Posts Tagged ‘dating sumo-wrestlers’

The other night I went out drinkin’ and fightin’ with some of my friends and got home at the ungodly hour of 9:00pm. True story.

While I had been painting the town that very pale shade of red, my husband was looking after the kids. I was about to write that he was “babysitting” but I realised that when I’m at home alone with the kids it is never called “babysitting” so why should it be regarded as such for my husband? What’s good enough for the goose is good enough for the gander. And all that. 

Anyway, when I got the status report from him upon my return, the news was Not Good. Apparently, he’d left Mr Justice and The Pixie alone for “three minutes” (we should probably add a zero to that in the interest of accuracy) and Mr Justice took to his sister’s hair with the nail scissor.

The result? Well, let’s just say that for a couple of years there, The Pixie’s hair either looked “Rock-Chick-Mullet” or “Terry-Gilliam-playing-the-Jailer-in-Monty-Python’s-Life-of-Brian“, depending on which way you looked at it. A trip to the hairdressers last year finally sorted out all that damn layer confusion… until Mr Justice restyled her, that is. 

Suddenly, where there was no fringe before, there was one. And where there was hair behind one ear, there was none.

And, as if to spite me, there was something quite funky about the way he’d done it. He’d added a certain volume and movement to her hair and I was very nearly tempted to ask him to have a go at cutting mine. Except that, actually, six year old boys attacking heads with sharp implements is definitely something not to be encouraged. 

When I vented about all this on facebook, I had an overwhelming response, mostly very supportive of Mr Justice’s forays into the art of hairstyling. As “Some Guy in France” commented, it was truly a Rite of Passage. 

Which got me thinking about other Rites of Passage that I may (or may not) have been through that might be lying in wait for my own children. In no particular order:

  • purchase of first ever single and album (mine:”He’s My Number One” by Christie Allen and “Off The Wall” by Michael Jackson before he became creepy)
  • seeing first teen movie featuring a scene where some girl’s top suddenly falls off without any warning or explanation or having any relevance to the plot
  • sending off for X-ray glasses, as advertised in the back of a comic book, and finding out that they simply Do Not Work
  • laughing so hard a french fry comes out your nose
  • getting your first job at a fast food restaurant and spending half of it hiding in the broom cupboard and/or eating left over french fries that may/may not have come out of other people’s noses
  • seeing what happens to a banana when you leave it at the bottom of your school bag over the school holidays
  • getting drunk on school grounds on a School Play night and lying with your head in a Jeans West bag in a classroom when you should be on stage
  • drinking from a cask wine buried in the sand with straws and subsequently falling down a stone staircase with a bicycle
  • lying to your parents about where you’re going
  • lying to your parents about where you’ve been
  • lying to your parents about where you live and/or what you do for a living and/or who exactly you’ve become
  • dating a sumo wrestler

When I laid it all out like that I realised the haircut incident wasn’t that bad after all, as rites of passage go. Hey, Mr Justice. I’ve changed my mind. Can you give me a Pixie Cut, too?

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I have long since been an avid consumer of magazines where “close pals” are constantly dishing the dirt on their famous friends. Some pals! But I never thought in a million years that I would become embroiled in a similar situation. Mostly because I’m not famous and, generally speaking, people really don’t give a shit about who I’m seen flirting with at the miniature railway or about how I was spotted stuffing my face with Popcorn Chicken while parked in my Tarago in a side street – except perhaps my husband, who might want to know why the hell I didn’t buy him any. 

Anyway, the other day, I had The Lovely Tattooed Lady and The Mild-Mannered Lawyer over for morning tea. We ended up having one of those conversations where talked a lot about penises. Even when The MML tried to change the topic by causually remarking how the packaging of Imperial Leather soap has not changed in 20 years, we still managed to get back to the X-rated stuff and some personal stories were exchanged amidst much salacious laughter and clapping of hands with glee. 

The MML was later heard to exclaim “I can’t believe a change-of-topic about soap packaging didn’t work”, possibly thinking we might end up like those people on a Brand Power ad, sitting around and earnestly discussing the latest innovations in personal grooming packaging design. But secretly, I think she was secretly relieved the conversation reverted back to penises. She was obviously just covering her arse, following her legally-trained instincts and all. 

That afternoon, the MML’s status on Facebook changed to “The MML can’t believe she has known NDM for three years but has only just discovered that she went out with a sumo wrestler.”

Whether or not it was actually true, I denied it all, of course. And then, after a few “enquiring minds need to know” comments from complete strangers, I stepped forth to clarify my initial denial to “For the record, I haven’t gone out with a sumo-wrestler during the three years that I’ve known The MML.” 

And then promptly changed my own status update to “The NDM wishes she had some dirt to dish on the MML, who is currently spreading wild rumours about her and a sumo wrestler.”

“You’ll find no dirt on me.” was the MML’s response. I swear she would have written”Mwah-ha-ha-ha” except that she is really too mild-mannered for that. 

And you know what? She was almost bloody well right about there being no dirt. Until MGK stepped up to the mark and reminded me of a rumour our entire mothers’ group had started about the MML. Apparently, she was spotted having sex with her husband in the car park of the local supermarket. Which was one of those rumours that wasn’t based on the slightest shred of evidence but instead born of copious amounts of alcohol and a Truth and Dare game.

Still, it was enough. It had to be enough. I promptly changed my status update to include this tasty titbit. 

“Oh God” was the MML’s initial mild response. Followed by a “I will get my publicist to issue a denial. You can’t believe everything ‘close pals’ say.”

It was all I could do to stop myself from hanging a MISSION ACCOMPLISHED banner across the front of my house. Because, like the Bush Administration’s combat operations in Iraq, it was a dubious mission in the first place and nothing had really been accomplished. But still, there was something somewhere worth celebrating, surely. For one thing, her rumour about me was entirely true whereas mine about her was not. But it didn’t matter. 

It was a little like the end of that book “The Life of Pi” where you have to choose which version of events you want to believe: if you had to choose between believing that the MML had sex with her husband in the car park of a local supermarket OR that I rubbed fatty bits with a sumo wrestler when I was 21, which one would you choose?

No, wait. Don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter. Or so my close pals tell me to my face.

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