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Posts Tagged ‘private jokes made public’

At my 21st birthday party, my sister Belle stood up and made a stirring speech in which she casually mentioned she used to tie me to the bed and whip me with shoe laces.

“But… but… but…” I spluttered at the time. “We were playing a game! She was the Master! And… and… and I was the Slave!”

Which really didn’t further my case One Little Bit. Still, at least I was able to defend myself, albeit poorly. 

It was a different story for the parents of the six year old little friend who visited us the other day. He suddenly – and most cheerfully – informed us that his dad slept in nothing but his underpants and that his mum had been caught by a policeman that morning for driving too fast.

I almost smiled at his candour but then had one of those chilling moments when I imagined my own six year old boy merrily telling another parent “My mum is hungover like a bastard!”. Which I did happen to be at that moment. But I had my reasons. Reasons, I tells ya! 

I then thought of some other beans my son might inadvertently spill:

Son’s claim: “My mother tried to walk to school when she wasn’t wearing any trousers!”
In my defence: It was a joke! A JOKE! Of course I know I’m not ready to walk to school before my trousers are on. Although my trousers being inside out is another thing altogether.

Son’s claim: “My mum sings songs about my bum!”
In my defence: “Bum” rhymes with “tum” and “mum”. And at least I’m not using the obvious rhyme “cum”. Or, worse still, “Heidi Klum”. 

Son’s claim: “My mum let my brother poke her boobies while she was on the phone to the phone company!”
In my defence: Well, I think we all know that story by now. 

Son’s claim: “My mum called the cat a rude word!”
In my defence:  The cat refuses to eat any Actual Cat Food I place before His Royal Catness and yet, at the first opportunity, will jump up on the kitchen table to feast upon the children’s unguarded milk-sodden Weetbix so he can then happily slosh diarrhetic cat-shit on the back step. Believe me, that cat had that rude word coming…

Son’s claim: “My mum hit me on the head with a Barbie doll!”
In my defence: He was asking for it. No, really. He claimed it didn’t hurt when he did it to his sister and insisted that I do the same to him to prove once and for all that it did not hurt. Turns out it did actually hurt. A lot. 

Son’s claim: “My mum says she’s taking a hip flask to the next School Concert!”
In my defence: Because I sat through last year’s concert without one and… and… and…

My conclusion? Slap a gagging order on him until he’s 18 and old enough for me to sue him for defamation of character. It’s the only way to protect my Good Name. Or at least give me first dibs at spilling the beans myself on this blog.

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Recently I had a faux-affair (also known as a “faux-fair” – well, at least by me) and it was all my husband’s fault. No, really.

You see, it all started when my friend MGK had to skip the state and decided to offload some of her excess clothes on me. Yes, I got myself a whole new wardrobe without having to squeeze into a changeroom cubicle with two children under 5 and what is very possibly in the Guinness Book of World Record as “The Widest Pram in the World” only to find I’d gone up a size and have some shop assistant try tell me that “Papaya Whip” was sooooo my colour. So you can imagine how grateful I was for such a gift from dear MGK. 

My husband was a little odd about it all, though. Whenever I wore any of my new acquisitions, he would say that I looked like MGK. After a few such remarks, I turned to him and said: “Is that how you like it, Big Boy?” To which he curtly replied that he thought RR (MGK’s husband) probably gave me the clothes just so I could dress up as MGK for him. 

And that is exactly what he told the Mild-Mannered Lawyer as he chauffeured us in the Love Bus to MGK and RR’s leaving drinks.

“Oh, that’s just great!” I exclaimed. “Thanks for sharing that! With the MML! Of all people.

Anyone who reads this blog regularly enough will know that the MML is a shit-stirrer under that mild-mannered exterior of hers. But since my husband never reads this blog, he probably can claim that he Just. Didn’t. Know. Which is probably something we can safely assume about him when it comes to Most Things. 

So the first thing I had to do when we arrived at the bar was to launch straight into damage control. I marched right up to RR and, bypassing the usual chitchat reserved for such occasions, launched into a rushed explanation about why there might be rumours circulating about him and I having an affair.

“And… and… it’s because of the clothes!” I concluded.

And RR gave me one of those looks which clearly said “What are you talking about, woman.” Believe it or not, I get that look a lot.

But luckily for me, even the lamest of jokes can be revived with the excessive consumption of alcohol, and soon a few others – including the extremely good-natured MGK herself – were joining in the fun. We were all ha-ha-ha-ing and he-he-he-ing as RR began asking me to put on MGK’s jacket and calling me MGK. Which was a relief because there’s nothing worse than being at a party where there are false rumours about you having an affair with someone and That Someone is looking at you like you just pulled your underpants out of the microwave

Anyway, at the end of a fun-filled night, MGK and RR gave me a lift home. RR, a good sport to the last, bid me goodbye by saying “Go to your husband now…”. And my brief faux-fair, dear friends, was over.

(Psssst. Are you reading this, RR? I’m wearing the green polkadot dress… And my husband would like you to know that he’s wearing the pink top…)

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