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Posts Tagged ‘humor’

It think it’s fair to assume that when Jesus chose to rise again on Easter Sunday, he at least waited until the sun had come up.

Not true, however, of my children this recent Easter Sunday.

You see the kids and I had invited ourselves around to Mistress M and The Sculptor’s house for a sleepover. It should be noted here that this was the third weekend in a row where I had found myself nestled deep in the warm bosom of another family’s hospitality. And yes, I’m starting to develop a serious fetish for having someone else’s husband making me toast and coffee on a Sunday morning.

In this particular case, however, I was careful to have started my campaign for ‘toast and coffee’ a few days in advance by telephone. I didn’t want another situation like we had on New Year’s Day where I found myself shouting “WHERE’S MY FUCKING TOAST?” outside the slumbering Sculptor’s bedroom door.

I needn’t have worried. Our children, by rising at five-fucking-thirty-AM, made sure that a) The Sculptor was out of bed and b) there was a pressing need for coffee. He set about making it immediately.

“Do you take sugar?” The Sculptor asked as he handed me my cup.

“No, I’m sweet enough!” I replied, brightly. Giving that answer never grows old. Never. In fact, it’s fair to say that I gave up sugar in my coffee just so I could give that answer Every. Single. Time. for the rest of my life and get a little jolt of pleasure from my own wit Every. Single. Time. It’s the little things, people.

“And the toast?” I reminded the Sculptor sweetly.

“Oh, do you want toast?” he replied, feigning surprise.

“OF COURSE I FUCKING WANT TOAST,” I said, before immediately changing tack and adding demurely:  “But no, no, no… not now. It’s far too early for you to be making me toast… ”

After all, everyone knows that you have to refuse at least once before forcing someone to bend entirely to your toast-eating will.

Apparently, the Sculptor is not “everybody”.

“Are you sure?” he said cheerfully in a way that made me realise he wasn’t actually asking a question. “In which case, I might go back to bed for a while.”

And with that, he practically said “Toodle doo!” and skipped back to his room, leaving me toastless and with the task of keeping five rabid children in the house until there was enough light for them to see the frickin’ eggs hidden in the garden.

Luckily, Mistress M got up to help me supervise the easter egg hunt and, while I tried to go back to bed myself for a while (turns out five children, high on chocolate, riding scooters in the wooden corridor outside your room makes for less than optimal sleeping conditions… who knew?), she got busy making toast  – and not only toast, but crispy bacon and eggs to go with that toast.

God, I love that woman.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that the children and I are now on the market for a sleepover next Saturday night for anyone who’s willing. I like my toast medium-rare (two slices: one with a ‘main course’ topping such as vegemite and one with a ‘dessert’ topping, such as raspberry jam) and I have my coffee white with no sugar because, well, I’m sweet enough.

See? It never gets old.

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Here is the transcript of a conversation that actually took place between me and an (unspecified) male friend about events that may (or may not) have actually taken place:

UNSPECIFIED MALE FRIEND: What must the neighbours think of me and my messy yard?

ME: Well, certainly those things I told them about you wouldn’t have helped their opinion.

UMF: Look, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go around substantiating those rumours. There’s no real hard evidence that those things even occurred, save a few photographs…

ME: Ah yes, the photographs… (*shudders*) It must be said that once you’ve seen something like that, it’s impossible to unsee it… Still, good times.

USM: Good times, indeed. Perhaps those good times will come again.

ME: Perhaps. Are you still that flexible?

UMF: On a good day, yes. Yes, I am.

[Long pause while we both imagine what we might possibly be talking about]

ME: Oooooh. I can feel a blog post coming on!

I’ll admit it. I experience a certain frisson when I feel a blog post coming on. It’s like my muse has just rung me up to say he’s just bought a litre bottle of vodka and a 4 Litre tub of  caramel, date and pecan ice cream and run a bubble bath for me. And yes, for the record, my muse is a he and, more often than not, answers to the name of Paolo.

Of course, I’ve had to tread carefully with this particular blog post. I mean, if I were to specify my (currently) unspecified male friend’s identity, I’d be putting his reputation as a fine upstanding community member on the line.  He’d no doubt get people insistently knocking on his door at 2AM and would end up, curled in the fetal position on the other side, hissing: “Go away! I don’t do those things anymore…”

I hate to break it to my (still) unspecified male friend that those 2AM knockers would not be put off easily. After all,  they would have had it on on good authority that he actually did still do those things – that ‘good authority’ being, of course,  that reputable blog  ‘Not Drowning, Mothering’, whose hardworking and dedicated blogger has never once lied to her audience. Not once. Not even about the time she pissed herself in the school yard.

I mean, really…  if you read it here, why wouldn’t you believe it?

I suggest to my (as of yet) unspecified male friend that he clear up his backyard at the first opportunity. And while he’s at it, he may as well clean up  mine. Oh, and buy me a litre bottle of vodka and a 4 litre tub of caramel, date and pecan ice cream and get that bath running.

Yep, that should stop me from specifying his unspecified-ness in the future. Oh, and publishing those photos.

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I don’t know about anyone else but I really love an ‘adult sleepover’ – you know, when you stay over at a friend’s house (often with your kids) instead of having to dodge breathalisers or taxi driver small talk on your way home.

I mean, what’s not to love about staying  in someone else’s house where they’re in charge of the meals and the dishes, you get to tuck your kids into beds made by someone else and then sit and drink and chat and laugh until the early hours of the night before rolling into yet another bed made by someone else? It’s perfection itself.

And so I was particularly pleased when the kids and I were recently invited by our good friends KC and MM to have a sleepover while my husband went un-flatpackin’ crazy with our new kitchen.

I am sad to report, however, that our sleepover became more about sleep than anything else. Both MM and I fell asleep on the couch during the last fifteen minutes of watching 80s classic ‘Heathers’ and KC ended up throwing a couple of blankets on me and dragging MM and herself to bed before it was even 9:30PM.

“You can’t let this be known,” KC told me the next morning. “My reputation as a party girl will be ruined forever more.”

(Now, I’m not sure where exactly she’s earned this reputation but I should add – to minimise damage control – that the last time KC came over to my house by herself she brought not one but TWO bottles of Prosseco and, handing them to me, gleefully exclaimed “I’m an enabler!!!”.)

Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know that we made up for our lack of a ‘Wild Night In’ with the grim discovery that Tiddles McGee and The Pixie were both hosting sizeable lice settlements on their scalps. KC and I subsequently got to sit outside for two hours in the freezing cold and occasional light rain shower while we carefully (and somewhat obsessively) combed through the kids’ hair in full daylight.

Yes, we are a pair of regular Good Time Gals.

Afterwards, KC kindly checked my scalp. Luckily, her extensive search uncovered only a small number of adult lice and no eggs.

“Let’s hope they were new arrivals and just didn’t have time to get into some hot louse-on-louse lovin’ action,” I remarked. “Unless, of course, they’re all females and it was hot louse-on-louse lesbotic lovin’ action. That’d be okay…”

At this point, MM passed by. Since he is a well-read sort, I thought I’d check my theory with him.

“Do you think there are lesbian lice, MM?” I asked.

“To be honest, I haven’t really thought about it,” he replied.

“Sure, you haven’t,” I said. “Sure.”

You see, I knew he would have. His mind has never been the same since I accidentally made him look at hardcore man-on-man porn.

Anyway, for the record, I’m hoping there really *are* lesbian lice and that those brave pioneers who chose to set up home on my scalp were some of them.

Unless, of course, they were progressive lesbian lice who had arranged a different sort of ‘adult sleepover’ with a gay lice couple on Tiddles McGee’s scalp before moving to mine… in which case, I think it’s fair to say that me and the lesbian lice are all fucked.

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Here’s my secret: I’ve gone all Zumba.

Yes, according to all the marketing, I’ve “ditched the workout and joined the party!!!” with my dear friend KT. We’re both investing in our cardiovascular health by shimmying and rotating our hips, like, A LOT and listening to a peppy instructor in a Zumba-branded headband shout “AWESOME!!!!” at us, like, A LOT a lot.

I kind of like it.

Last week, we even ensnared our friend Mistress M into our web of zumba-ness and after the class, the three of us congratulated ourselves on being so aerobically-virtuous.

“It’s also good because it means we have an alcohol-free night!” KT exclaimed.

Mistress M looked crushed.

“Oh, that kind of ruins my next suggestion…” she said.

I almost didn’t hear her because our instructor’s “AWESOME!!!!” was still ringing in my ears, but I was quick to step in.

“I think it’s in everyone’s interest that we hear Mistress M’s suggestion,” I said, boldly.

CUT TO: us counter-balancing our Good Cardiovascular Works by inflicting serious damage on our kidneys.

Yes, it was what I call a KABO (a Key Alcoholic Beverage Opportunity). And somewhat surprisingly, it wasn’t the only KABO I’ve encountered in recent days.

You see, KT got an invitation to the premiere of a film one of her friends was in and she invited me to go with her.  The day before the premiere, we made the mistake of watching the trailer on YouTube. It was less than three minutes long and just watching the first thirty seconds almost brought on a KABO then and there. I mean, there is awful and then there is AWFUL (please note capitalisation).

Having already RSVPed and told her friend we were going, KT and I were left no option but to talk strategy for the evening. We would A) be seen mingling outside the cinema; B) take seats with a clear path to the exit; and C) escape at the earliest opportunity, the ‘elbow nudge’ being our signal that we’d had enough.

Which is what we did. AND THEN KT’S HUSBAND’S BOSS SAT NEXT TO US. It was the equivalent of the school principal sitting next to you at a three-hour school concert where your kid’s act was up first and you were planning to spend the rest of the three hours at the pub down the road. Before the opening credits had even finished, I was already nudging KT so hard that I’d worn a whole in her sleeve and yet we both knew we couldn’t leave because KT’S HUSBAND’S BOSS WAS SITTING NEXT TO US.

After half an hour of X-TREME AWFULness (again: note capitalisation), we turned to look at each other. Instinctively we knew what we had to do. We had no choice. No choice at all. I did my best “get down low and go, go, go!” and just got the hell out of there, with KT close behind. And we didn’t stop running until we got to the nearest bar, where we promptly KABOed ourselves back to mental health…

Now, speaking of mental health, you may be interested to know that, thanks to outsourcing the plastering, my kitchen now looks like this:

However, our flat packed kitchen (the choosing of which was, for me, akin to root canal treatment) still looks like this:

Now, that in itself doesn’t bring on the KABO. Oh, no. Not at all.

It’s this: my husband, thrilled by the beautiful job the plasterers had done, came up with the brilliant idea of moving our kitchen table into that nook and moving the oven and fridge over to the other wall.

“After all, it’s not too late to return the flat-packed kitchen to Ikea and start again,” he said.

It was like a neon sign lit up above his head that said KABO! However, since it was well before midday, I opted to give him the death stare instead. He has subsequently turned to stone and now I have nobody to unflat-pack my kitchen… and I feel a Category Seven KABO coming on.

Anyone care to join me? What’s that? You will??

AWESOME!!!!

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Tomorrow marks my seventh week without a functioning oven. Yes, seven weeks. Let’s count ‘em, shall we? One… two… three… oh, god, that noise you just heard was my spirit stabbing itself with a serving fork.  Either that, or my spirit stabbing my husband with a serving fork.

Here’s what happened.

My oven broke. To get really technical about it, that thingy that you have to pull out to light the thing got pulled out for good. And since the oven door was the detachable sort (not in a good way) and the knobs fell off when you looked at them sharpishly, we decided to replace the whole thing.

Unfortunately we then had to wait two weeks for some money to come in so we could afford to replace it.

But come that happy day, we marched into our local white goods store to order Our Brand New Oven. But somewhere somehow, in the middle of the ordering process, my husband changed his mind and decided we needed to consider renovating the whole kitchen before committing to one model or another.

For the record, my ability to talk renovations doesn’t extend much past the three minute mark, after which I start to glaze over and think about the bottle of wine in the fridge. If the conversation, say, wanders onto the topic of splashbacks and cupboard door handles, I start to think about the vodka bottle in the freezer. And if you tried, for example, to get me into some kind of FLOOR EMPORIUM to look at and discuss lino and carpet samples, then please be prepared to see me there swigging from the wine bottle and drinking straight from that vodka bottle with a straw at the same time. Just sayin’.

ANYWAY so I didn’t actually have to discuss renovations with him, I agreed to let my husband invite our friend C, who designs kitchens for a living, to come over and talk about them with him instead.

Within ten minutes of C arriving, I realised this was what’s officially known as a Bad Idea.  C and my husband began running about excitedly together, talking about knocking down walls and digging a three foot deep trench down the side of the house. And in one of those horror movie moments, C’s wife – who was helping me out with that bottle of wine in the fridge –  turned to me and revealed she hadn’t had running water in her kitchen or bathroom for over two years due to her husband’s own renovation project. I mean, she may as well have told me she no longer had a soul and wanted to eat my offal on toast for breakfast, such was my terror.

After C and his family left, my husband found me sobbing into my wine glass about “just wanting a fucking oven that worked”.

Luckily, my husband is a sensitive man. He saw my pain and realised it was all too much for me. He reassured me we’d just buy a replacement oven. The renovations could wait a few more years…

And then he changed his mind. Again.

Oh, he bought a new oven, all right. A good one, too. One that I am happy with – or rather, would be happy with except that it has been sitting, all warm and cozy and wrapped in plastic, cardboard and polystyrene in our garage for over a week now… while my husband has taken to one of our kitchen walls with a crowbar.

This is my kitchen now.

Extra points for spotting the almost empty bottle of vodka

And no, I didn’t see that coming, either.

The fact of the matter is I’m writing this blog post in the lounge room with the fridge next to me. The contents of my entire spice rack are currently alongside my bed just waiting for someone to make a joke about ‘spicing things up’ in the bedroom. For the record: don’t make that joke. DO NOT MAKE THAT JOKE.

But I think Tiddles McGee, all of four years old, put it best. When my husband first started pulling out the cupboards, he reportedly said  “I’m telling mummy you’re destroying the kitchen! She will think you’ve turned evil!”

Now where was that second bottle of vodka…

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I predicted two things about the recent Aussie Blogger’s Conference in Sydney.

The first was that, during my blog post reading, I would – like so many Hollywood movie protagonists before me – stop mid-sentence and run off the stage to be where I truly belonged. And no, that’s not back at home with my husband and children but rather at the pub across the road.

The second was that, with the entire room being hooked up to WiFi, I would end up on Twitter offering insightful remarks such as “Why does anyone think lemon slices in water is a good thing?” and “It’s 11AM. Is it too early to start drinking??” and perhaps even “My name badge just accidentally fell into the toilet but I’m still going to wear it. Wrong?”

(For the record, the fact it fell into the toilet pre-flush or post-flush makes no difference to me. I’d still wear it.)

As it turned out, I managed to read out my blog post (“Morning Is Broken“) without ‘epiphanating’ (that should totally be a word) and my twitter offerings were even more inane than anyone could ever imagine but it didn’t matter. There were so many people tweeting about the conference that my occasional interjections such as “The only thing I ever giveaway on my blog is my dignity. Fact.” and “@Woogsworld Stop posting pictures of my breasts on the internet!” were lost in the mêlée.

I mean, that is one of the best things about being at a blogger’s conference. Everyone – and I mean EVERYONE – is tweeting. When you pick up your iPhone, nobody – and I mean NOBODY – is saying in an accusatory tone “Are you tweeting?” as if they think they’ve just said something really amusing and you are stealing their fox spirit by broadcasting it on the interwebs. And in case you are wondering, my standard response when someone says that to me is “No, I’m checking my stocks” even though I don’t actually own any stocks and have probably just posted a remark on twitter about having just found half a donut down my bra.

So, yes, at a blogging conference, you are among kindred spirits – people with the same level of cyber-addiction as you and it feels… goooooood.

Other things I discovered that also felt goooooood:

Cyber-friends are for life and not just for Christmas… and that’s a great thing.

For example, I ended up liking cyber-friend Squiggly Rick’s so much that I became his Hot Cougar Wife for a whole evening. When I took off my tiara during the dinner-slash-dance, he asked me to put it back on. That’s when I knew it was true love. Oh, plus we developed the ‘chair line dance’ which is when you do a line dance in a chair. Admittedly, it all gets a bit Sharon Stone when you’ve rotated yourself around to the back of the chair but that’s half the fun, right?

(In the end, we had our marriage annulled because of our failure to consummate it. Turns out he’s gay. Who knew? Okay, so I did. I like a challenge, me… You can read Rick’s own account of our Britney-in-Vegas-style marriage by clicking here.)

Mark Pollard is hot!

Many of you may remember Mark from previous Not Drowning, Mothering adventures such as “An Open Letter To McCann Australia” and “Making My Own Fun. Turns out he’s as hot as Squiggly Rick is gay. So hot that I had to have my photo taken with him to serve as a reminder never to cyber-hassle advertising executives without checking out what they looked like first.

So thanks to my ill-researched efforts, he and his family are now on a witness relocation program and moving to the States, like, forever. I now have to live with the guilt about that for the rest of my life.

Nobody seemed unduly disappointed that ‘The NDM’ was, in fact, just l’il ol’ me.

Despite all my misgivings about ‘outing myself’ (see “Great Expectations“), nobody threw their drink in my face shouting “Imposter!”. Although, admittedly, someone did say “I never ever thought in a million billion years that you’d be wearing a floral dress.”

For the record, I make the floral look my bitch.

Bloggers rock!

If I thought that this statement was true before the conference, I now know it to be extra-true-with-sugar-on-top-and-a-vodka-chaser.

Oh, and look…  if anyone’s wondering, my name tag didn’t fall into the toilet in the end. It came close once or twice. And yes, I was almost tempted to throw it in myself just to have something to blog about (so dedicated to my craft as I am) but ultimately I wanted it as a keepsake of one of the Best Times Ever.

AusBlogCon 2012? In my heart, I’m already there…

Big thanks to the organisers, who tirelessly worked to put this thing together. I’m still waiting for someone to explain the ‘B-string cleavage concealer’ in the goodies bag, though. I mean, why would anyone ever want to cover up their cleavage???

EDITED TO MENTION @AnIdleDad because he’s a bit upset I didn’t marry him for the evening. Maybe next year?

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Look, I’ve been trying to write a blog post called ‘It’s A Hot-Off!’ for the past hour but I just can’t get it to work. It was all about how I told my friend MM that the Prep Mums at the school this year are apparently really hot but that I refuse to go to the Prep area because I don’t want to have to enter a ‘Hot-Off’ situation with these (allegedly) Hot Mums.

(“‘Hot-Off’ sounds kinda wrong, doesn’t it?” I said to MM.
“Yes,” MM replied. “And yet so right…”)

Anyway, ‘It’s A Hot-Off’ has now been banished to my Drafts folder along with some other never-to-be-published ‘gems’ that I can’t quite bring myself to delete because maybe, just maybe, the world will one day be ready for them.

For example:

How God Almost Got Us A Late Pass

A true story. It involved Tiddles McGee claiming he saw God in the mirror, but whether or not he was actually seeing his own reflection and thinking that he, himself, was God remains unclear to this day.

I Never Said You Could Play The Egg
A post about my total lack of rhythm when it comes to playing the egg. Or rather, the egg-shaped shaker. Yes, it’s as exciting as it sounds.

In A Post-Apocalyptic World, The Man With Cable Ties Is King
This post is actually just a title. But what a title.

John Cusack Says “John Cusack Wants Table Five And A Food Tent!”
The title pretty much sums the post up. It attempted to start the rumour that John Cusack always talks about himself in the third person and insists on having his own personal food tent to protect his meals in restaurants. No, I don’t understand why either, but while I was trying to write this post, I actually also tried googling John Cusack’s legal counsel so I knew who I’d be dealing with.

2012: The Year Of Marrying David Bowie
The story of how, in 1985, a Ouija board predicted I would one day marry David Bowie and how I, myself, have predicted that this will happen next year. Like, for real.

The Iron Latte
A post about how my husband always travels with an electric iron which he uses as a make-shift stove for his espresso pot. Again: true story. Why would I make up this shit?

Don’t Trust Anything With Eyes On The Side Of Its Head
This started off about my aversion to birds and fish but then ended up being about being about the fear of potatoes and how there is a word for the fear of potato PRODUCTS (potnonomicaphobia) but not for fear of potatoes themselves and how the lack of a formal label for this phobia probably makes people who are genuinely afraid of potatoes feel unrecognised by the medical profession and how there are probably people out there with a genuine fear of developing a phobia that doesn’t have a label and that, ironically, that fear probably doesn’t have a label either. Yes, this post was a winner.

So there you go. If you ever feel that my blog is strange or mundane, there’s the proof – THE PROOF – that it could be whole lot stranger and/or mundaner. Oh, it could also include more made-up words like mundaner. Whatevs. Just thank your lucky stars that I don’t publish everything…

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