If procrastination were an Olympic Sport, I reckon I could give gold a red hot go in the 2016 games. That would give me just enough time for me to get off my arse and register. At least I’m in training for it every day.

I have, oh at least 14 separate “To Do” Lists floating around somewhere. Probably 3 of those are scungy tattered bits of paper in my bottomless pit of a handbag, some are still on the kitchen fridge and the rest have disappeared into the black abyss of my car.

If I had to make a list, right this very minute though, it would consist of the following: (Please note, this doesn’t even take into account the usual bread/milk/cleaning/washing and day to day mindfuckery that comes with maintaining a house and kids).

Finish last two units of my stupid course so I can get the stupid certificate that allows me to do what I have been doing for the last ten years with no certificate. I have finished 8, but have seriously fallen off the wagon over the last year. Pull your finger out Mystery Mum before they revoke the last 8 and make you start all over again.

Pick up Mum’s ashes from the Crematorium. Now there’s something you don’t see on a “To Do” list everyday is it? I have been both putting off and genuinely forgetting to do this since January. It’s partly because they will put the hard sell on me to buy a little hole in the wall for a squillion dollars but probably more because I am still not ready to go back there and deal with the situation. Suck it up Mystery Mum, your Mum deserves to be somewhere better than in sequential order, languishing on a shelf with complete strangers.

Pay Phil’s plumbing license. Yep, I’m aware that whilst I sit here and post this on my blog, I could have paid this bill 10 times over, but that would involve me going into internet banking and therefore seeing my bank balance. I don’t feel like being sick right now seeing as mortgage day was only 2 days ago. Pay it via credit card over the phone Mystery Mum, before your husband gets done for working unlicensed.

Clean out the Microwave cupboard of shit. We have this void in the wall of our kitchen that is I guess, designed for the Microwave. Only it’s too small for any microwave I’ve ever come across, so we use a different cupboard for that. The void by default, has become the place where we stash every bit of paper we ever receive. Every painting, every credit card bill, every assignment, every old merit card, every gas bill, basically everything combined with our basic stationery requirements go in there. Until there is no room left. Which is kinda now. File that shit away Mystery Mum.

Book my car in for its 40,000km service. It is now at 44,397kms. Book the fucking thing in before your warranty is voided Mystery Mum, you imbecile.

Pay Mr John, Jacks tennis coach and buy him a mini tennis racquet. Apparently we have a mini Andre Agassi on our hands. Well according to the money sucking kindy tennis coach we do, and as such, we need to buy him a proper 3 year olds tennis racquet. Seeing as he’s heading more down the path of John McEnroe with his violent temper, I’m in no particular hurry. But Mr John is waiting Mystery Mum.

Book the Mystery Family into the dentist. Here’s what I know. The minute we set foot inside any Dentist, we will have take out a second mortgage on the house. And that’s with private health insurance. So, I’ve been putting it off, but with a ten year old whose front teeth are starting to cross over each other and a husband whose back tooth is currently crumbling into his food, I need to stop putting it off. Seriously Mystery Mum, health hazard city. Stop being such a tightarse and get that shit checked out. That or become very friendly with an orthodontist.

Last but not least, buy a mattress. Sadly I don’t even remember where we originally got our Queen mattress from. I have a feeling it was given to us??? It could have been used at a brothel for all I know. I now have to position myself in just the right way to avoid the springs penetrating my ribs, and god only knows what sort of foul bugs reside in there. It would have to be, oh at least 13 years old. We have tried, god how we’ve tried to agree on a mattress we both like. Often, we have Jack doing cartwheels off the $5,000 display latex King mattress, which kind of sends us into a stress induced meltdown and therefore, we walk out with nothing. Bite the bullet and become a solo mattress buyer Mystery Mum, before you both become bad back statistics.

So that’s the majority. Sure, some might say, had I spent the last 30 minutes tackling some of the above instead of writing this blog post I wouldn’t have this problem, but alas, that’s just not my style. But having said that, I think I have a serious blockage when it comes to doing simple tasks these days.

But now this stuff is out there – on the interwebs, I will vow to take them on, one by one. Looks like I better add “Ring Westpac and beg for more money” to the list so I can fulfil this list. Lucky Phil can still make money plumbing – Wait, shit......