No sooner had I opened the kitchen door than she was there, leaning a commedically large ski gloved hand against the front of my refrigerator. “Just vhere do you sink you ah govink?” she demands.
I lift my brows at her newly-acquired accent, sounding as she does like the love child of Colonel Klink and The Terminator.
“What’s with the accent?” I ask in all innocence, though I am not at all surprised by her latest foray into mad behaviour.
“Aggzent?” She asks, bewildered. “Vaht aggzent?”
I sigh. There is no point in pressing the issue. “Never mind,” I say, hoping she has forgot her question.
“So vhat ah you doink in ze kitchen, zen?”
“Nothin’,” I lie, tucking my empty Pinot Grigio glass behind my back and trying to look casual.
I can feel the heat of her glare from behind her black ski goggles. “Liar!” she shouts. “YOU VER GOINK FOR ZE VINE!”
I roll my eyes and place my glass next to the sink. It hits the counter with a Klink. “What are you, anyway? The wine police?”
She purses her ruby red lips and ignores the question.
I notice that for a clown, my Inner Comedienne is wearing a shocking lack of makeup – nothing but lipstick. In fact, she is wearing a shocking lack of pretty much everything, clad as she is in nothing more than a black bikini, a stunning Fendi ski jacket and lime green Apex exoskeleton ski boots. Size 13. Ok, so she may be a clown, but she is a clown with really expensive taste. (And really big feet…)
My IC folds her arms across her chest, and I am treated to a disturbing slice of cleavage. “Do ze math,” she says firmly, leaning against the fridge and kicking my scales into the centre of the room. Technically, they are bathroom scales, but mine happen to reside in the kitchen. “You haf less zan sree veeks to loose tventy-fife pounds. Ant you know vaht zey say – zer ees no time like ze present!”
I decide then and there that I hate her. I really do. Well, almost as much as I hate the scales that have come to rest right in front of my slippered feet.
“You’re overreacting,” I say, stepping back from the scales and patting my middle-age spread affectionately. It doesn’t matter to me or my wine glass that my jim-jams are basically sausage casing around my thighs and that my tummy is positively Rubenesque. “I’m fine just as I am!”
Of course, I do realise this is a slippery slope I am on, justifying my weight to my alter-ego. Particularly in view of the fact she looks to have beaten all of Sweden, Finland and Russia in the Extreme Skiing finals.
“Oh, vee ah fine, ah vee?” She nods sagely, indicating the scales. “Go ahead, zen,” she says with a cool smile, “Step on zee scales. I dare you.”
I inch back toward the counter and reach for my wine glass. “Maybe I don’t want to,” I say. “Besides, I might not even BE skiing this year. You know, my finger injury? I severed a tendon! That’s serious! And then there’s my tennis/golf elbow. Tendinitis is nothing to ignore, you know-”
“SILENZE!” She roars, clomping across the kitchen and towering over me.
I feel a little like Rocky when he faced that big Russian dude.
Or like Becca from Pitch Perfect 2…
(My IC actually DOES have sweat that smells like cinnamon…)
My Inner Comedienne, however, is in no mood to discuss the effect of her sudoriferous output, being, as she is, thoroughly piste off. “From now unteel mid-Decembah, vee vill eat nussink but protein shakes and vohdah! Nussink, do you hear me? NUSSINK!”
I nod. Maybe my IC has a point. “Right,” I agree with a smile, hardly believing my luck, “Protein shakes and Vodka. Got it…”
Oh my goodness… I just found these e-cards… who knew vodka and protein shakes were “a thing?” Man, I gotta get out more…
- Feature photo: Shutterstock
- Colonel Klink: it.toolbox.com
- Arnie: blastr.com
- Rubens woman: movdata.net
- Dolph Lundgren as Ivan Drago: pinterest.com
- Pitch Perfect 2 meme: memes.double.com
Don’t try this at home, kids. No, seriously. Not even joking now! xx MH
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