192 hours of solitude

I haven’t written in a week. I haven’t written in a week. Oh dear god, what have I done?! Have I lost that blogging feeling?

For the first three days, I just didn’t feel like it. I had nothing to say and thought it’d be silly to bore everyone with a post about the amount of cheese in my fridge or how much I like my new haircut. The following two days saw a burst of energy and creativity, full of ideas, but no time to actually sit down and put fingers to keyboard. Yesterday the computer wasn’t cooperating with me and decided to delete something I had written when I tried to save it, and today I’ve actually been working (I know! Pick your jaws up off the floor). I have consumed more chocolate in the past week than could ever be considered medicinal or harmless and my thighs and stomach are paying the price. I look like a sausage bursting out of its skin after its been pricked with a fork and left to sizzle in a pool of fat. But have I bothered to break out my fitness dvds and try to squeeze in a workout in between cups of coffee and Kit Kat breaks? Nooooooo. The lazier I am the more depressed I get and then have no energy to do anything about it. It’s a vicious cycle, and one that has got to stop right about….now.

I’ve also decided that I’m tired of referring to my daughter and husband with acronyms and code names on this site all the time. It’s not like I have this huge readership or even an internet stalker (because, you know, you’re nobody until somebody stalks you) who would be interested in finding out every detail about me and my family and then hunting us down and sneaking into our house while we’re at the store buying more cheese, so that he (or she! I’m an equal opportunity stalking victim wannabe) can lick all of the doorknobs and try on my underwear. So guess what, world? My husband’s name is Paul and my daughter’s name is Amelia and they’re both fucking fabulous. If you speak ill of either of them, I will cut your internet-stalking balls off and string them on next year’s Christmas tree. Capiche? Great.

So where was I? Oh yeah. Paul is going on a business trip tomorrow, to Kazakhstan, for a week. Yes, you read that correctly. Kaz-akh-stan. The place at the edge of nowhere, the one made fun of in the recent Borat film. Lonely Planet has this little gem on their website about Kazakhstan:

“If you’re not a fan of endless semi-arid steppe and decaying industrial cities, Kazakhstan may seem bleak, but for those who enjoy remoteness, wide open spaces, lunar landscapes, long hypnotic train rides and horse sausage will definitely be in their element.”

Wow. So my husband is going to a place that looks like the moon, is so desolate that train rides induce catatonia, and pony meat is all the rage. Good luck, buddy. Be sure to bring me back some souvenirs! And don’t you go gettin’ all crazy and going out to the bars and clubs all night, you naughty boy! This definitely makes up for the times he went to Vegas and Seville without me.

But what was I getting at? Yes, sorry. So it means I’ll be alone for eight days, just me and Amelia, and should get a lot of writing done. It’s just you and me, Internet. If anything happens to the computer or internet connection while he’s gone, you may want to keep an eye on the six o’clock news for reports of a woman throwing herself in a highly crazed and melodramatic fashion from the top of London Bridge, laptop dangling from between white-knuckled fists of steely rage, its mother board stomped to pieces and with its internals on display.

192 hours of solitude. But who’s counting?