Originally posted in The Clifton Courier, August 23, 2017

I’ve started calling my Grandma every week.

Every Monday at about 5.30pm I give old Audrey a call in a bid to feel like less of a terrible person, check how she’s doing and rip the Favourite Grandchild title from the hands of my younger cousin. She’s often wearing cute dance costumes, is very polite and loves to read, so it’s a tough fight to snatch that metaphorical prize from her little fingers. To help my cause, I try to make my conversations as animated as possible.

Grandma doesn’t have all that much going on these days. She has her puzzles. She has her books. She has her TV shows. She still lives in her own home and does whatever the heck she wants. And while living in a palace of solitude with a large supply of Tim Tams* sounds like heaven, it’s not overly exciting, day-to-day.

* A large supply of grandchildren calls for a large supple of chocolate bickies. One time grandma must have got a great deal on homebrand Tim Tams and they were terrible. My sister and I would gradually throw them out so her supply would run out. I like to think we did it for the family. 

So I like the idea of regaling her with thrilling tales of my life in the big city to spice things up… and to convince her that I’m not wasting my youth*.

* This is tricky, because I find it very difficult to lie. 

Unfortunately, I’m failing a little on both accounts.

I’ve found most of our conversations tend to wind up with me promising to “do something fun next weekend” to tell her about.

Each time I say it, I know it’s a hollow promise. But I had no idea how much of a lie it actually was.

Because sitting around on Sunday afternoon reflecting on how I spent my two days made me realise my weekend duller than an infomercial on cleaning products*. I’m really not sure how I’m going to spin the following into a juicy tale for the old bird:

* Actually, this depends on what cleaning product we’re talking about. Because while most infomercials are terrible, the CLR one still dazzles me. It mesmerised me a child and it still speaks to my soul. That ad is like a magic show. It had such a profound effect on my, as I can remember most of the scenarios to this day. Interestingly enough, I’ve never actually gone out and bought the stuff. Perhaps it’s my subconscious protecting me from the disappointment that would crush my spirit if it didn’t work like it did in the ads. I’m not sure how I could take a blow like that, come to think of it.

Friday night: I went to the supermarket immediately after finishing work so I wouldn’t have to leave the house and battle the wind again. I came home with a hot chook, vacuumed the flat, took out the garbage and put on a load of washing.

I’m not going to go into the finer, more mundane details of the rest of the evening, but I will tell you that I ended up taking 24 photos of the hot chook on my phone and tweeting my excitement over the fact that someone had finally bought a property they’d viewed on Escape to the Country.

Saturday morning: The first thing I did was I take three hours to eat breakfast. After that, I cursed the blind in my room for falling down, fixed my blind with a spare hair tie I kept around my wrist, felt like some kind of feminist MacGyver handyman. I then basked in my glory for at least half an hour.

Saturday afternoon: Went to the supermarket hungry, came back with $90 worth of groceries. Soaked in my filth/had a bath with eucalyptus oil to loosen the gunk on my chest. Finished Wuthering Heights. Muttered to myself about how much I disliked Wuthering Heights. Searched online for reviews from people who had the same opinions as me about Wuthering Heights. Stewed angrily.

Saturday night: Ate Brussels sprouts for dinner. Ate porridge for desert. Apparently felt the desire to punish myself. Looked at my HECs debt. Panicked. Wrote a to-do list of things I could do that might help my situation. Lied to myself that I would complete the to-do list in the future. Lulled myself into an uneasy slumber.

Sunday morning: Woke up. Debated about whether I wanted avo toast, eggs on toast or toast and Vegemite. Compromised by having all three. Instagrammed my decision.

Sunday afternoon: Put sheets in the wash. Got puffed. Napped. Ate a chicken sandwich. Realised I hadn’t written my column. Recounted my weekend. Realised my grandmother had a more exciting weekend than I did.

Sunday evening: Questioned who I had become.

** Just a heads up, I’m taking a little break this week and probs won’t be able to post my ramblings remotely for my usual Sunday sesh. I mean, if I were desperate I probably could post something. But one of the horoscopes I read today told me to take a breather, so I’m going to side with that one because it’s convenient to my needs right now.

I hope to return with a swag full of humiliating tales I can recount in an unnecessarily drawn-out way.