Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for April, 2011

It think it’s fair to assume that when Jesus chose to rise again on Easter Sunday, he at least waited until the sun had come up.

Not true, however, of my children this recent Easter Sunday.

You see the kids and I had invited ourselves around to Mistress M and The Sculptor’s house for a sleepover. It should be noted here that this was the third weekend in a row where I had found myself nestled deep in the warm bosom of another family’s hospitality. And yes, I’m starting to develop a serious fetish for having someone else’s husband making me toast and coffee on a Sunday morning.

In this particular case, however, I was careful to have started my campaign for ‘toast and coffee’ a few days in advance by telephone. I didn’t want another situation like we had on New Year’s Day where I found myself shouting “WHERE’S MY FUCKING TOAST?” outside the slumbering Sculptor’s bedroom door.

I needn’t have worried. Our children, by rising at five-fucking-thirty-AM, made sure that a) The Sculptor was out of bed and b) there was a pressing need for coffee. He set about making it immediately.

“Do you take sugar?” The Sculptor asked as he handed me my cup.

“No, I’m sweet enough!” I replied, brightly. Giving that answer never grows old. Never. In fact, it’s fair to say that I gave up sugar in my coffee just so I could give that answer Every. Single. Time. for the rest of my life and get a little jolt of pleasure from my own wit Every. Single. Time. It’s the little things, people.

“And the toast?” I reminded the Sculptor sweetly.

“Oh, do you want toast?” he replied, feigning surprise.

“OF COURSE I FUCKING WANT TOAST,” I said, before immediately changing tack and adding demurely:  “But no, no, no… not now. It’s far too early for you to be making me toast… “

After all, everyone knows that you have to refuse at least once before forcing someone to bend entirely to your toast-eating will.

Apparently, the Sculptor is not “everybody”.

“Are you sure?” he said cheerfully in a way that made me realise he wasn’t actually asking a question. “In which case, I might go back to bed for a while.”

And with that, he practically said “Toodle doo!” and skipped back to his room, leaving me toastless and with the task of keeping five rabid children in the house until there was enough light for them to see the frickin’ eggs hidden in the garden.

Luckily, Mistress M got up to help me supervise the easter egg hunt and, while I tried to go back to bed myself for a while (turns out five children, high on chocolate, riding scooters in the wooden corridor outside your room makes for less than optimal sleeping conditions… who knew?), she got busy making toast  – and not only toast, but crispy bacon and eggs to go with that toast.

God, I love that woman.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that the children and I are now on the market for a sleepover next Saturday night for anyone who’s willing. I like my toast medium-rare (two slices: one with a ‘main course’ topping such as vegemite and one with a ‘dessert’ topping, such as raspberry jam) and I have my coffee white with no sugar because, well, I’m sweet enough.

See? It never gets old.

Read Full Post »

There Is No Post Today

Please direct any complaints to The Fabulous Miss Jones because she officially broke me last night.

In other news, I woke up this morning wearing her ring so I think we might be going steady now.

Read Full Post »

Here is the transcript of a conversation that actually took place between me and an (unspecified) male friend about events that may (or may not) have actually taken place:

UNSPECIFIED MALE FRIEND: What must the neighbours think of me and my messy yard?

ME: Well, certainly those things I told them about you wouldn’t have helped their opinion.

UMF: Look, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go around substantiating those rumours. There’s no real hard evidence that those things even occurred, save a few photographs…

ME: Ah yes, the photographs… (*shudders*) It must be said that once you’ve seen something like that, it’s impossible to unsee it… Still, good times.

USM: Good times, indeed. Perhaps those good times will come again.

ME: Perhaps. Are you still that flexible?

UMF: On a good day, yes. Yes, I am.

[Long pause while we both imagine what we might possibly be talking about]

ME: Oooooh. I can feel a blog post coming on!

I’ll admit it. I experience a certain frisson when I feel a blog post coming on. It’s like my muse has just rung me up to say he’s just bought a litre bottle of vodka and a 4 Litre tub of  caramel, date and pecan ice cream and run a bubble bath for me. And yes, for the record, my muse is a he and, more often than not, answers to the name of Paolo.

Of course, I’ve had to tread carefully with this particular blog post. I mean, if I were to specify my (currently) unspecified male friend’s identity, I’d be putting his reputation as a fine upstanding community member on the line.  He’d no doubt get people insistently knocking on his door at 2AM and would end up, curled in the fetal position on the other side, hissing: “Go away! I don’t do those things anymore…”

I hate to break it to my (still) unspecified male friend that those 2AM knockers would not be put off easily. After all,  they would have had it on on good authority that he actually did still do those things – that ‘good authority’ being, of course,  that reputable blog  ‘Not Drowning, Mothering’, whose hardworking and dedicated blogger has never once lied to her audience. Not once. Not even about the time she pissed herself in the school yard.

I mean, really…  if you read it here, why wouldn’t you believe it?

I suggest to my (as of yet) unspecified male friend that he clear up his backyard at the first opportunity. And while he’s at it, he may as well clean up  mine. Oh, and buy me a litre bottle of vodka and a 4 litre tub of caramel, date and pecan ice cream and get that bath running.

Yep, that should stop me from specifying his unspecified-ness in the future. Oh, and publishing those photos.

Read Full Post »

I don’t know about anyone else but I really love an ‘adult sleepover’ – you know, when you stay over at a friend’s house (often with your kids) instead of having to dodge breathalisers or taxi driver small talk on your way home.

I mean, what’s not to love about staying  in someone else’s house where they’re in charge of the meals and the dishes, you get to tuck your kids into beds made by someone else and then sit and drink and chat and laugh until the early hours of the night before rolling into yet another bed made by someone else? It’s perfection itself.

And so I was particularly pleased when the kids and I were recently invited by our good friends KC and MM to have a sleepover while my husband went un-flatpackin’ crazy with our new kitchen.

I am sad to report, however, that our sleepover became more about sleep than anything else. Both MM and I fell asleep on the couch during the last fifteen minutes of watching 80s classic ‘Heathers’ and KC ended up throwing a couple of blankets on me and dragging MM and herself to bed before it was even 9:30PM.

“You can’t let this be known,” KC told me the next morning. “My reputation as a party girl will be ruined forever more.”

(Now, I’m not sure where exactly she’s earned this reputation but I should add – to minimise damage control – that the last time KC came over to my house by herself she brought not one but TWO bottles of Prosseco and, handing them to me, gleefully exclaimed “I’m an enabler!!!”.)

Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know that we made up for our lack of a ‘Wild Night In’ with the grim discovery that Tiddles McGee and The Pixie were both hosting sizeable lice settlements on their scalps. KC and I subsequently got to sit outside for two hours in the freezing cold and occasional light rain shower while we carefully (and somewhat obsessively) combed through the kids’ hair in full daylight.

Yes, we are a pair of regular Good Time Gals.

Afterwards, KC kindly checked my scalp. Luckily, her extensive search uncovered only a small number of adult lice and no eggs.

“Let’s hope they were new arrivals and just didn’t have time to get into some hot louse-on-louse lovin’ action,” I remarked. “Unless, of course, they’re all females and it was hot louse-on-louse lesbotic lovin’ action. That’d be okay…”

At this point, MM passed by. Since he is a well-read sort, I thought I’d check my theory with him.

“Do you think there are lesbian lice, MM?” I asked.

“To be honest, I haven’t really thought about it,” he replied.

“Sure, you haven’t,” I said. “Sure.”

You see, I knew he would have. His mind has never been the same since I accidentally made him look at hardcore man-on-man porn.

Anyway, for the record, I’m hoping there really *are* lesbian lice and that those brave pioneers who chose to set up home on my scalp were some of them.

Unless, of course, they were progressive lesbian lice who had arranged a different sort of ‘adult sleepover’ with a gay lice couple on Tiddles McGee’s scalp before moving to mine… in which case, I think it’s fair to say that me and the lesbian lice are all fucked.

Read Full Post »

Here’s my secret: I’ve gone all Zumba.

Yes, according to all the marketing, I’ve “ditched the workout and joined the party!!!” with my dear friend KT. We’re both investing in our cardiovascular health by shimmying and rotating our hips, like, A LOT and listening to a peppy instructor in a Zumba-branded headband shout “AWESOME!!!!” at us, like, A LOT a lot.

I kind of like it.

Last week, we even ensnared our friend Mistress M into our web of zumba-ness and after the class, the three of us congratulated ourselves on being so aerobically-virtuous.

“It’s also good because it means we have an alcohol-free night!” KT exclaimed.

Mistress M looked crushed.

“Oh, that kind of ruins my next suggestion…” she said.

I almost didn’t hear her because our instructor’s “AWESOME!!!!” was still ringing in my ears, but I was quick to step in.

“I think it’s in everyone’s interest that we hear Mistress M’s suggestion,” I said, boldly.

CUT TO: us counter-balancing our Good Cardiovascular Works by inflicting serious damage on our kidneys.

Yes, it was what I call a KABO (a Key Alcoholic Beverage Opportunity). And somewhat surprisingly, it wasn’t the only KABO I’ve encountered in recent days.

You see, KT got an invitation to the premiere of a film one of her friends was in and she invited me to go with her.  The day before the premiere, we made the mistake of watching the trailer on YouTube. It was less than three minutes long and just watching the first thirty seconds almost brought on a KABO then and there. I mean, there is awful and then there is AWFUL (please note capitalisation).

Having already RSVPed and told her friend we were going, KT and I were left no option but to talk strategy for the evening. We would A) be seen mingling outside the cinema; B) take seats with a clear path to the exit; and C) escape at the earliest opportunity, the ‘elbow nudge’ being our signal that we’d had enough.

Which is what we did. AND THEN KT’S HUSBAND’S BOSS SAT NEXT TO US. It was the equivalent of the school principal sitting next to you at a three-hour school concert where your kid’s act was up first and you were planning to spend the rest of the three hours at the pub down the road. Before the opening credits had even finished, I was already nudging KT so hard that I’d worn a whole in her sleeve and yet we both knew we couldn’t leave because KT’S HUSBAND’S BOSS WAS SITTING NEXT TO US.

After half an hour of X-TREME AWFULness (again: note capitalisation), we turned to look at each other. Instinctively we knew what we had to do. We had no choice. No choice at all. I did my best “get down low and go, go, go!” and just got the hell out of there, with KT close behind. And we didn’t stop running until we got to the nearest bar, where we promptly KABOed ourselves back to mental health…

Now, speaking of mental health, you may be interested to know that, thanks to outsourcing the plastering, my kitchen now looks like this:

However, our flat packed kitchen (the choosing of which was, for me, akin to root canal treatment) still looks like this:

Now, that in itself doesn’t bring on the KABO. Oh, no. Not at all.

It’s this: my husband, thrilled by the beautiful job the plasterers had done, came up with the brilliant idea of moving our kitchen table into that nook and moving the oven and fridge over to the other wall.

“After all, it’s not too late to return the flat-packed kitchen to Ikea and start again,” he said.

It was like a neon sign lit up above his head that said KABO! However, since it was well before midday, I opted to give him the death stare instead. He has subsequently turned to stone and now I have nobody to unflat-pack my kitchen… and I feel a Category Seven KABO coming on.

Anyone care to join me? What’s that? You will??

AWESOME!!!!

Read Full Post »

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 109 other followers