Archive for the ‘Confessing’ Category

I’ll be frank with you. Turning up at a live music gig with my friend The Fabulous Miss Jones to see my very first Childhood Crush play felt a little bit like going to my school reunion with a supermodel.

Before the gig, I left a message on my Childhood Crush’s facebook wall saying:

“If I don’t get to talk to you tonight, can you pretend that the tall leggy blonde you saw in the audience was me? Thanks.”

When I told my husband about my misgivings, I thoroughly expected he would give me a little pep talk about how I’d impress the Childhood Crush with my sparkling wit and personality. Instead, he said “You should wear a dress that shows off your breasts.”

So I did. I mean, there’s something about revisiting the flames of your past that makes you want to look your Absolute Best – even if it’s just your breasts looking their Absolute Best.

Sadly, I once saw a Former Love in a food court in the city. I instantly knew it was him – after all, the bastard had broken my heart. He, in turn, looked over at me with some uncertainty. You see, it was shortly after the birth of The Pixie and I was the bloated shadow of my former self. So I kept my head down and thanked the Lord that I had used my ‘Starbucks Name’ when ordering my Boost juice.

[An aside: for those of you who are unaware of the Starbucks Name concept, it's an easy-to-grasp pseudonym adopted by those poor souls endowed with Eastern European names with complex spelling who don't want to be shouting "NO, NO! THAT'S 'M' FOR MOTHER!" over the din of a food court. ]

So when my Starbucks Name was called and it clearly wasn’t my name, the Former Love obviously decided it wasn’t me and went back to his conversation with his colleague. And I was able to waddle home to my suburban lair, Boost juice in hand.

Of course, ever since I became sohotrightnow, I have not seen him. Not once. The universe must hate me.

Anyway, back at the live gig, my Childhood Crush was very handsome and charming and gave The Fabulous Miss Jones, me and my breasts equal attention and I went home with that reassuring feeling that I’d had excellent taste in men at the age of 13. Result.

But here’s the thing… I also went home perilously late and extremely very drunk (another good reason not to go places with The Fabulous Miss Jones: neither of us have ‘Moderate’ as our middle name) and woke early in the morning fully dressed on the couch.

Except, I wasn’t fully dressed.

As I tried to drift back to sleep, I became suddenly – and terrifyingly – aware of the fact I wasn’t wearing any underpants. And, not being one to go commando for no good reason, I knew for certain I had started the evening wearing underpants…

When I got up later, I started looking for them. I looked everywhere: the laundry baskets, the bin, the fridge (yes, the fridge), under the couch, in the toilet. But they were nowhere to be seen. I even rang The Fabulously Hungover Miss Jones to ask her if she knew where they were. She denied all knowledge.

When my husband got home from work, we casually chatted about our days for a while before I tentatively raised the question of my underpants.

“Oh, yes. I found them with your handbag on the back table,” he said. “I put them in the washing machine because I didn’t think your father [our current house guest] needed to see them.”

Which at least explained their whereabouts… but not why they had been taken off or, indeed, when they had been taken off…

Listen, whatever happened, I’d like it to be stated for the record that it wasn’t me. It was someone who looked a helluva lot like me but had my Starbucks Name. Yeah, that’s it.

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How do I love my kitchen? Let me count the ways…


The cutlery drawer, whenever it is opened or closed, sprinkles a fine layer of sawdust on the items in the cupboard below.


My fruit bowl has its own Christmas decorations…


… and so does the door handle.


This knob has been missing from my range top since we bought the house five years ago. The result? I only use three of the hotplates. It’s like the fourth one never existed.


This handy guide reminding us which knob corresponds to which hotplate falls off frequently. It is important to note that it is impossible to remember which knob corresponds to which hotplate without this guide.


This knob falls off with alarming regularity, usually into the open bin below (not pictured).


This knob, although turned off, gives the appearance of being on, concerning house guests and welfare officers alike.


You need to take the oven door off its hinges in order to be able to light it properly. Of course you do. It makes sense.


Instead of a retractor fan, I have this handy smoke alarm whenever I fry anything.


Clean (and dry) cutlery falls back into the washing up bowl with ease.


My collection of broken plastic containers are stored neatly away in this broken plastic tub.


Finding anything in my cupboards is a dream.

Yep, I sure love my kitchen alright.

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I have no great talent for walking in high heels. In fact, it’s fair to say that whenever I wear them I resemble a novice stilt walker with an ear infection.

And then I discovered that Doc Marten’s did heels. Yes, Doc Martens heels. Heels so comfortable I can walk, run and pogo dance in them for hours. Thanks to these miraculous heels, I was no longer the only girl at the ball wearing “comfortable shoes”. I was a lay-dee.

And so it was only natural that I would wear my heels to a garden party we’d been invited to. What I didn’t realise at the time of choosing my footwear was that the “garden” referred to in the term “garden party” was on the side of a mountain.

The party didn’t start well for me and my feet. My husband had dropped us off at the gate of the house and driven further up the mountain to park.

When he arrived a few minutes later on foot, he exclaimed “Oh shit! I forgot the present!”

“So when I rang you and asked you to bring the sunscreen ‘as well’ what did you think the ‘as well’ referred to??” I grumbled.

“Um… ‘as well as my good self’?” my husband ventured.

Somehow, I ended up trekking back up to the car to get the present. On a loose gravel track. In my heels. It was like I’d been sent to High Heels Boot Camp. And yes, it was a pity I wasn’t wearing these Dr Marten high heeled boots because that would have made that metaphor very tidy. Very tidy indeed.

Anyway, this set the tone for the rest of the party – an otherwise beautiful event – where I endlessly hiked up and down steep pathways with the kids, who had been drinking from a never ending fountain of soft drinks and needed to do toilet trip after toilet trip in the house at the bottom of the mountain. Moreover, I had to carry Tiddles McGee up and down the mountain, because he’d conveniently fallen into a pond in the first five minutes of the party and spent the rest of the time barefoot and rockin’ a toga fashioned from a bath towel. Which was the kind of thing I’d normally expect my husband to do, quite frankly.

Needless to say, by the end of the afternoon, my feet were knackered. I had adopted the gait of a novice stilt walker with an ear infection who’d gotten rat-arsed drunk while taking antibiotics for said ear infection. Which is always a good look at an afternoon garden party.

And of course, I had another party to go to – without any chance to go home and change my shoes. When my husband dropped me off in town, I immediately set off to buy some band-aids. Eight blocks later, I realised this was doing far more damage than good because the party was in a restaurant and all I was going to be doing was sitting and drinking and eating and chatting and the only walking I’d have to do was to the toilets, which ended up being conveniently and mercifully situated four steps away. I say “mercifully” here not just because of my feet, but also the fact that later in the evening I managed to emerge from the toilets with my bodice sash tucked into my knickers, thus parting the front of my dress like a pair of goddamn curtains. Which is always a good look at a fancy restaurant.

And actually, now I think about it, it’s something I should have done much earlier in the day to take my mind off my aching feet. There’s nothing like the pain of embarrassment to negate the pain of a hard-earnt blister.

In fact, now that I think about it further, I should have just thrown myself in the pond after Tiddles and made my husband and a team of his friends carry me in my towel-toga up and down the mountain in a sedan chair. Or, indeed, skipped the pond all together and demanded the sedan chair anyway.

And I pride myself on being an Ideas Person. Sheesh.

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