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Posts Tagged ‘shopping mall bitch-fightin’’

I always find the best way to unwind from hosting a Ben 10-themed party for 14 screaming kids is to take a trip to the local monster mall. Yes: on a Saturday. 

To help you out a little here: imagine my mind is a little like a snowdome where my thoughts gently float around in the liquid. Now, the Ben 10 party was just a little like shaking that snowdome to fuck. And the monster mall? Like taking an AK-47 to said snowdome, blasting its contents into a million trillion pieces and embedding many of them in a nearby wall upon which some teenage punk seems to have tagged their name but upon closer inspection turns out to be a picture of their penis. 

Just sayin’. 

Look, of course I’m being a touch melodramatic. The party was just a normal kids party: you know, kids running around high on sugar and food colouring, screaming and whacking each other with sticks. And the mall was just the usual Saturday arvo consumer bitch-fight. But chuck in a visit from the silent red ninja, a headcold and the promise of a migraine and you’re starting to get the picture. And it’s of someone’s penis on the wall, apparently. 

Still, I feel suitably removed from the whole experience now to share some highlights of the Ben 10 party with you all. 

THE CAKE 

omnitrix_cake

This cake was a labour of love upon which I worked late into the night before the party. When I proudly showed my husband my masterpiece, his informed opinion was that it should be “more green” and “perhaps have a bit of white somewhere”.

At which point I grew exceedingly irate and shouted at him “What is WRONG with you? Don’t you know the difference between a Ben 10 Alien Force Omnitrix cake and a Ben 10 Original Series Omnitrix cake?? Have you never discussed the finer points of differentiation between the two with our firstborn child? I mean, have you even met our son??”

Sheesh.

Luckily I was able to jump onto Twitter and show off about my creation. And there, I felt the love that I was due. Of course, while I was busy showing off and feeling the love, I heard the tell-tale jingle-jangle of bells and stormed into the kitchen just in time to see the cat jump up on the table and get *this close* to licking the cake. What was that old saying again? Was it “pride comes before a cat with an rectum-coated tongue”?

THE PIÑATA

jetray_pinata

For those of you who have read “The NDM Guide to Making Piñatas” and are curious about where this Jetray lay on the NDM Piñata Spectrum (upon which all piñatas should measured, if only it actually existed), let’s just say Jetray ended up being the love-child of the Impenetrable Shark and The Bad, Bad Butterfly.

You see, I had somewhat overestimated the whacking power of the average seven-year-old boy and had built the piñata to withstand a direct nuclear blast. But somewhere in the painstaking paper-mâché process, something had gone terribly terribly wrong. When the pinata was finally cracked open (thanks to some king hits from my husband), there were cries all around of “Ewwwww! These lollies are all soggy!”. Oops, I did it again. 

THE OMNITRIX BREAD

fairybread

Nothing to say here except the the age-old question of how to serve fairy bread to a bunch of seven year old boys bearing makeshift weapons has finally been answered. 

THE AFTERMATH

aftermath

What you see here are Mr Justice’s brand new presents, all ripped out of their wrappings, tossed around the room and firmly ground underfoot with a few handfuls of party food thrown in for good measure. In the cleanup process, I found a grand total of three frankfurters hidden in very surprising places. Which literally put a twist on the adult party game “Hide The Sausage”. 

But when I asked Mr Justice which was his favourite part of the party, it wasn’t the cake. It wasn’t the piñata. It wasn’t even the lame-arse game where I got them to squirt warm water at a plastic alien frozen in an icecube (true story).

It was “hanging out in the bedroom playing with the presents”. 

This, more than anything, sent me a very clear message and that message was this: Next year, don’t be the über-mum party planner, NDM! Just cheerfully usher the guests straight into the bedroom… chuck in a packet of chips, a bottle of lemonade and a bucket to pee in…  And then lock the door for two hours.

Now that’s a party plan that I feel that even I, utterly destroyed as I feel right at this moment, am willing and able to get behind.

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The other day, I found myself literally trapped at a DFO – which, for the uninitiated, stands for “Direct Factory Outlet” and not, as acronymfinder.com suggested, the “Dairy Farmers of Ontario”. 

Having fought the Boxing Day Sales-type bitch fight over parking, I had finally managed to find a spot in a far corner of the DFO Parking Suburb. But only once I’d pulled into it did I realise I was between two 4WDs that surely must have moonlighted as Monster Trucks when they weren’t ferrying young J’Aime and Tarquin to school during daylight hours. And since I was driving KT’s Mitsubishi station wagon, which seats you closer to the ground than any F1 racing car, I had no chance of seeing my way out until the Monster Trucks moved. 

So I went shopping, which is what I had come for, after all. I found myself walking around and around in circles in that crazy cavernous place, chock full ‘o’ bargains, hungry hungry shoppers and spruikers galore, competing against each other and the piped music. (For the record: I don’t ever go into a shop where someone’s heckling the crowd with a microphone).

After a while, all that walking around began to create one of those “whirlpools” I used to make with my friends in above-ground pools in the 70s. Eventually the pull of the whirlpool got so strong that I got swept away into a frenzy of consumerism. I started getting that overwhelming feeling of “I need linen pillow cases!” “I have to buy pastel-coloured ramekins” and “Must. Have. Onion. Keeper. In the shape of an onion!!!!”.

At one point, I even got the “My life is incomplete without a watermelon-coloured bra with black lace trimming” feeling (we all get it from time to time).  I was perusing the intimate apparel when I came face to face with one of the teachers from Mr Justice’s school. We both laughed small embarrassed laughs  – me mostly because just moments beforehand I’d been looking in shocked awe at Size 8 G-strings and had also farted (one didn’t cause the other, I hasten to add). Luckily this embarrassing encounter broke my shopping reverie and, clutching my bags, I hastily headed straight for the nearest exit before I got dragged in again. 

And so it should be told that I had come to the DFO merely to buy shoes. After two long hours, I finally emerged into natural daylight bearing shoes, trousers, sparkly pink socks and a milk pan. Which wasn’t too bad, considering the pull of that whirlpool.

However, I could see – all the way from across the carpark – that one of the Monster Trucks was still parked next to me, so I had to stop a while at “Villa and Hut” to have one of the Chai Lattes that they were “famed for” (What they neglected to say was that those Lattes were “famed for being milky cinnamon sock water”). And before you go hanging shit on me drinking chai lattes, let me just say, in my defence, that I had just bought a pair of Birkenstock Clogs. If you’re really going to do these things, you have to do them properly. 

When, after another half an hour had passed, I could see that the remaining Monster Truck had gone, I was able to drive home and show my husband my new purchases. He laughed when he saw the Birkenstocks and said he’d have to leave his City Job as a show of support for my new Lifestyle Choice. And I got all huffy and said he’d have to keep that City Job so I could bloody-well afford Birkenstocks, even those allegedly “on sale” at the DFO. 

And then, for the rest of the afternoon, I found myself stopping to admire my new smurf feet and wonder how from such a Celebration of Consumerism could come such Chiropodiatric Comfort. At long last, I had the type of shoes that complemented my unshaven legs, that were very unlikely to press hard down upon the accelerator of a Monster Truck in city traffic or even ever tread the concrete floors of that DFO again. Unless of course, it’s the Dairy Farmers of Ontario and they’re into, you know, organic milk. 

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I realised the other day why Advent Calenders were invented: they’re to act as reminders for parents like me of how rapidly Christmas is approaching. Every time we open another one of those little windows, it’s like a little punch in the stomach. It was actually about this time last year, that I had myself a full-blown panic attack where I found myself breaking into KT’s empty house, wandering about hysterically, looking for Uncle B’s scotch whilst breathing into a paper bag. My husband even had to send the Mild Mannered Lawyer around to rescue me because he knew if he woke Tiddles up from his nap just to come around to get me, that might just send me Completely Over The Edge. Ah, good times

I’m hoping to manage my Christmas Stress Levels a little differently this year. I’m not at all helped by the fact that this is the first year Mr Justice has been able to write his own Santa List completely on his own. I think at this stage the list is longer than L. Ron Hubbard’s ten volume “Mission Earth” and possibly makes about as little sense. Mr Justice is a great fan of organic spelling: he writes ’em as he hears ’em, with a few extra letters thrown in here and there, and – for some reason – lots and lots of hyphens. Anyway, I had to go through the list with him line by line to work out if any of the items a) existed and b) were affordable. I tried to explain that Santa really only gave out little presents to boys and girls and that a “Nin-ten-do Weee” was a bit beyond his budget, but Mr Justice remained quietly confident that Santa could pull it off. It was all I could do to stop myself from saying that if he were to get a Big Ticket item like that, I wasn’t bloody well giving Santa all the credit.

In any case, if Mr Justice knew how far behind Mummy – I mean Santa – was with the Christmas shopping, he might not be feeling so confident about getting anything at all, let alone anything from that long long list. “Oh come on, NDM, what’s your problem?” I can hear some people asking in that all-too-familiar tone of theirs. “You’re a Stay-At-Home Mum and can therefore get to the shops outside of the Prime Bitch Fightin’ Time at night and weekends”. Ah, yes, I reply to these naysayers. I can. But you seem to be overlooking the fact that, with The Pixie and Mr McGee in my full-time care, I bring my own bitch fight wherever and whenever I go. There’s something about all those Christmas Decorations that whips those kidlets into a feral fightin’ frenzy… And so, I’ve taken to trying to get as much as I can on-line, with some mixed results…

Just the other day, I was in the crucial closing stages of bidding for a “V19 Torrent Fighter” on ebay whilst simultaneously chucking stuff in Mr Justice’s lunch box, when I had what I can only call a “Sanitary Product Malfunction”. I ran swiftly to the toilet and was in the process of sorting it out when Tiddles McGee burst in and, perhaps inspired by what he saw or just of his own volition, projectile vomited on the floor by my feet. And it was at this very moment I discovered that the toilet roll was stripped barer than an anonymous bride. Of course, finding new toilet paper required me to first find a pair of fresh underpants and, during that perilous journey (which required me to jump around the house with my legs sealed shut), I managed to leave a horror film-style handprint on our brand new (white) duvet cover hanging in the laundry. And of course, by the time I’d sorted myself, McGee, the vomit and the duvet cover out, I’d missed out entirely on the “V19 Torrent Fighter” on ebay and we were entering Late Pass Territory in my push to get Mr J to school. And all I could think was how am I going to explain all of the above in ten words or less on the Late Pass slip. Maybe “Christmas + ebay + menstrual accident + vomit + no toilet paper = Late”. Or even just “Don’t. Push. Me. ‘Cause. I’m. Close. To. The. Edge.” Honestly, if they’re going to be issuing late passes in the lead up to Christmas, they should at least be handing them out with paper bags and Scotch as well.

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