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Posts Tagged ‘bad trouser day’

I SAY: It all started when my friend The Mild-Mannered Lawyer handed me the gift of two bottles of wine at school pick-up time. It’s hard not to feel a little self-conscious standing in a school playground with a bottle of wine in each hand and at least half the school community looking on. So the minute Mr Justice turned up, I stashed them away into his school bag – which, of course, half the school community watched me do.  Not wanting that same half of the school community to then see make my seven-year-old son carry my wine, I hoicked his bag onto my back and stepped forward with great confidence straight into a slight dip in the pavement, causing me to stagger in a most unseemly fashion, my legs buckling underneath me and my arms swinging wildly.

THEY SAY: The NDM is drunk. Again.

I SAY: The next morning I had one of those school runs where I was still making my kids’ lunches twenty minutes before the bell was due to ring, standing in my bra and only my bra. Somehow, I managed to get the kids through the school gates on time (and yes, I managed to get dressed as well) but I paid the price back at home when my mouth – like some kind of self-inflating life jacket – exploded into a cold sore. And we all know how I feel about cold sores – not least because it means I really shouldn’t drink alcohol until it’s well past its “rapid expansion” phase. Stupid empire-building cold sore.

Later that afternoon I went to see my doctor about – how can I put this delicately? – the protracted case of the blurty bums I’d been having. The doctor’s response was to send me out for blood tests and to take me off dairy for two weeks. Yes, two weeks without butter. I think this was the point where the light in my eyes went completely out.

And so it came to pass that I found myself as a volunteer at a Bunnings sausage sizzle twenty four hours later. With a cold sore the size of the Roman Empire. And a dairy-free dullness to my eyes. And track marks and bruising on my arm from where the nurse had taken thirty litres of blood.

THEY SAY: The NDM is on the junk.

I SAY: It was then that my trousers started falling down. The particular trousers I had chosen that day are strange in that they start off behaving well, lulling me into a false sense of security. But then I think my weight – like so many beans in a bean bag – must redistribute itself and the trousers start to panic. Now, luckily from the front view, my trouser-failure was covered by my apron. But not from the back. And of course, the money tin and the soft drinks were behind me, resulting in many a sausage sale with me awkwardly trying to get the change without turning around, all the while spreading my legs out as wide was I possibly could to stop my trousers from falling the fuck off completely.

THEY SAY: The NDM is on the junk while she’s serving at the Bunnings Sausage Sizzle.

I SAY: At the end of the sausage sizzle, we were in the process of cleaning up when two guys asked us we had any soft drinks left. We did but they had already been packed into the back of The Suburban Diva’s car a few metres away, where I duly led the two gentlemen to make the transaction.

THEY SAY: The NDM is selling bootleg soft drinks from the back of a car in the Bunnings’ car park to fund her junk habit.

I SAY: Of course, as the two gentlemen walked away, I had to seriously re-adjust my trousers again and at that point I realised that A) I was still holding a fistful of latex gloves the sausage-cooks had been wearing that I’d been in the process of throwing away; and that B) from a distance, these latex gloves may or may not have resembled at least thirty used condoms.

THEY SAY: The NDM is turning tricks in the back of a car in the Bunnings’ car park to support her junk habit.

I SAY: It’s not as bad as it looks!

THEY SAY: Sure it isn’t.

I SAY: No, really! I just need some wine, a shit load of butter and a new pair of trousers!

THEY SAY: We really don’t need to know any more details.

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Everybody has Bad Trouser Days. But if the truth be told, I probably have more than the average person (see “Ye Of Little Fashion” for proof).

In my haste to get to school on time the other day, I chose a pair of trousers that effectively turned my “apron” of extra fat into one of those play tents that had been folded and stuffed in its accompanying bag by someone who didn’t have a Higher Degree in Play Tent Folding: it felt like it was going to pop out with great force at any give moment and (quite possibly) wind an innocent bystander in the process.

Because I’d driven the kids to school, I didn’t realise the full extent of my potential wardrobe malfunction until I lost my car keys. Yes, it takes a very special kind of person to lose her car keys in between turning off the ignition and getting the kids out of the car. It also takes a special pair of trousers on a special kind of person to showcase generous amounts of arse-crack to her own children and assorted passersby as she scrambles about on all fours trying to find said keys.

Since the bell was about to go, I had to leave the car unlocked and get the older two kids to their classrooms. I walked, as if in a daze (stopping to readjust my trousers every five steps) and further built on my reputation at the school by telling everyone I met how I’d just lost my keys. At least two people asked me if I’d left them in the ignition with the engine still running, leaving me to conclude that my reputation was probably worse than I had ever thought.

Of course when I returned to the car for one more look, I finally found the keys wedged firmly between two seats and could finally stop worrying they’d actually fallen down my arse-crack.

Anyway, I had to then rush Tiddles McGee to kindergarten and settle him in (he’s currently of the opinion that kindergarten has jumped the shark), and then rush back to the school to see Mr Justice receive his “Pupil Of The Week” award. Mr Justice had specifically requested my presence at the assembly and since most of the time he’s on the verge of taking a temporary restraining order out on me in public spaces, I was keen to be there.

I burst into the back of the school hall just in time to see a steady stream of children being rewarded for achieving their “Personal Best” (see my post “A Day Of Personal Bests” to read about the drinking game this turn of phrase inspired) and thought “Phew!”. My relief was only short-lived, however, as two minutes later the assembly was finished without any sign of Mr Justice or his Personal Best Certificate.

I made a bee-line to fellow-parent FatherOfCrankyPants, who confirmed the awards were given in two groups and Mr Justice had been in the first.

“Argggghhhh! I missed it!” I moaned. “Mr Justice had really wanted me to come today. Should I lie and tell him I saw him?”

“Yes, lie.” FatherOfCrankyPants urged. “LIE!”

It seemed the obvious thing to do, but then I thought of my recent post “Infrequent Liar Points” and promptly changed my mind. It was the kind of small white lie that seemed harmless at the time but would no doubt ultimately end with me standing semi-naked in front of a crowd of booing strangers.

I decided the most responsible thing to do was to loiter by the front door of the assembly hall and wave cheerily as Mr Justice left with his class. That way he’d  think that I’d been standing there all along without me actually having to lie about it. Genius.

But after waving cheerily at at least seven classes traipsing past, I looked back into the empty hall and realised Mr Justice’s class must have exited through a different door.

Unsure of what to do next, I ended up loitering outside his classroom. I was about to give up and go home when one of his classmates returned from the toilets and opened the classroom door. Catching Mr Justice’s eye through the temporarily open door, I began waving manically and giving him the double thumbs up.

Instead of smiling and waving back in an “It’s good to see you’ve got my back, Mum!” manner, Mr Justice looked at me as if to say “What the fuck are you doing here, you Keyless Arse-Parading Clown“.

Luckily, it was only when the classroom door was actually shut that my “apron” chose its moment to pop out over the top of my trousers. B’DOINGGGG! Just like that. But nobody saw it and no children were hurt. It was a small comfort for somebody who wasn’t about to win any Mother of the Year awards any time soon, but I hoicked up my trousers and walked back to my car with my car keys firmly in my hand and my head held high.

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The other day, I found myself up at my mother’s house with only a brown cardigan and a brown pair of corduroy pants to wear.

“It’s a Brown Out!” my husband exclaimed, upon seeing me. 

And he was right. I felt like a big brown blob casting a chocolate-hued shadow over everything in my wake. Or like Winnie-the-Pooh pretending to be a little black cloud, except just brown and completely without whimsical charm.

It hasn’t been the only fashion disaster of recent times, I must confess. 

I was talking to some mothers at the kindergarten recently when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the sunlight glinting off the seam running along my sleeve and I realised, with horror, that my shirt was inside out. And when I went to turn it the right way around, I realised that my fly was completely undone. And that I had just been parading the Inside-Out-Shirt/Open-Trouser Look about at our local shopping mall for at least an hour. 

That might have been it for the day. Certainly I had filled my usual quota of fashion mistakes within a 24 hour period, but then I realised that T. McGee’s shoes were on the wrong feet and, when we picked up Mr Justice from school, he made this big point of saying “Why do you think my hands look so strange in my pockets?”. Turns out he had his trousers the wrong way round, which quite possibly serves him right for letting his mother dress him at aged 6.

Still, I might have taken all that on the chin, if it hadn’t been hot on the tails of the Bad Trousers Day the day before. And don’t pretend you don’t know what a Bad Trouser Day is. We all have them every now and again, thanks to the Bad Trousers themselves. Ooh, those naughty naughty ill-fitting trousers.  I’d paddle their bottom, if my own wasn’t inside them. 

I have one pair whose bad behaviour seems to be linked to how much fluid I’m retaining – which either could be enough to make me look 8 months pregnant, or as little to make me look, well, seven and a half months pregnant. And there is a difference – at least as far as my trousers are concerned. In the former case, they fit me Just Fine, Thank You Very Much. And in the latter… well, the trousers become more slippery than a post-bath Tiddles McGee trying to dodge a good toweling.

This particular day, I had already set off on the school run when it became apparent that a BTD was upon me and I that I’d have to hold up my trousers oh-so-very-casually with one hand, while pushing the Valco Mobile Home with the other. Which was manageable until I came to a corner and this man in a car came up behind me wanting to turn into the street I was about to cross. I stopped to wait for him to turn, but he waved me across. I then panicked because I knew I would have to push the pram with two hands to get it over the curb and that my trousers WOULD and in fact DID fall completely down, revealing my polka-dotted backside to the neighbourhood at large. And that male motorist, who had a ring-side seat, must have thought all of his Benny Hill or “Zapped”-inspired fantasies had come true. I would have shaken my fist at him and shouted “Pervert!” except, well, I had to pull my trousers up. 

However, I should just add that it was lucky for all concerned that this incident didn’t coincide with a Bad Underpants Day or even just a Temperamental Elastic Day. If it had, that male motorist might have experienced a whole different type of “Brown Out” with a “ring-side” seat indeed.

You’ve got to love it when a good arse joke comes together.

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