Getting Things Done

A busy week thus far and more to come. I like to think I can tend to my Regular List more often on this leadup to Mums’ Night Out! but I am, indeed, deluding myself.

I have moments were I know to just focus and give up worrying about the other stuff, it can wait, and mild panics about doing them because they need doing and I don’t like to leave them.

So I kicked the morning off with tending to the new container of drinking chocolate that needed to be placed into its allocated Tupperware container. It was only brought to my attention, as the aforementioned Tupperware had been washed and placed back into the wrong cupboard!

We can’t be having that sort of shenanigans, so I fixed it, concluding with being coated in a fine layer of drinking chocolate.

It was around this point I decided I had lost my mind. Also, I had probably best take my kids to school as it was nearing time. Or past time, as the case actually was.

The day was spent finalising all for the event tomorrow night, sorting and making all the prizes pretty, typing up the guest list, harassing people to give me names for the guest list,printing off spare tickets, sorting accommodation, and all that goes with organising an event of this sort.

Children collected, dinner made and Grumpy Pants takes them to swimming lessons whilst I continue with my Finalising Of Things.

Finally, I am able to sit with dinner and a glass of wine, my ever present water bottle by my side. I lift it to take a sip and successfully pour a majority of its content down my boobs, due, possibly, to the unsuccessful securing of the lid, or I was just having One Of Those Days.

I decide my apparent drinking problem is getting in the way of things, and feel, given how well things were panning out and the state of my mind, that working out my undergarments to suit the frock I have for the event is a much more sensible idea.

I locate my detachable-strapped bra, currently with straps detached and wonder if it will work with the straps. All the better for boob supportage when dancing.

Straps are located on the beside table, and in a pair, which is at this point in time, a miracle in itself. Upon racing for a strap, I knock one down the back of the bedside table.

I sigh.

Very loudly.

The bedside table is currently overloaded with a variety of items, and is wedged between the bed and a chair, which is also overloaded with stuff. I am reluctant to move anything and am coveting the foetal position.

However, a suitable bra must be had, so I shift a few things, wiggle the bedside drawers out and am firmly jabbed in the chest with its corner as I reach to receive the elusive strap.

It hurts.

I suspect I will be attending event with a bruise on my chest and a lopsided bosom.

Restrap bra, then find my other bra which fits better and is more suited to the frock.

Tick. Tick. And Tick.

Stuff done.

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