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Posts Tagged ‘wardrobe malfunction’

Everybody has Bad Trouser Days. But if the truth be told, I probably have more than the average person (see “Ye Of Little Fashion” for proof).

In my haste to get to school on time the other day, I chose a pair of trousers that effectively turned my “apron” of extra fat into one of those play tents that had been folded and stuffed in its accompanying bag by someone who didn’t have a Higher Degree in Play Tent Folding: it felt like it was going to pop out with great force at any give moment and (quite possibly) wind an innocent bystander in the process.

Because I’d driven the kids to school, I didn’t realise the full extent of my potential wardrobe malfunction until I lost my car keys. Yes, it takes a very special kind of person to lose her car keys in between turning off the ignition and getting the kids out of the car. It also takes a special pair of trousers on a special kind of person to showcase generous amounts of arse-crack to her own children and assorted passersby as she scrambles about on all fours trying to find said keys.

Since the bell was about to go, I had to leave the car unlocked and get the older two kids to their classrooms. I walked, as if in a daze (stopping to readjust my trousers every five steps) and further built on my reputation at the school by telling everyone I met how I’d just lost my keys. At least two people asked me if I’d left them in the ignition with the engine still running, leaving me to conclude that my reputation was probably worse than I had ever thought.

Of course when I returned to the car for one more look, I finally found the keys wedged firmly between two seats and could finally stop worrying they’d actually fallen down my arse-crack.

Anyway, I had to then rush Tiddles McGee to kindergarten and settle him in (he’s currently of the opinion that kindergarten has jumped the shark), and then rush back to the school to see Mr Justice receive his “Pupil Of The Week” award. Mr Justice had specifically requested my presence at the assembly and since most of the time he’s on the verge of taking a temporary restraining order out on me in public spaces, I was keen to be there.

I burst into the back of the school hall just in time to see a steady stream of children being rewarded for achieving their “Personal Best” (see my post “A Day Of Personal Bests” to read about the drinking game this turn of phrase inspired) and thought “Phew!”. My relief was only short-lived, however, as two minutes later the assembly was finished without any sign of Mr Justice or his Personal Best Certificate.

I made a bee-line to fellow-parent FatherOfCrankyPants, who confirmed the awards were given in two groups and Mr Justice had been in the first.

“Argggghhhh! I missed it!” I moaned. “Mr Justice had really wanted me to come today. Should I lie and tell him I saw him?”

“Yes, lie.” FatherOfCrankyPants urged. “LIE!”

It seemed the obvious thing to do, but then I thought of my recent post “Infrequent Liar Points” and promptly changed my mind. It was the kind of small white lie that seemed harmless at the time but would no doubt ultimately end with me standing semi-naked in front of a crowd of booing strangers.

I decided the most responsible thing to do was to loiter by the front door of the assembly hall and wave cheerily as Mr Justice left with his class. That way he’d  think that I’d been standing there all along without me actually having to lie about it. Genius.

But after waving cheerily at at least seven classes traipsing past, I looked back into the empty hall and realised Mr Justice’s class must have exited through a different door.

Unsure of what to do next, I ended up loitering outside his classroom. I was about to give up and go home when one of his classmates returned from the toilets and opened the classroom door. Catching Mr Justice’s eye through the temporarily open door, I began waving manically and giving him the double thumbs up.

Instead of smiling and waving back in an “It’s good to see you’ve got my back, Mum!” manner, Mr Justice looked at me as if to say “What the fuck are you doing here, you Keyless Arse-Parading Clown“.

Luckily, it was only when the classroom door was actually shut that my “apron” chose its moment to pop out over the top of my trousers. B’DOINGGGG! Just like that. But nobody saw it and no children were hurt. It was a small comfort for somebody who wasn’t about to win any Mother of the Year awards any time soon, but I hoicked up my trousers and walked back to my car with my car keys firmly in my hand and my head held high.

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There is a very good reason I rarely wear my halterneck dress. It’s because I don’t have a proper bra for it and going without a bra makes me feel like two jellies on a plate and that there is just one press-stud between me and a genuine “Zapped” moment. 

And yet I wore the halterneck dress (bra-less) to the small “Melbourne Cup Day” gathering at KT’s house yesterday. I guess I figured that, since there were only going to be a handful of close friends in attendance, nobody could get hurt. 

However, I hadn’t taken The Pixie’s Tuesday night dancing class into consideration when choosing my outfit. Normally, I might have let The Pixie skip the class so we could continue making merry at KTs but a recent newsletter had stressed that no child was to miss a class between now and the concert in four weeks’ time. It was italicised and maybe even underlined. And everyone knows that once you’ve italicised and underlined something, it’s The Law.

I also hadn’t taken into consideration the fact that, although my husband drove us all, it would be me that would take The Pixie into the class. Nor had I foreseen that my husband would pull a swifty on me and I would find myself agreeing to walk home from the dance class so he could run some errands. Or that I would somehow agree to take Tiddles McGee with me, too. 

“But hey!” I reassured myself, as I walked towards the hall in my Melbourne Cup finery. “Everyone gets dressed up and has a flutter and a tipple on Cup Day. Why, it’s positively un-Australian not to!”

Well, try telling that to the mothers at the dance school. There wasn’t a wilting fascinator or over-jauntisized hatinator amongst them. And no-one was smelling of wine or slurring their speech or flashing their cleavage in a “Hello Boys!” fashion. Not a single one. It was like they’d all spent the day in a state of active readiness for taking their daughter to the dance class and not done it in an “Oh, shit! Ballet’s on in fifteen minutes” type addendum to their drinking activities. 

I also hadn’t reckoned on The Pixie having a violent change of heart about going into her class. Or that she would cry and cling to me, begging me for “one last huggle” and pull so hard on my dress that I would feel that sickening “click” of the single press-stud at the top of the dress coming undone. Or that when I squatted down in front of her in order to prevent the inevitable next tug from pulling down the whole dress, that she would do that annoying thing where she climbs onto me while I’m squatting, sending us both sprawled on the floor in front of a room full of onlookers, with one of my breasts making a bid for freedom. 

Classy. 

Of course, by the time I’d finally managed to sort out my dress and prise The Pixie off me and into her class, the invisible batton had been passed onto McGee and he cried and carried on so much that I ended up having to carry all 15kg of him all the way home whilst wearing heels and the only good thing about it all was that he at least covered my cleavage. Which is more than you can say for my dress. 

Next Cup Day, I’m definitely wearing a muumuu.

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It’s probably worth remembering this: never wear an op-shop top that you haven’t properly road-tested when you embark on a long car journey. Why? Well, your less-than-reliable vehicle might suddenly break down and you’ll end up having to hang out with three children at a country pub for hours and hours amidst the Friday Arvo drinking crowd with your breasts on the verge of popping out to join the revelry at any given minute. 

And yes, that’s what happened to me. Honestly, the hotted-up utes were pulling up thick and fast, as if one of the guys had sent a text around that said “Get your arse here. City housewife flashing tits at pub.”

My husband was, in the mean time, wrestling with his own demons. “Bacchus is testing me,” he said, referring to the God of Wine and All Alcohol-Related Fun whom he had foresaken for an entire month in the name of “Dry January”.  (For the record: my “Dry January” ended up being “Dry January Day” as I took much pleasure in star-jumping off that boring old wagon at my earliest convenience). It turns out that the pub we’d ultimately broken down in front of had its own micro-brewery and the roadside assistance company was on the phone was offering us free accommodation at the B&B next door.

“Be strong!” I urged, whilst secretly planning to order myself some tequila shooters at the earliest opportunity. After all, I’d been wrangling the kids in various locations (the car, a paddock, the pub) for many hours while he tried to fix the problem and sort things out with the roadside assistance people. And, let’s face it, there were more than a few men in the front bar who’d be willing to buy me and my potential wardrobe malfunction a drink or two. 

Anyway, in the end, nobody drank anything except water and I played “What’s the time Mr Wolf” with the kids on the verandah of the pub while those utes kept rolling in. And then the Mother of All Towtrucks came to take all five of us and our Love Bus those final 104 kilometres home. At over eight hours door to door, our original three hour tour had almost ventured into Gilligan Island territory – though, arguably, a coconut bra might have helped me out some.

As the tow-truck pulled up outside the house, some of our neighbours, upon hearing the commotion, came out to enjoy the show (the Love Bus being taken off the tow truck and not my breasts, apparently). “Yes, we’re home!” we announced to the neighbourhood at large. One neighbour was notable in his absence, however. The Mason across the road, who had sold us the Love Bus in gleaming new condition just three years ago, was no doubt watching from behind his lace curtains, looking at his beloved Tarago and saying “Oh, Mojo!! What have they done to you???” And if you didn’t get that reference, kindly take your eyes off my cleavage and go watch yourself some more Simpsons, please.

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