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Posts Tagged ‘fashionista friends’

I’m the kind of person who often walks into a room and has everybody whisper “Who’s that girl?”

Unfortunately, it’s never said in the hushed and awe-filled tones of someone in the presence of True Beauty. It’s said in the same kind of way that someone might say “What did I just step in?” or even “Is that a pubic hair in my soup??”

I’m pretty sure I made such an entrance when I recently went to a swanky Sydney wine bar, wearing jeans and a smock top that mades me look like a hunchbank who’s six months pregnant.

I was going to see my fabulous friend GT sing and, indeed, had rung her beforehand to check the dress code.

“It’s very casual. Jeans are fine,” she assured me.

It wasn’t until I arrived there that I realised the statement “Jeans are fine” applied only to people as fabulous as GT who can wear anything anywhere and, in fact, never wear jeans because they’ve got far better things to wear.

There was some small part of me that wanted to shout out “Anyone care for spot of scrapbooking?” or (better still) “The Bells! THE BELLS!”as I walked across the room. Luckily, I was meeting my friend Dr L and my stepmother JJ – both of whom have known me for over two decades and know that I’m way cooler than I look. Okay, so a little cooler.

Anyway, the gig was great. GT has a velvety voice like an angel who’s wooing the devil, or at least talking him into giving her a really long foot rub.

But the “Who’s that girl?” moments continued. During one break between sets, Dr L and I heard our names being spoken. We looked up to see GT and a pretty blonde woman looking over at us. They waved to us and we waved back.

GT walked over to us a few minutes later.

“That’s [Karen], Mr F’s friend,” she said.

“Oh! Karen!” I exclaimed, knowingly.

“Ah yes! Karen...” Dr L echoed.

GT went back to the stage and began singing. After a few bars, Dr L whispered out the side of her mouth.

“Just checking… Do we know who Karen is?”

“Fuck, no,” I whispered back, my smile still fixed on my face.

After a few more songs, Karen got up to leave. She waved to us cheerfully. We waved back with equal enthusiasm.

“Bye, Karen!” Dr L said, brightly.

“God go with you, Karen!” I said, which made me giggle to myself for at least half an hour because I was a jeans-clad pregnant hunchback in a swanky Sydney bar and I had to find something to laugh about that wasn’t myself.

Anyway, as fate would have it, during the next break I found myself chatting to GT’s guitarist, a very talented man that I had met a number of times over the past 15 years.

After a while, he extended his hand to introduce himself.

“Uh, we’ve actually met a few times before,” I told him. “I’m [NDM].”

“Oh! [NDM]!” he exclaimed, clearly remembering the name but struggling to put it to the mumsy Quasimodo figure before him. “Uh…”

“It’s okay!” I told him. “I’ve had three children and have gone completely to seed!”

He looked back at me blankly and blinked. I took this as my cue to continue.

“You, however, look exactly the same!” I enthused. “That’s worked out well for you!”

And I smiled my brightest smile, knowing full well he’d be thinking “Who is this girl?” even though I had ostensibly just answered that question for him.

What can I say? I clearly have a gift. But who that gift is for is anyone’s guess.

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One of the benefits of having small children is that you never have to worry about grooming yourself. Most mornings I leave the house looking not so much like I’d just rolled out of bed but that the bed had rolled over me and  vomited its breakfast all over me in the process. By the time I arrive at any evening event, I inevitably look like I’ve come straight from the Prom Night in Carrie – but, in my mind at least, I’m always forgiven and even celebrated for that small section of my left shoe not coated in child spit. I have small children, you know.

However, I know that I won’t get away with that excuse at my fashionista friend GT’s upcoming 40th, especially since I will be in a completely different state from my children. I’m going to have to lift my game, perhaps even brush my hair and put some lipstick on. I’m going to have to wear clothes not held together with velcro or safety pins, goddammit.

When we spoke on the phone the other night, GT didn’t help things by telling me who else was invited.

“Eek!” I said. “They all sound cool and interesting and well-dressed and I’m just, you know, a stay-at-home mum…”.

“Oh, but you’re not! You’re an internationally-acclaimed award-winning blogger!” GT said, kindly.

“Some award! I didn’t get a trophy or a certificate. All I’ve got to show for it is a stupid JPEG and even then, I had to make the JPEG myself!” I said. “Even if I print it out the JPEG and walked around saying ‘Oooh, look at me and my JPEG!’, it’s not really that impressive.”

I mean, honestly, there should have at least been a Special Occasion glow-in-the-dark winner’s sash that I could have worn beauty-queen style to such events, with a light-up crown and a matching sceptre with a hollowed out stem for holding vodka. And yes, I have thought about this a lot.

Anyway, GT probably knew I was going to start lamenting my lack of Bloggies-branded vodka-sceptre again and so swiftly changed the topic.

“Oh, and [Famous Person] will be there,” she mentioned, casually.

“[Famous Person]?” I squeaked.

“Yes, [Famous Person].”

“[Famous Person] will be there! Oh. My. God. [Famous Person]…” I said, before adding once more for good measure: “[Famous Person]!”

“We seem to be saying [Famous Person]’s name a lot here,” GT mentioned.

“And so we should! He’s [Famous Person] after all! Wow… Oh, I’m definitely bringing along some ‘Not Drowning, Mothering’ business cards now. And I’ll print out my JPEG and stick it on the back with sticky tape so that it looks like they’re laminated on and then I’ll give [Famous Person] one and he’ll instantly whip out his iPhone and become my fan on Facebook or ‘like’ me or whatever the hell it is that you do on facebook these days. Oh, GT! I’m so glad I invited myself to your 40th now!” I enthused.

Yes, I was excited. I knew that nobody would be talking about my mumsy-opshop-chic-zombie look at all at the party. In fact, I could wear whatever the hell I liked and it wouldn’t matter. Nobody would be looking at my clothes. Instead, they’d be all whispering to each other “Did you see that woman handing out business cards wrapped in sticky tape? Yes, the one wearing the home-made sash and the plastic crown, claiming the bottle of vodka she was carrying was a sceptre? She’s, like, so hot right now…”

Man, I’m totally going to wow that room.

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We’ve all done it. We’ve all bought heavily-trademarked and unfeasibly expensive underpants for our toilet-training children, partly to entice them into wearing underpants in the first place, but mostly in the hope they will take all possible measures to avoid pissing on the face of Buzz Lightyear or Ben 10 or The Little Mermaid or Dora the Explorer or whoever it is they’ve chosen to champion on the front of their grundies. 

Of course, whenever the child is wearing these special undies, an accident of the Worst Kind is sure to happen and Buzz/Ben/Ariel/Dora end up eating shit. And then, rather than flushing the whole lot down the toilet like we want to, we end up scrubbing faecal matter off said underpants in a public toilet block, because our child doesn’t want us to throw Buzz/Ben/Ariel/Dora into the bin and is expressing this through the subtle art of screaming their head off.

I don’t know why we do this when it’s a strategy that fails us every single time. And, of course by “us”, I’m meaning “me”. 

Recently, I found Tiddles McGee crying in my friend Madame Zap’s courtyard, having had such an accident in his favourite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles underpants. Unfortunately for Tiddles, there’d also been a small section of ‘output’ that had slid down his leg into his shoes – I call these rogue bits of shit “Travellers”. Also unfortunately for Tiddles, he’s got his father’s egg-shell constitution and was dry-retching at the sight of his Traveller. 

Oh fuck, NO! Not the trifecta! I thought and immediately prioritised cleaning up the damage in his direct line of sight. I worked quickly and efficiently – even, some might say, cheerfully. Well, as cheerfully as anyone can work when they’re in the direct line of fire of their three-year-old’s gag reflex.

When I returned inside the house, of course, I found my friend Madame Zap in the midst of clearing out her baby’s bouncer chair because he’d filled it with a voluminous milk-based vomit. And so it came to pass that the trifecta had been achieved after all…

Now, I was going to blog about the achievement of the trifecta a couple of weeks ago during my Bloggies campaign and I made the mistake of mentioning it to my husband. He was appalled. “You can’t blog about that! You’ll scare people off.” 

“Phooey!” I exclaimed. “We all shit! Even Bloggies tourists shit!”

“Yes, and we’ve all taken part in a line dance at some point in our lives but it doesn’t mean we want to talk about it,” was his response.

He raised a fair point: I put the post on ice. And by the time I got around to looking at it again a few days ago, I realised that so much had changed. For one thing, Tiddles McGee was one week into being in underpants twenty-four hours a day and was hitting his target (i.e. the toilet) Every. Single. Time.

“Could this be the last of my wee and poo stories?” I wondered to myself. “Is this the end of an era, of seven and a half long years of hard slog, wiping arses and stepping in surprise puddles?”

CUT TO: the afternoon of that very same day. I was at the museum where one of the (many) children I was in charge of suddenly got a funny expression on his face and said “Oh! I didn’t know I had to do a poo!” and I found myself back in the toilets scrubbing shit. Just like that. As I did it, I recalled my husband’s claim that “If you touch the shit of someone else’s child, you will die” and at that particular moment, I thought, he wasn’t far wrong.

Moreover, later that day, I found out that my fashionista friend had been sitting in the front row of David Jones’ fashion week chatting to my fellow Bloggies nominee Mia Freedman quite possibly at the very same moment I was hanging a sopping wet pair of Ben 10 undies on my pram handle, like some kind of white flag signaling my complete and utter defeat. Shee-ittt.

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It’s been well over a month since I issued my fashionista friend GT with the challenge to “bring back the coconut bra”. I’d challenged her because I figured she needed something to do between cat walk shows and champagne receptions. And yes, I was just a little bit bored… 

But before you dismiss the humble coconut bra as another of my boredom-fueled pranks, let me tell you a little about how versatile it can be.

You see, Tiddles McGee had found my coconut bra behind the couch and insisted I wear it by saying “Boobies!” enthusiastically. He clapped his little pudgy hands when I slipped it over the outside of my pyjamas.

“Big Boobies!” he exclaimed.

The other kids were utterly delighted when I stood drumming on my own coconut-enhanced breasts over breakfast. And even more so when I took the coconut bra off and trotted around like a horse making clip-clop noises. 

It got me thinking about other uses for a coconut bra. Here’s a list I came up with when I was doing my pelvic floor exercises:

– makeshift sick buckets

– romantic cava set for two

– handy storage place for toothpicks, used serviettes, chicken drummette bones, prawn tails and other things I always end up standing around with in my hand at cocktail parties (at which I am a most frequent attendee, I’ll have you know)

– one bowl for olives, another for pips

– ear muffs and/or wrestling headgear 

– emergency swine-flu masks

– blah blah blah. 

I decided on the strength of this hastily put-together list to immediately buy everyone in my mothers’ group a pair… But when I checked costumecraze.com imagine my great disappointment to discover that the “Sexy Adult Coconut Bra” is not only “out of stock” – which might suggest a recent rush on the product – but has been discontinued completely. 

GT: YOU ARE NOT WORKING HARD ENOUGH.

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