Posts Tagged ‘awkward situations’

I was almost disappointed when we made it to school on time the other day and I didn’t get to write down ‘Tiddles McGee’s Arse Explosion’ as our excuse for being late. Yes, a last minute trip to the toilet by my youngest child put our (so far) perfect punctuality record for 2010 in jeopardy for a few minutes there. And for the record, ‘Tiddles McGee’s Arse Explosion’ a just like ‘Jon Spencer’s Blues Explosion‘, except it’s brown instead of blue.

Anyway, it turned out I had another explosion to deal with – of the yellow variety. Having had to run through the school grounds to deliver assorted children to their classrooms on time, I arrived triumphantly at The Pixie’s classroom only to feel what can only be described as a ‘Tena Lady Moment’.

Of course, there had to be a large group of attractive, well-dressed mothers milling about just outside said classroom. And of course, I had to be wearing jeans at the time and we all know how blue denim showcases wet patches as beautifully as if I’d taken a photo of my sodden crotch and posted it on twitter.

“Running late is so stressful,” one of the mums said to me sympathetically, misreading the look of horror on my face.

It was so tempting to reply “So is pissing your own pants!” in front of everyone. Except I’ve learnt to hold my tongue a little better since the time one of the school dads told me to “have fun” with my (newly fixed) washing machine and I found myself exclaiming “What kind of a fun are you suggesting, exactly??” while crowds of fellow parents stood and stared.

So instead, I just smiled and nodded and, sensing my wet patch might be growing at a similar rate to the population of New Mexico, slunk off as quickly as possible out of the school grounds and back to the car. And it was then that I found I was still holding The Pixie’s school bag in my hand.

I was wondering what I should do when another mum came up to me and started chatting and, before either of us knew it, I suddenly blurted out: “We were late for school and I had to run and I kind of lost control of my bladder and now I have to walk all the way back to The Pixie’s classroom because I still have her bag in my hand and everyone’s still standing around in the playground and they will all see my piss pants!”

Had I known her a little better, I might have then been able to ask her to assess the damage. But the moment my confession was made, it was like an invisible line was drawn at shoulder level and neither my eyes nor hers were able to wander below it for even a second.

She quickly made her excuses and I headed back into the school to drop The Pixie’s bag off, adopting the awkward gait of someone who is trying to walk without their thighs separating.

Of course, the same group of mums were still standing around, still looking attractive and well-dressed.

“I forgot Pixie’s bag!” I called out cheerfully to them, explaining my reappearance, but perhaps not the strange way I was walking. Thankfully, they quickly returned to chatting amongst themselves and I, blushing from head to soon-to-be waterlogged toe, delivered the bag to the classroom and scurried back to the car.

Once I got home, I rushed straight to the toilet so I could finally inspect the full extent of my shame. And was surprised to discover that the seemingly ginormous wet patch was actually the size of a ten cent coin and would only have been visible to someone attempting to do the limbo under my crotch.

I mean, sheesh! No wonder they call it stress incontinence.

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Sleeping, shitting and writing.

As a full-time carer for small children, these are three activities that I often get the urge to do but not always at a time when it’s possible (or, moreover, appropriate) to do them.

And when I am given time to do them, that urge might not come.

For example. the other day my husband took the kids out for the morning so I could get some writing done in advance of his twelve-day Asian sex tour with the local rugby club. [In explanation: my husband is going away for work for twelve days. Since he wanted me to keep the details of his trip out of my blog, I told him this was going to leave people with no option than to assume he was going on a twelve-day Asian sex tour with the local rugby club. So why not just call it that and be done with it, I reasoned. They’re going to think it anyway.]

ANYWAY, there I was with the whole morning to write. But could I write anything decent? No, sir. I could not. I spent a couple of hours writing an account of our recent trip to the zoo to see the baby elephant and how we had to wait for an hour and a half in the queue because someone had a heart attack. Let’s face it, it’s very hard to bring a lot of humour to a situation where someone has a heart attack but for some reason I thought I could do it. Turns out, I couldn’t.

I tried another angle which involved me imagining myself buying an elephant hand puppet and hiding in the bushes with it to try and trick my children into thinking they had seen the baby elephant without us having to queue for hours. But then I made the mistake of imagining my daughter asking “Mummy, why have you got your hand up that elephant’s bottom?” and that’s where the post went all wrong, because there’s not much humour in someone fisting an elephant in the bushes. No, really, there isn’t.

I then ended up sitting there, typing the word FUCK and then deleting it. And then typing it again. And then deleting it. This ended up being a very effective use of my time because before I knew it, all my time was used up and my husband and children were home.

“Are you okay?” my husband asked, when he saw my face.

“Uh… well, you know how the words have always come to me?” I asked. My husband nodded. “Well, they’re not coming today. I can’t write a thing. Maybe… maybe… the well has dried up!”

And I burst into tears.

“Maybe you should write about my upcoming [Asian sex tour with the local rugby club] and then take a break while I’m away,” my husband suggested, gently. “People only read your blog because of me, anyway.”

“You’re only funny because I write you funny!” I shouted. “And now I don’t appear to be able to write ‘funny’ any more, I’ll have to live with you the way you actually are and not the way I write you! Except… except… you won’t even be here! You’ll be on your [Asian sex tour with the local rugby club]!!”

And I cried even more.

Yep, it’s going to be a fun twelve days. For my husband, anyway.

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Whoever first said “It’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all” had never loved and lost like my husband did with the HBO series Deadwood.

You see, the series was suddenly canceled after only three seasons. And after watching the last episode ever, my husband – who had enjoyed every minute of it while there were still minutes of it left to watch – stamped his foot and declared he wished he’d never watched it all, such was the magnitude of his disappointment.

I was a bit more forgiving. While there are plotlines that would never be resolved and characters I’d never understand, I was happy enough to have gone along for the ride. After all, I was once an avid viewer of Lost, which, like my daughter, has a habit of asking far more questions than it ever answers. (Apparently the upcoming Lost series finale aims to answer the Big Questions and the only way I could possibly imagine them doing that is if they suddenly cut to actual footage of the writing team finally coming to after a six year Tequila-binge only to discover that someone had actually taken those scripts they wrote on the back of beer coasters whilst under the influence of the mescaline-soaked worms and had turned them into a hit TV series. Honestly, it’s the only way to explain that show. You know it’s true.)

Anyway, whenever I lend out Deadwood to friends, I always do so with the caveat that it does end abruptly (along with the warning that every second word is “cocksucker”). I do this A) to respect my husband’s pain and B) to not make myself out to be a hypocrite. After all, as my post “Classification My Way” demonstrated, I still harbour feelings of unresolved rage at the makers of Love My Way for not adequately warning me of the content of their program.

However, I recently discovered that my hand-over disclaimer for Deadwood was woefully inadequate.

A week or so after I’d lent the series to my friend Mamselle X, I received an email from her titled “Hell is…”. Turns out that for Mamselle X, hell was not so much watching that scene in Deadwood where one of the main characters delivers a lengthy and insightful monologue while receiving a headjob, but rather hell was watching that scene with her parents.

I am no stranger to this type of situation. My father took me to see Puberty Blues when I was ten, a film based on the book by Kathy Lette (and friend) in which the main protagonist loses her virginity in the back of a panel van. If it felt awkward at the time, it felt a hundred times worse a few years later when I actually found out what a panel van was and even worse still when, as a young adult, I read one of Kathy Lette’s other books. I mean, what had my father been thinking?

Anyway, Mamselle X is obviously made of stern stuff because she rang a few days later to see if she could borrow Deadwood Season 2. I was going to slip it into her mailbox but, seeing a car in the driveway, I thought I’d knock on the door and deliver it in person.

Mamselle X’s father answered the door.

Now, the last time I had seen her father, he had sincerely thanked me for being a good friend to Mamselle X during a difficult period of her life. As I handed the discs over and he saw the title, I plummeted from being Number One Friend to being Number One Enemy of All That Is Decent In This World. I had officially become a pusher of degenerative filth and the corruptor of his daughter’s fine mind.

Still, it could have been worse, I consoled myself as I walked back to my car, somewhat crimson-cheeked. It could have been a whole lot worse: I could have been dropping off a Kathy Lette book for Mamselle X to read. Now, there’s some bad shit.

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