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.

Read Full Post »

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.

Read Full Post »

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.

Read Full Post »

I’m the kind of person who often walks into a room and has everybody whisper “Who’s that girl?”

Unfortunately, it’s never said in the hushed and awe-filled tones of someone in the presence of True Beauty. It’s said in the same kind of way that someone might say “What did I just step in?” or even “Is that a pubic hair in my soup??”

I’m pretty sure I made such an entrance when I recently went to a swanky Sydney wine bar, wearing jeans and a smock top that mades me look like a hunchbank who’s six months pregnant.

I was going to see my fabulous friend GT sing and, indeed, had rung her beforehand to check the dress code.

“It’s very casual. Jeans are fine,” she assured me.

It wasn’t until I arrived there that I realised the statement “Jeans are fine” applied only to people as fabulous as GT who can wear anything anywhere and, in fact, never wear jeans because they’ve got far better things to wear.

There was some small part of me that wanted to shout out “Anyone care for spot of scrapbooking?” or (better still) “The Bells! THE BELLS!”as I walked across the room. Luckily, I was meeting my friend Dr L and my stepmother JJ – both of whom have known me for over two decades and know that I’m way cooler than I look. Okay, so a little cooler.

Anyway, the gig was great. GT has a velvety voice like an angel who’s wooing the devil, or at least talking him into giving her a really long foot rub.

But the “Who’s that girl?” moments continued. During one break between sets, Dr L and I heard our names being spoken. We looked up to see GT and a pretty blonde woman looking over at us. They waved to us and we waved back.

GT walked over to us a few minutes later.

“That’s [Karen], Mr F’s friend,” she said.

“Oh! Karen!” I exclaimed, knowingly.

“Ah yes! Karen...” Dr L echoed.

GT went back to the stage and began singing. After a few bars, Dr L whispered out the side of her mouth.

“Just checking… Do we know who Karen is?”

“Fuck, no,” I whispered back, my smile still fixed on my face.

After a few more songs, Karen got up to leave. She waved to us cheerfully. We waved back with equal enthusiasm.

“Bye, Karen!” Dr L said, brightly.

“God go with you, Karen!” I said, which made me giggle to myself for at least half an hour because I was a jeans-clad pregnant hunchback in a swanky Sydney bar and I had to find something to laugh about that wasn’t myself.

Anyway, as fate would have it, during the next break I found myself chatting to GT’s guitarist, a very talented man that I had met a number of times over the past 15 years.

After a while, he extended his hand to introduce himself.

“Uh, we’ve actually met a few times before,” I told him. “I’m [NDM].”

“Oh! [NDM]!” he exclaimed, clearly remembering the name but struggling to put it to the mumsy Quasimodo figure before him. “Uh…”

“It’s okay!” I told him. “I’ve had three children and have gone completely to seed!”

He looked back at me blankly and blinked. I took this as my cue to continue.

“You, however, look exactly the same!” I enthused. “That’s worked out well for you!”

And I smiled my brightest smile, knowing full well he’d be thinking “Who is this girl?” even though I had ostensibly just answered that question for him.

What can I say? I clearly have a gift. But who that gift is for is anyone’s guess.

Read Full Post »

Some of us learn the hard way that handling an iPhone while drunk is a big responsibility.
‘Mr C’, August 26th, 2010

The Mild-Mannered Lawyer and I recently found ourselves out at an art gallery opening, both of us with access to a free bar and to twitter. (Yes, I have an iPhone, now, don’t you know –  thanks to my dear friend Uncle B.)

Turns out it was too hard to tweet *and* hold a glass of wine at the same time, so that somewhat curtailed both activities. In the end, the worst thing that happened was I later took this photo at a pub and posted it on twitter with the caption “I don’t know what the cowboy is doing to that animal but I suspect it’s naaaasty”:

See? Not too bad. Not too bad at all.

Unlike last Friday night. An impromptu end-of-term catch-up at the house of The Fabulous Miss Jones well and truly answered the question of ‘how much alcohol is too much alcohol’ and the answer was ‘that much’. Unfortunately I don’t know how much ‘that much’ was because I was too damn drunk to keep count of my drinks.

I asked my husband the next morning if I’d been too embarrassing.

“No, not at all,” my husband – who, as the skipper, had remained sober – said. “You were just having a bit more fun than everyone else.”

And indeed I was. I got into the Fabulous Mister Jones’ music collection and started busting a move in the kitchen. For the record: dancing to the songs of your youth when you’re drunk is a bit like chewing gum with your mouth open – it feels a lot cooler than it actually looks.

In the middle of all this, I remembered I had an iPhone.

“I might just see what the good people of twitter have to say for themselves!” I announced to the room. And nobody stopped me. Nobody.

Friends do not let friends go on twitter when they are drunk.

Okay, so I might not have expressed my intention to go on twitter quite that articulately (it was probably more like “I jussshhhhttt urgh, um, twitter!“), but I did pull my iPhone out of my pocket and start looking at it, shortly after having sung my heart out to Foreigner’s ‘I Wanna Know What Love Is ‘. If that doesn’t cry out for some kind of intervention, I don’t know what does.

Anyway, on twitter, I discovered I had made an error in my post that day by crediting one twitter friend (love_kt) with another twitter friend’s comment (cookingkt). Looking at this with the kind of clarity that drinking your body weight in champagne  can give you, I decided that this was the worst possible thing I could have done to a person. Ever.

In my pain, I hit twitter big time with the following tweets:

Of course, I thought at the time I was being charmingly conciliatory, but turns out I was doing the twitter equivalent of Bernard Black’s ‘Belly Savalas‘ impression.

And then I moved on to Facebook. Yes, Facebook. Luckily, all I managed to do was post an “I’m drunk. Deal with it.” status update before just lying on The Fabulous Miss Jones’ couch and letting the great world turn. I didn’t start hassling my highschool friends by posting comments like ‘Nice tits!’ on photos of their pets. Nor did I manage to share links to clown porn sites.

But I so easily could have.

Yes, it could have been much much worse. Which is why next time, I’m installing an app on my iPhone that turns the phone off the minute my blood alcohol level reaches a certain level. Oh, and also short-circuits any hi-fi equipment within a twenty metre radius in case of dancing or singing.

I think it’s best for everyone.

Read Full Post »

It recently came to my attention – I’m not sure quite how – that there was a page on Facebook called “If I knew you were coming I’d of baked a cake.. LOL jk I’d of locked the door :)” which 136,668 people had apparently ‘liked’ enough to click a button with the word ‘LIKE’ on it. I don’t know about you, but I put its success largely down to the inclusion of the smiley face at the end and the fact it LOLs in the face of grammar.

It also came to my attention that, in stark contrast, the number of people who purported to ‘like’ my own facebook page was 244.

The obvious thing to do to rectify this rather embarrassing situation was to change my page title to ‘Not Drowning LOL jk Mothering :)’ –  ‘LOL jk’ being something the Youth Of Today use to indicate they’re telling a joke instead of, say, actually being funny. (Oh, my! Did I just type that out loud?)

Anyway, I soon learnt it was a bit too late to jump aboard the ‘LOL jk’ wagon – a quick search on facebook yielded 132,000 results. That ship had well and truly sailed – it evidently being the kind of wagon that easily converts into a sail boat.

So I decided instead to run an Oprah-style giveaway to the 250th person to ‘like’ me on Facebook. Except, even as I announced it on Facebook, I realised that I really had no idea what I could possibly give away, with the exception, perhaps, of my dignity. The word ‘Special’ had been carelessly bandied around a lot. I was under pressure…

But then I found it – again, I’m not sure how. It was the perfect gift. It said all I wanted to say… and more! It was a photo… of a dog… wearing a jaunty-angled cap… SMOKING A CIGAR! It was exactly right for a forum like Facebook where I’m always being urged to ‘buy’ JPEGS of bull dogs wearing party hats for my friends’ birthdays. Except those official Facebook Party Bulldogs aren’t even smoking cigars. Sad, but true.

Anyway, I emailed the picture to my 250th person in the smug knowledge that I was enriching her life considerably. Later that day, however, I decided the picture was so very ‘special’ that it was my civic duty to share it with the rest of my Facebook ‘Likers’. I’m generous like that.

My 250th person, however, was devastated. In her words, her ‘special’ gift had been “cheapened”. But then, she’d had the picture for four hours more than everyone else. Four. Whole. Hours. As I wrote over on Facebook “Imagine the possibilities!”. I mean, if she hadn’t made the most of that four hour head start, (growls:) that was her fucking problem.

Still, I felt bad. I truly did. Bad enough to email her the picture of a My Little Pony dressed up as Princess Leia in a gold lamé bikini that my husband had once sent me to fuck with my head. I then reassured everyone back over on Facebook that I had made amends by sending her a photo of  My-Little-Pony-dressed-up-as-Princess-Leia-in-a-gold-lamé-bikini and then I attached the photo so they’d know what the hell I was talking about. 

“It’s like a knife to my heart. You are dead to me, you hear? Dead!” my 250th person said when she saw I’d shared yet another of her ‘special’ prizes with the masses.

Of course the only thing I could possibly do then was to email her a picture of a Lego figurine giving birth to an alien life through its stomach. And this time I didn’t post this picture on Facebook. No. I’d learnt my lesson. No, truly! Also, it was kind of creepy – unlike the capped dog smoking a cigar and the Slave Pony Princess Leia.

I mean, you judge for yourself:

Read Full Post »

I’m pretty certain that [Famous Person] had no idea what was about to hit him when he turned up to GT’s party and got introduced to some girl who looked like Liberace-in-make-up-and-heels.

“Eeeekkkkkkkk!” I squealed as I shook his hand just that little bit too vigorously, in a “You! It’s really you!” kind of way. “I’m such a big fan!”.

[Famous Person], for his part, kindly listened to me while I prattled on (and on) about some early highlights from his career.

“Oooh, I remember you did [very cool thing] and I was only 14 and I thought you were the coolest person on the planet!” I gushed. And after a bit more small talk about how we knew our hostess GT, I went back to incoherent gushing: “You! [Very cool thing]! Cool!”

“Uh, I think you’ll find [Other Person Altogether] did that [very cool thing],” [Famous Person] gently informed me.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

“Yes. Yes, you’re right…” I said, realising I had totally mixed up his early career highlights with someone else’s. Good one. Time for a feeble joke: “Is [Other Person Altogether] coming to the party?”

[Famous Person] luckily laughed at my joke and it was then that I got to realise that [Famous Person] was way cooler than any [very cool thing] he might have done circa 1985 and, in fact, had gone on to have a much more impressive career than I had even known. That’ll teach me not to more thoroughly cyber-stalk famous people before I meet them.

Anyway, his wife, [Mrs Famous Person], was also very lovely and mercifully tolerant of this strange person gushing all over her husband. There was only one slightly awkward moment, however, when she told me that she’d been in the film  ‘Classification Board’ and I got all excited that she was a movie star but, after some clarification, it turned out she had actually been ON the Film Classification Board. I was kind of relieved because I hadn’t actually seen ‘Classification Board’, although I’ve heard it’s quite good.

The conversation was helped along by the fact that the friend the [Famous Couple] had come to the party with had just bought a piece of art – an etching, in fact. It was therefore only natural that [Mrs Famous Person] should challenge him to use the “Would you like to come up and see my etching?” line on an attractive single woman at the party.

“In fact, there was that really attractive girl standing next to you at the bar, holding a goblet,” [Mrs Famous Person] said.

“Indeed, I complimented her on her goblet,” Etching Man said.

“As long as you didn’t compliment her on her gobletS and say you wanted to sip from them, that’s a good start,” I remarked.

“There’s the girl over there!” [Mrs Famous Person] whispered, pointing very discretely.

We all looked to where she was pointing.

“Oooh, that’s my childhood friend!” I exclaimed brightly. “Let’s get her over here.”

It didn’t take long for Etching Man to drop the line on my childhood friend. I felt he needed further coaching, however.

“Pssst….” I whispered. “You should offer to buy her a drink.”

He offered to buy her a drink, saying something along the lines of “Let me refill your goblet”.

“Pssst…” I whispered again. “Now, you should offer to buy me a drink so it doesn’t look so obvious.”

Yes, there I was, revealing my true colours, having had no hesitation in pimping out my childhood friend to get in with the [Famous People] and then grifting their friend for a drink.

Still, at the end of the evening, [Famous Person] gave me a hug (A HUG!) and said he would send me a copy of his most recent book. Although, now that I think about it, I expect it’s probably called something like ‘Restraining Order’ and that it has to be personally hand-delivered to me by a very special courier… With a bit of luck, though, it will have [Famous Person]’s signature on it and that, in my mind, is a result. [Famous Person]!!

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 110 other followers