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Posts Tagged ‘unsubstantiated rumours’

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 have long since been an avid consumer of magazines where “close pals” are constantly dishing the dirt on their famous friends. Some pals! But I never thought in a million years that I would become embroiled in a similar situation. Mostly because I’m not famous and, generally speaking, people really don’t give a shit about who I’m seen flirting with at the miniature railway or about how I was spotted stuffing my face with Popcorn Chicken while parked in my Tarago in a side street – except perhaps my husband, who might want to know why the hell I didn’t buy him any. 

Anyway, the other day, I had The Lovely Tattooed Lady and The Mild-Mannered Lawyer over for morning tea. We ended up having one of those conversations where talked a lot about penises. Even when The MML tried to change the topic by causually remarking how the packaging of Imperial Leather soap has not changed in 20 years, we still managed to get back to the X-rated stuff and some personal stories were exchanged amidst much salacious laughter and clapping of hands with glee. 

The MML was later heard to exclaim “I can’t believe a change-of-topic about soap packaging didn’t work”, possibly thinking we might end up like those people on a Brand Power ad, sitting around and earnestly discussing the latest innovations in personal grooming packaging design. But secretly, I think she was secretly relieved the conversation reverted back to penises. She was obviously just covering her arse, following her legally-trained instincts and all. 

That afternoon, the MML’s status on Facebook changed to “The MML can’t believe she has known NDM for three years but has only just discovered that she went out with a sumo wrestler.”

Whether or not it was actually true, I denied it all, of course. And then, after a few “enquiring minds need to know” comments from complete strangers, I stepped forth to clarify my initial denial to “For the record, I haven’t gone out with a sumo-wrestler during the three years that I’ve known The MML.” 

And then promptly changed my own status update to “The NDM wishes she had some dirt to dish on the MML, who is currently spreading wild rumours about her and a sumo wrestler.”

“You’ll find no dirt on me.” was the MML’s response. I swear she would have written”Mwah-ha-ha-ha” except that she is really too mild-mannered for that. 

And you know what? She was almost bloody well right about there being no dirt. Until MGK stepped up to the mark and reminded me of a rumour our entire mothers’ group had started about the MML. Apparently, she was spotted having sex with her husband in the car park of the local supermarket. Which was one of those rumours that wasn’t based on the slightest shred of evidence but instead born of copious amounts of alcohol and a Truth and Dare game.

Still, it was enough. It had to be enough. I promptly changed my status update to include this tasty titbit. 

“Oh God” was the MML’s initial mild response. Followed by a “I will get my publicist to issue a denial. You can’t believe everything ‘close pals’ say.”

It was all I could do to stop myself from hanging a MISSION ACCOMPLISHED banner across the front of my house. Because, like the Bush Administration’s combat operations in Iraq, it was a dubious mission in the first place and nothing had really been accomplished. But still, there was something somewhere worth celebrating, surely. For one thing, her rumour about me was entirely true whereas mine about her was not. But it didn’t matter. 

It was a little like the end of that book “The Life of Pi” where you have to choose which version of events you want to believe: if you had to choose between believing that the MML had sex with her husband in the car park of a local supermarket OR that I rubbed fatty bits with a sumo wrestler when I was 21, which one would you choose?

No, wait. Don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter. Or so my close pals tell me to my face.

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