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Posts Tagged ‘Britney Spears torture session’

It’s hard to imagine why someone would drive over 800km just to see their niece throw up into a Kenwood Chef bowl, but my sister Belle and her Man in Uniform did just that last weekend.

Okay, okay, so that wasn’t the purpose of their trip. Belle mentioned something about the Man in Uniform’s car being leased and them needing to get some serious kilometres on it. To be honest, it didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me as you would think with all that danger money the Man in Uniform must earn, they would be able to lease an actual house to live in. Oh, well. I try not to judge. 

Anyway, it was a nice surprise for us to see them both, but the surprise we gave them (or rather The Pixie gave us all) was definitely on the less pleasant side of the surprise spectrum.

Even less pleasant, still, was the surprise I was given a few days later. The Pixie, who we had assumed had recovered from her mild case of gastro – woke up early one morning with those kind of stomach pains that ended in her projectile vomiting all over her mother, because the toilet itself was deemed “too dirty”. I serve at Her Majesty’s pleasure… She even helpfully pivoted on those little Pixie feet of hers while she was doing it, thus ensuring maximum coverage of the walls, door and floor. And me. But not the toilet. Never the toilet. 

When I posted about this delightful episode on facebook, my friend AEB remarked “Perhaps you could scrape it off your clothing, collect it in an oh-so-chic Tupperware container and present it as an explanation for your next Late Pass.” I really liked that she specified a Tupperware container there, because they really do give their contents such a long shelf-life. I’ve long maintained that the Ancient Egyptians should have been putting their dead Pharaohs in a human-sized “rock’n’serve” box rather than stuffing around with bandages and embalming fluid and all that damn stress about whether or not they need to do just one more layer… (anyone who has read my NDM Guide to Making Piñatas and my forays into the world of papier-mâché will know how well-placed I am to talk about this Ancient Egyptian practice with such great authority). However, I am told by a reputable source that Tupperware doesn’t date quite that far back. Whatever. The point is that The Pixie’s chuck would last weeks, maybe months when stored in Tupperware and thus could be used for multiple-late pass occasions. I like your thinking, AEB!

[An aside: interestingly enough, The Suburban Diva actually went to the trouble to ring me later, saying that if I was going to use AEB’s suggestion, that I would be well-advised to use my ‘faux crystal’ Tupperware container to really do it in style. That Diva sure knows how to push the envelope.]

Anyways, as a result of The Pixie’s little tsunami of the stomach variety, I had to do the usual rescheduling of social engagements and appointments, including a check-up appointment at the dentist. I decided I may as well nab her spot since I’d recently ever-so-slightly chipped one of my bottom teeth. Which was one of those events which showed me yet again how lousy my husband would be as a field surgeon because he almost passed out when I showed it to him. 

Luckily, the dentist didn’t pass out when he saw it, though I expect he might have been temporarily blinded by those dollar signs he always sees when he first looks in my mouth. 

And so, there I was: trapped in a dentist’s chair, wearing those dental protection glasses that resemble the 1990s Cancer Council “Whole-Face” shades, having my chipped tooth fixed after enduring one of those dental hygiene sessions where the noise in your head sounds like something that was sampled on a Radiohead “OK Computer” track. And, to add insult to injury, this was all in front of a Britney Spears MTV marathon on the ceiling-mounted TV from which I could not escape.

And I thought to myself, that when I woke that morning I never would have imagined that my daughter’s “ouchy tummy” would ultimately lead me paying the dentist $265 for half-an-hour of torture and the ultimate gift of “Oops, I did it again” in my head for days to come. 

Surprises… pah! Overrated, I say.

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