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Posts Tagged ‘why I never get invited places’

Every now and then I write something which I think is so funny that I have to pause my typing because I’m laughing so hard.

Generally speaking, however, I am the only person on the planet to find those things funny.

The other day, my husband (who, as some of you may remember, never laughs at my jokes) was spending some quality time tuning his Other Woman (also known as his motorbike) when I approached, chuckling heartily to myself.

Our subsequent conversation went something like this:

ME: I just wrote something really funny on facebook!

HIM: Really? That’s nice.

ME: Yeah it really was really really funny. No, really. You see, I wrote something about the humid weather in one of my status updates and [The Mild-Mannered Lawyer] made some reference to that Nelly song about  how it’s “getting hot in herre” and I was all, like, “so take off all your clothes”.

HIM: Yeah, that’s really funny.

ME: No, no, no, no. That’s not the funny bit! I haven’t got to it yet! Anyway, so then somebody else said something about how someone must have brought the weather from Sydney and, you see, that’s EXACTLY what Mr Justice accused me of that morning. Of taking the weather with me from Sydney. You know, because I just came back from Sydney.

HIM: Yep.

ME: And then The Mild-Mannered Lawyer – obviously in her capacity as my legal counsel – advised me that Mr Justice was plagiarising Crowded House lyrics…

HIM: (eyes glazing over) Uh huh.

ME: So I said – and this is the funny part right here – I said that Neil Finn should either sue or get together with Nelly and write a song called ‘Everywhere you go, you always take off all your clothes’ !!!!!

HIM: And?

ME: That’s the funny thing I wrote. ‘Everywhere you go, you always take off all your clothes!’.

HIM: (gives blank look)

ME: You know, because of that Crowded House song that goes ‘Everywhere you go, you always take the weather with you’. And because Nelly tells everyone to take off all their clothes – although, technically, nobody actually does take off all their clothes in the film clip, just a few superfluous top layers. Although I expect ‘take off a few superfluous top layers’ didn’t scan quite as well. Not that ‘take off all your clothes’ scans that well anyway because, let’s face it, it doesn’t even rhyme and it should be something like ‘So take off all your gear’ or ‘Let’s drink our body weight in beer’. Although you’d have to spell ‘gear’ and ‘beer’ with a double RR, you know, to be consistent with his creative spelling of ‘herre’, which I’ve always thought could also be an alternative spelling of ‘hair’ and, for reasons I can’t quite explain right now, makes me think of a bunch of heavily bearded guys in leathers dancing around in a nightclub where the roof is on fire. And no, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, either.

[Long silence]

HIM:  Oh. Okay. I’m glad you had a nice time on your Facebook. [Turns back to his motorbike].

Look, if my husband just bothered to accept my facebook friendship request – or, indeed, even joined Facebook – he’d see just how funny I was, like, ALL THE TIME and he’d be writing “Good one! LOLZZZZ!!! :-D” all over my damn wall.  Don’t I know it.

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The other day I went to a Ball with a headache and a cold sore – this season’s Must Have accessories. In my little lady purse, I packed myself some codeine and some Zovirax. Yes, I sure know how to party hard.

I was going as the date of my friend The Mild-Mannered Lawyer, who was attending the Ball for the second year in a row for work. The previous year, she’d gone with our friend Lady K and they’d drunk excessively and the details were all a bit hazy. This year, however, neither she nor I were really drinking – The MML was driving and I was trying not to extend the lives of my cold sore and my headache any more than I absolutely had to. Understandably, I was worried that I might appear to be a dud date in comparison.

“Now, I don’t want to hear about how last year you did such and such with Lady K and how much fun you had together,” I told her sternly as we drove there. “And I don’t want to see you crying when they play the song you danced together to because you miss her so much and you wish I was her. You’re with me now, okay?”

The MML nodded.

“Now let’s go make our own memories!” I said.

Luckily we had ‘The Darryl Cotton Band’ to help us make those memories on the dance floor. Which is just as well, as it turns out my old memories were growing faulty.

After the second song, I shouted to the MML: “I didn’t know Sherbert sung ‘Tainted Love’!”

“You’re thinking of the wrong Darryl!” The MML shouted back. “The lead singer of Sherbert was Darryl Braithwaite. This is Darryl Cotton.

I was bitterly disappointed and I don’t think I was the only one. On the other side of the dance floor, one man had pulled out his iPhone.

“Look!” I shouted to the MML. “I think he’s googling ‘Who the fuck is Darryl Cotton if he’s not from Sherbert’!”

I did the same the minute we returned to our table. Wikipedia had something about him being in a band called ‘Zoot’ and a hit single in 1980 called ‘Same Old Girl’. And yet ‘Darryl Cotton’ was a name I’d known for at least 20 years of my life. Is this what it meant to get older? To know you know people but not to remember how or why?

ANYWAY, the MML and I had ourselves a fine time dancing to ‘The Darryl Cotton Band’, mostly because we were the only women under 50 without our husbands on the dance floor and that made us hot.

However, at one toilet stop, I realised the one thing I hadn’t packed in my lady purse was a Welcome Pack for the Silent Red Ninja – whose approach was the cause of both the headache and the cold sore, of course.

And so it came to pass that I spent the last band’s last set of the evening on the dance floor dancing to a Darryl I didn’t know and in the shadow of the MML’s previous wild date Lady K, one week off my 40th birthday, virtually sober, with a cold sore and a thumping headache AND with half a roll of toilet paper stuffed down my undies and I STILL managed to attract the attentions of a bearded youth (albeit an extremely drunken bearded youth).

Which is to say “I still got it”, right? RIGHT?

In saying that, of course, I thought I was quoting The Fonz from Happy Days but I’ve just googled it and it turns out I’m actually quoting Ralph The Mouth.

Which is to say, whatever the “it” is that I’ve got, let’s hope it’s not contagious.

__________________________________

PS. ‘The Darryl Cotton Band’ got me thinking…  If there were ever a ‘The Darryl Cotton Band’ tribute band, they could call themselves ‘The Darryl Cotton Experience’ (part of which would no doubt involve the audience googling the name ‘Darryl Cotton’ and all of which would involve playing cover versions of cover versions) and if that didn’t work out for them, they could maybe throw some Buddy Holly numbers into the mix and call themselves ‘The Cotton Bud Experience’. Maybe not.

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Dear Hangover,

I am writing to you about your recent and rather unwelcome visit – which coincided with another unwelcome visitor, Daylight Savings.

Interestingly enough, the day before you both arrived, I had googled “Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to start Daylight Savings on the last day of the Victorian school holidays???”. BTW, the multiple question marks really help me channel my anger.

After you had both arrived, I had a full day of people talking about “Old Eight O’Clock” and “New Eight O’Clock” and – even more confusingly – “Eight O’Clock”, where I didn’t know whether they were talking “New” or “Old” and felt like crying because my head hurt so much. After that, I googled “Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to start daylight savings on the day I was hungover like a bastard???”

(Some might say a more appropriate question might have been “Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to drink for 12 hours solid the day before daylights savings kicked in???” – the answer to which would be “Me!!!!!!!!” -  but that’s a matter of opinion.)

Anyway, you came with the kind of vengeance reserved for people who had been out drinking until 2:30am, whereas technically I had been drinking until Old 1:30am. As a result, I suspect you charged me the price for that extra hour of drinking that I didn’t actually do. I’m sure of it.

Admittedly, I should have known that there would be trouble. The fact that I started doing bare-footed modern dance moves with my wayward friend McFee should have been a clear indication something was afoot (if you’ll pardon the pun). Yes, we went all interpretive. I even remember lying on my back and encouraging her to put her whole weight on my feet so I could lift her like Superman. “I can do it, I can do it!” I shouted to her, quickly followed by “I can’t do it” as we collapsed into a drunken heap.

Still, such joie de vivre shouldn’t be punished so harshly, Hangover. No, really. The world needs more interpretive dance. It is the international language that all human hearts speak… when completely pissed, that is.

When I awoke the next morning, I thought I had managed to avoid you. I felt so invincible that I got up to make pancakes for my children. Turns out, I was wrong. The only reason I still felt any good was because I was still drunk. And with sobriety, came your arrival. And with your arrival, came a new meaning to the phrase “tossing pancakes”.

The point is, even if I did deserve your visit, did you have to stay so long? When it came time to honour my promises to the kids to play the Ben Ten Omnitrix Duel For Power Game and help construct a Lego Hero Factor Furno Bike did you really have to hang around? That shit ain’t funny, Hangover. You could have nipped off quietly and left me to it. But noooooo.

And then, because of your little friend Daylight Savings, I was left with one hour less in the day to get over you, so you extend your visit til Monday morning, which was the morning after the day after the night before. It was also the first day back at school, so I had to get the kids up at Old Six O’Clock in order to get them to school at New Nine O’Clock even though they’d been up to eleven o’clock the night before. And no, don’t ask me if that’s Old or New eleven o’clock because it doesn’t matter. It was frickin’ late, okay?

Sheesh, no wonder I’ve still got a headache three days later.

Yours, resentfully,

The NDM.

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