I'm over this sick malarky.

I quit.  Yep that's right, I quit.  I'm over it.  The whole kit and caboodle.  I'm taking my bat and my ball and I'm going home.  I'm outta here baby.  Bob can kiss my ever decreasing arse.

I'm getting a life.  Not that I'm quite sure what that entails.  I may have to Google "getting a life", to see what the answer is.  I do hope it's in dot points as I really can't be arsed reading paragraphs.  A diagram would be nice too, particularly if its of the Venn variety.  And lots of pictures, bright, shiny pictures.  And good tunes.  You can't start on the road to getting a life without a decent soundtrack.

I've realised of late, that I've been sucked back down the Bob rabbit hole.  I'm not even quite sure when it happened, but I'm pretty sure surprise enemas and almost fainting on the loo were involved.   One minute, I had the makings of a life.  Then I looked up from the bathroom floor, and it was Bobtown as far as the eye could see.

The last few months have seen a sharp rise in my decreptitude.  I can admit that now.  Though, my oh so adult fear of "if I say it out loud it will make it true", has gotten in the way.  I am more housebound.  Even short amounts of standing, exercise (and by that I mean walking from the couch to the fridge to grab chocolate), talking, breathing are all exhausting.  My gastric issues are pretty much unchanged.  My ability to drive is now almost non-existent.  I could add in the near permanent pain, head and joint, the constant unrelenting nausea, the increasing weakness, and all the other crap that seems to be piling up.  Frankly, it may be time to simply start stacking my hallways with newspapers and collecting cats.  Because, if one is going to be a shut in, one should do it right.

But I say, "Balls to that!", my friends.  No more.  I'm making my stand.  I'm a gunna get me some normal. even if it kills me, or I end up face planting on an unsuspecting dog.

No more will I be known as Michelle, The Sick. I am going to put on my cape, my Dorothy Shoes, and wear my undies on the outside.  I will become, Michelle, The Slightly Weird But Sort of Normal Woman With A Fondness For Glitter And Zombies.  

Bite me Bob.

My first step is too start a new blog.  Because Eunice (my last remaining brain cell) has nothing else to attend to lately.  And what does a girl with gastric issues blog about?  Why food of course.  It's says, suck it Bob.  Take that, guts.  It also points to my ever increasing insanity.  I may sit on a chair, or the floor, when I cook.  I may burn myself on the stove, or oven, or pot, or....  I may employ the 30sec rule on a way to regular basis.  I may even use my children as slave labour to peel and cut my veg.  But it's still cooking.

It is bare bones at the moment.  Not even a decent header in sight.  I'm not even sure I like the title.  It will be Bob-free.  It'll even be lactose and fructose-free in places.  It is certainly guaranteed to be grammar and spelling-free.

Check it out if you want to be amazed by my culinary delights.  So far I've made, yoghurt, cheese, bread and crumpets.

The Sit Down Cook

(I even take purdy pictures)

But my quest for normality doesn't stop there.  I have plans to put plants in pots.  To break open my dust covered paints and get all arty. I might even go all out and sweep my front steps.  I'm living on the edge baby! The edge of Normaltown.

Michelle :)

Update:  Have changed the name of my food blog to The Sit Down Cook, to reflect the fact that I, like many other Bobettes, can no longer stand to cook.