Sacking offence

I’ve lost the Sprogs’ Santa sacks. Well, that’s not entirely true. I know approximately where they are. They’re in the attic. Somewhere. There’s a door in our walk-in wardrobe that leads to the attic. I like to open the door, throw things in, shut the door and, voila, the house is tidy. Once a year, Husband sneezes and swears and restores order to it. I spend the next 364 days creating havoc again. In my 20s, the space between my bed and the wall performed a similar function. I tossed everything over the side until it became too precariously high to ignore. Husband christened it Cholera Gulch. He’s a fine one to talk. When we first dated he had a pile of old newspapers in the living room that was like an archaelogical dig, with dirty dinner plates buried at various levels. These days, our life composting takes place in the car – the passenger seat floor is a treasure trove of shoes, snacks, books, magazines, stale crusts and stationery items. All of which have to be hurriedly removed to a recycling bag whenever I give my mum a lift. When I worked, the desk in my office was pretty septic too. Piles and piles of stuff everywhere. Lots of empty filing cabinets. Never quite got the hang of filing. I don’t know why I’m so disorderly. Perhaps it’s because I had to be very, very neat as a kid. I come from domestically anal stock. My parents’ home is always pristine. The beds are made each morning, the dishes are washed and dried during/after every meal, coffee or snack, there’s even a special cloth in the shower for wiping down the tiles afterwards. I expect my messy habits are a form of rebellion. But I’m starting to drive myself to distraction. I want those missing Santa sacks. I don’t want the Sprogs’ gifts delivered into Hawaiian print pillowcases. I want them in red ones with Rudolph or a snowman or Santa on them. But there’s only so much mad woman’s poopy I can throw around looking for them. I’ve left it too late to order new ones on the internet. They’re $50 a pop at my local fancy schmancy shopping centre. Target has run out. I’ve become obsessed. Totally out of character for me. Not. (Apparently “not” is a really uncool expression now. Much like “uncool”. What’s the cool way to say “not” now? Anyone?) 

TONIGHT’S MENU: Sausage sizzle at our inaugural School Mums & Retrenched Dads Christmas Gathering.