so-queasy. I have to stop. I have to stop, and mostly cos I need to go and file the hard, calcified skin off from the bottom of my heel. With a cheese grater. Ahem.
What makes you squeamish? Try not to sick in my face.
My mum babysat Moo for me last night, while I went and Tudored in a desultory fashion on stage somewhere. As well as eating my best biscuits, my mum also did my washing up.
Let’s skip over the biscuit-eating part for the moment. Largely cos I’m still aghast that someone touched my best biscuits without my permission. I mean, I know she gave birth to me and raised me and everything, but seriously – my BEST biscuits? Could she not have eaten my stale macaroons instead? Or the water biscuits? Yes I know they’re savoury but they’re still farking biscuits, innit. Anyway, if you’re reading this, I love you, mum. Don’t eat my biscuits.
Washing up. I hate washing up. This is why: slimy food crap. Slimy food crap on plates. Slimy food crap on plates in the water. Slimy food crap from plates in the water, floating ON TOP OF the water, and then it becomes slimy food crap IN THE SINK. Slimy food crap that I then have to scrape from the plughole-slimy-food-crap-catching-thing and put into the bin. Where it becomes bin crap, and by proxy, bin juice. And we all know bin juice is RANCID MINGE.
But I will do the washing up. I have to . There is no husband here to do it for me any more. And generally, I keep on top of it. I’d only left it last night cos there wasn’t much and I had to get ready for my miserable Tudor flounce-a-bout.
I mention it though because I’ve had a house guest recently who did rather more than the washing up for me. In fact, this house guest practically SPRUNG CLEANED my house. They cleaned my kitchen, including the bin and all the bin juice. They removed the mould from my shower. They hoovered. And dusted a bit. And yes, did the washing up. A lot.
I am grateful. I am, truly. It is no secret that I am a domestic slattern. There are better things to do than housework, innit. Like watching Moo try to jump (‘C’mon, Moo! It’s not jumping till your feet leave the ground! TRY HARDER!’ *falls about laughing*) and active spider avoidance, or eating biscuits (which I can’t do now, THANKS MUM) or grooming unicorns, or practising voodoo.
I thought I was tidy, though. I really did. I thought I was coping with the houseworkisms. Seems not, if a guest feels the need to demouldify my bathroom (honestly, where did they find that Haz-Mat suit?) and my mum does my washing up for me. I know, I know, they’re HELPING me and that’s GREAT, I do appreciate it. But a tiny part of me – the stupid, juvenile, petulant part – sees it as a massive criticism too.
They’re right. I know they’re right. I do need to improve my domestic skillz. I need to man up and find some rubber gloves and spank the shit out of my cruddy house.
How do you keep tidy? (no, not talking about muff for once) (but you can tell me that if you want to)