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Posts Tagged ‘Mzzz E’

I regard my friend Mzzz E as one of my most effective ‘channels to market’  when it comes to my good works as an international trendsetter. After all, when I first briefed her about ‘Awks Giraffe‘, it took less than a week for one of her supercool friends to be using it on Facebook. Yes, Facebook.

So I couldn’t wait to pitch a new trend I’d been working on to her when we caught up the other day.

“I’ve got this idea, right?” I began. “I’m thinking of doing a ‘What’s HOT and what’s NOT list for Christmas’.”

“Tell me about it,” Mzzz E said, all ears.

“Well, because everything I write as being HOT, I end up then dissing anyway and anything that I write as NOT kind of becomes hot simply because I, the NDM, am writing about it… I thought I should morph the two terms so it becomes what is H’NOT this Christmas,” I concluded, triumphantly.

“What?” Mzzzz E said.

“H’NOT!” I repeated, with gusto.

“… And?” Mzzzz E said.

“It’s neither HOT nor NOT. It’s H’NOT!” I repeated again, widening my smile to the point of almost cracking my face in two.

She just looked blankly back at me. At that moment, I swear I could hear a tree falling alone in a forest.

To be honest, I must admit I felt hurt and a little confused. I mean, c’mon people!  She was an instant adopter of ‘Awks Giraffe’ but wasn’t going to touch ‘H’NOT’? The mind boggled. H’NOT was so…. so…. H’NOT!

The topic of conversation swiftly changed and any attempts to put H’NOT back on the table were swiftly dismissed by the obviously discerning Mzzz E. Eventually, I let it go.

Then, yesterday morning, after an hour of sitting at my computer trying to work out what the hell I could write about this week, I burst out of my room, all smiles.

“I’ve got it!” I said to my husband. “I’m going to blog about ‘H’NOT’! And how Mzzz E refused to board the H’NOT train! And how that’s all her mistake because that there train’s an express to the stars, baby!”

[Which, now I think about it, probably makes it more a rocket ship than a train, but somehow, saying Mzzz E was refusing to board the H’NOT rocket ship doesn’t sound as good.]

“You’re really scratching around for material at this time of year, aren’t you?” my husband responded, shaking his head.

“That in its very self is so H’NOT, it’s not funny,” I replied.

HOT. NOT.

H’NOT.

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There’s not much to be recommended about starting work at 6am, except, perhaps, the possibility of knocking off early.

“Why, I can be home by 2:30!” my husband recently said, trying to look at the upside of his working hours.

“You can but you rarely are,” I corrected him. More often than not he’s not home until 4pm, conveniently after the school run. Funny, that.

“Okay, okay,” my husband said. “So I can be home by 2:30 if I have to.”

“If you have to? Is that what you think of your life here at home – as something you only do if you have to??” I was quick to accuse. My poor husband. Conversations with me must be like running blindfolded through a minefield while being chased by rabid she-dogs with PMT.

Still, it must be said that my husband and I have completely different concepts of time. I don’t feel like any of the time I take away from my family duties ever really feels like my own – it’s simply feels borrowed. And my husband? Well, let’s just say he has a greater sense of ownership over ‘his’ time.

Here’s an example: the other day he was supposed to be working a half-day – finishing at 10:30. He’d arranged to have ‘an early lunch’ with a colleague who leaving work forever that day. At 3:15pm, I rang him, asking if he was almost home. 

“Um, almost…” he replied. There was a lot of noise in the background. 

“Are you still at lunch?” I asked.

“Oh, no. Of course not!” was his quick response. “That finished ages ago. But here’s the thing, see… I was at the bus stop waiting to go home when [another friend] rang and asked me out for a beer.”

“So you’re at the pub,” I said.

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“And not, for example, about to meet me at the school so that we can attend the meeting with Pixie’s teacher that you, yourself, arranged?” 

“Ah, no. No, I’m not,” he admitted, before adding cheerfully: “But you can go and show that at least one of us is a responsible parent!”

As you can imagine, when he got home over an hour later, I had a few words to say on the subject.

“All it takes is a phone call,” I said, sulkily. “I think you take it for granted that I’ll just look after the kids and do all the responsible things while you go do whatever the hell you want.”

“You know I’m always happy to do the same for you!” he replied with the air of somebody who’d just spent the afternoon at the pub.  

Now it’s here that I should give my husband some credit: he applies the same standards to my time management as he does to his own. He’s always saying “Go out and have fun! Don’t come home unless you’re completely shit-faced or in the back of a paddy wagon!” – partly because he knows the chances of me doing it are negligible. 

He decided to reiterate that point: “You know what’d I’d say if you rang me, saying you’d just taken a bad acid trip and were stuck at a rock festival for a week with Mzzz E?”.

“I don’t know. What would you say?” I asked. 

“Um, I’d say something. I just have to think what…” he mumbled. “Anyway, you’re off duty now for the rest of the evening. I’m here! I’m in charge! You can blog, sleep, read, whatever you like!”

Which is exactly what I did until one hour later, when I heard a little tap at the door.

“Um, have you finished blogging yet?” he asked in a small voice. “I was kind of hoping I could have a little lie down…”

In his defence, it was the 4am start and the 10km power-walk to work that was catching up with him. Not the four glasses of wine he’d had in the middle of the afternoon, of course. Not that. Never that.

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Whatever your opinion on Groovy Young Things, one thing is clear: they generally don’t live around my ‘hood.

Traditionally, our suburb – although less than 10km from the city – is populated by aged persons and young families. It’s just how it is. It’s a bit like Perth: most of the population between the ages of twenty and thirty get the hell out.

But listen, it’s not like I’m totally cut off from the world of Groovy Youngters or anything, okay?

My dear friend Mzzzz E remains a steady link between their world and mine  – for example, it’s thanks to her I know that these days the young people are drinking coca-cola and red wine cocktails known as “Bambas” or “Calimocho”. Which has only confirmed my fears that there is no possible future for the human race in the hands of such people. No future at all.

Oh, and I occasionally cross town to be seated next to and served by GYTs in trendy bars and cafés, where I inevitably end up pulling out that sanitary napkin randomly floating around my handbag instead of my wallet when it comes time to pay.

Anyway, at a recent community picnic near our home, I spied at least three Groovy Young Things standing unabashedly near the Scouts’ Sausage Sizzle stand. It was disconcerting to say the least.

“Look over there,” I hissed to my friends MGK and RR. “Those people are young and attractive. It’s, like, freaking me out.”

In fact, it was freaking me out so much that I just wanted to rush up and order them to return at once to the inner-city tapas-punk-fusion bar they’d ironically crawled out of.

“They really should leave,” I moaned. “They’re making me feel… well, they’re making me feel old.

There, I said it. The vintage floral skirt I’d chosen to wear that day suddenly felt decidedly mumsy. I noticed I had grease marks on my breasts made by the small hands of a preschooler yielding a “piggy in a blanket”. I knew for a fact that there was a bottle of low-joule, low-alcohol champagne chilling in my fridge at home. I was wearing Birkenstock clogs for fuck’s sake.

“Oh, I turned 34 earlier this week,” RR said to me, oh-so-casually. “I’m now officially mid-30s.”

“Oh, my bleeding heart,” was my appalled reaction. Here I was, thinking he was One Of Us and he was pretty much One Of Them. It was galling, to say the least.

Eventually, the Groovy Young Things moved off (to groovier pastures which served Calimochos, no doubt) and I was left to glare at RR and his thirty-four year-old ways.

When I got home, I told my husband about the terrible situation that had befallen us all at the picnic and how those GYTs had stood around totally unaware of what harm they were causing by their very presence. And how RR had then revealed himself to be practically young.

“How dare they!” I said. “How very dare they all!”

My husband then admitted to me that, while his short-term memory might be completely shite, his long-term memory was crystal clear.

“I remember, with absolute clarity, what it felt like to be young,” he said. “And part of that was swearing never – ever! – to become what I am today.”

“But at least you can’t remember what you are today,” I remarked. “You know, short-term memory loss and all.”

And we both laughed and laughed – until we forgot what we were laughing about, that is.

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