I’m one of ‘Those Parents’. You know, the ones that waste valuable tax payers’ money by signing their children up for a state government reading initiative and then losing all the paperwork so that the kids are unable to log on to the relevant government website.
Mr Justice tried to help me by claiming he remembered his password.
“It’s 14!” he exclaimed and then provided me with a long convoluted explanation for his reasoning, involving someone else in his class’s password was “12-something” and how he was “next” and how things were “going up in twos”. You know, just generally using seven year old logic to explain something he thought he might have maybe remembered.
After the kids went to bed, I tried to see if “14″ really was his password. It was a long shot, but I was willing to do anything to avoid having to present myself to a deeply forbidding-looking School Librarian as “An Irresponsible Mother” and get spanked for it – although I daresay it’s the kind of thing my bookish husband fantasises about all the time.
My husband, in the meantime, was watching some random cop show on the ABC, oblivious to the fact his wife was trying to hack into a government website. After about fifteen attempts, however, I had to give up in fear that the Feds would burst through our front door and wake up the kids. I could just see the ensuing headlines in the local tabloid: “Children Woken Up Because Irresponsible Mother Lost Password” or even “Husband Asks To ‘Just Watch’ As Feds Spank Wife”.
And so I returned to blogging and general piss-farting about on the computer, whilst keeping half an eye on the TV.
After one particular scene in the cop show where the plot took yet another turn, I felt compelled to speak out: “That’s rubbish! There’s no way Ewan was involved in the robbery. It was Eddie.”
“Who’s Ewan?” my husband asked.
“Eddie’s son.”
PAUSE.
“Who’s Eddie?”
“Uh, only the policeman who was shot and the one Caroline Quentin’s character is giving the eulogy for. And please don’t ask me which one Caroline Quentin is.”
“Oh, you’re the type to pay attention to the plot,” my husband said waving his hand dismissively. “For me, it’s all just colour and movement.”
“Yes, I pay attention to the plot while blogging, catching up on emails AND hacking into government websites,” I commented. My husband just snorted and went back to his colour and movement, interspersed with the colour and movement of the shiraz swilling in his glass.
And I thought of other times where the “colour and movement” rule might apply to my husband’s life – for example, when the children start vomiting in the night and he sleeps through the whole thing. Or whenever he picks up his guitar and starts strumming, completely oblivious to fact the kids have taken off all their clothes and are dancing naked around him and either holding sharp scissors in their hands or trying to see how many marbles they can fit in their mouths.
ANYWAY, after the TV show finished (and I had explained the ending to my husband), we both watched an ad for that Griff Rhys Jones show where he goes places on boats along famous rivers called something like “Rhys Jones Goes Places On Boats Along Famous Rivers”.
“What’s with aging comedians and travel shows?” I remarked.
“What was that comedy show he was in? Was it ‘Alas Smith and Jones’?” my husband asked.
“No, it was ‘Alias Smith and Jones’,” I replied.
“Are you sure?”
“Well, let’s just say if there was someone else in this room who’d watched that last police show with us, whose word do you think they’d take?” I was feeling quite smug by this point.
Unfortunately, my husband wasn’t going to let it rest. He got me to look it up on imdb.com where I discovered it was “Alas Smith and Jones”. Although, in my defence, it was on obvious play on the name of a much earlier American show that was called “Alias Smith and Jones”.
“You may be right on the surface, sure,” I said to my husband. “You know, where all that colour and movement is along with trifling things like passwords and paperwork… But it’s like there’s the truth and then there’s deeper than the truth… And that’s where you’ll find me, my friend. That’s where I hang.”
You know, using thirty-nine year old logic and all… Now, quick! Some help me use that logic to explain to the School Librarian how I lost that stupid paperwork in the first place.
I once watched a movie with a filmmaking buddy of mine. I complained about the font in the title. He said, “What font?” I said, “About 20 seconds ago in that title.” He said, “There was a title?” I said, “How can you not read an English word when it’s written in giant letters across the screen?” He more or less acted as though he was gifted and that I was afflicted with the curse of ‘reading words’. Definitely another of the colour and movement fraternity.
I never realised how brainwashed we are to read everything until I lived in Japan and couldn’t read a thing. Then everything really was colour and movement for me, even the vending machines selling school girl’s undies.
yet another male who did not get that plot – we had one here- yes had to explain the ending and all – i wonder if it is a male thing – the colour and movement- you know you could always do the old mother stand by of ‘I gave it to *insert childs name* to put away and haven’t found it since’ or even *insert husbands name* (depending on the mood and the day and , wow my Mum used that one a lot – theres something to think about) or simply wander in wearing a sarong, mutter something about the external firmament and trees and could she email you a paperless copy of the paper info…
or write a strong worded letter about why the school is not taking care of the paperwork when it is clearly their responsibility (at least I hope it is, cause none has come home for me…)
*on re-reading comment may be a little strange – apologies- two hours sleep*
No need to apologise for strangeness on this blog. This is the Home Of Strange.
I’m particularly liking your idea to write a strongly-worded letter about decaying standards in state schools. Perhaps I’ll even wear a sarong while writing it?
Erm – I too thought it was called ‘Alias Smith and Jones’…
And so we were both right in a post-modern uber-truth kind of way. It feels good, doesn’t it?
While husbands are rarely right, they’re aways right when you start feeling smug.
Too true, too true.
Best solution is to report to the School Librarian that due to a strict allocation of tasks in the management of your home Mr NDM’s job description covers password recollection and storage duties and that he ‘only does colour and movement’ so you will need a new password issuing that fits these requirements, then say something about how this is stipulated in point 6, sub-section 243a in the NDM household manual and that she can have a copy of all 14 volumes (with amendments) if required – however she should be aware that this incurs a fee of $268.32.
That way you get to look like a fully organised person (the type who would never forget a 2 digit pass-code) and your husband, well he just gets to look…well…like he’s the sort of person who watches TV shows without a) having any freaking idea what’s going on and b)without knowing who Caroline Quentin is.
I can always rely on you for a well-thought-out strategy, can’t I?
by the way I’m prepared to write that manual if she coughs up the dollars, I think you’d like the allocation of tasks such as ‘drinking copious amounts of wine, champagne and cocktails’ and ‘relaxing on the couch on a hot day whilst husband teaches the children to make ice sculptures’
Not sure what is scarier, the Feds breaking down the door to drag you away or the Feds waking up the kids…