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I recently went through my iPhone Notes and discovered some that I’d completely forgotten about.
One in particular caught my eye. I had written it during a drunken night out with my good friend KD.
I remember the evening. Well, most of it. KD and I left our kids at home with the menfolk to have a well-deserved night out. We then busied ourselves getting remarkably drunk and disorderly. For some reason, I decided to record some of our dialogue.
So for everyone’s bafflement (including mine), here are some snippets of conversation I clearly thought worthy of saving for posterity:
Me: Men have seen me naked.
KD: I’m going to breathe through my outrage.
Me: I just said “donk donk” really loudly!
KD: Yes, you really did.
KD: No one said goodbye to my arse.
Me: I fully intend on saying goodbye to your arse.
Going down a flight of stairs:
Me: [to someone behind us] Go before us! We may fall and die.
KD: Yes… Ouch. Ouch. Dead.
KD: Oh god! My shoe came off!!
KD: We may be asked to leave because of our unseemly manner.
Me: You mean, our drunken frenzy?
KD: (singing) You say potato, I say potarto, let’s just fuck off then.
Me: That’s slightly less poetic than the original.
Now I won’t lie to you… I remember about half of those conversations. But some are a total mystery.
For instance, why was KD upset that no-one had said goodbye to her arse? And why did I then offer to? And, most importantly, WHY DID I WRITE IT DOWN?
But I DO remember getting booted out of that pub (it was closing time – we hadn’t attempted to set fire to it, or anything. At least I’m fairly certain we hadn’t) and heading to another pub. Always a wise move.
I then vaguely remember striding into the new pub, past the suspicious bouncer, and leaving KD to face the interrogation. The bouncer must have been flummoxed by her unblinking honesty (“Are you drunk?” “Yes I am”) because he let her through anyway.
Then the night got seriously wobbly.
I think this was the point where I wrote my final mysterious note for the night. It appeared underneath the dialogue and read simply:
Blog post idea – HATS!!
I have absolutely no idea what that means.
But from the two exclamation points, I was clearly excited about it at the time. Maybe……….. no see, I can’t even GUESS! That’s going to drive me insane. Don’t be shocked to one day find me in a mental asylum, rocking in a corner, muttering “Hats?… hats?… hats?…” until a big guy called Chief smothers me with a pillow.
I’ve seen movies. I know what happens.
Also, I’m fairly certain I forgot to say something on the night, so I should really rectify the matter now. Here goes…
My husband and 15-month-old son have been sick with the flu. For several weeks now, our home has been the sad scene of empty vitamin bottles, strewn tissues, and two very forlorn-looking males.
Up until now I’d managed to avoid getting sick. But no longer. I am now part of the gang! Aren’t I lucky!
Excited by my new gang membership, I have started to arrange matching leather jackets, a secret handshake, and some snazzy dance choreography with finger clicking à la West Side Story.
Due to our illness, we missed Saturday’s awesome ‘Gay & Lesbian Mardi Gras’ (I could have used my new dance moves, dammit!).
Instead our weekend consisted of watching TV on the couch, looking up websites on the couch, and advising each other about our status on the couch (“I’m still sick. How are you?” “*cough cough*” “Nevermind”).
Because we didn’t really do anything, I thought I’d share some conversations that we managed to squeeze in between all the coughing and blowing of noses.
1. My husband and I were watching music videos on TV, when Rick Astley’s ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ came on.
ME: “Ahhh no! We’ve been rickrolled!”
HUSBAND: “No, his name is Rick ASTLEY.”
ME: “What? No, I said ‘We’ve been rickROLLED!’.”
HUSBAND: [looking confused] “What’s a rickroll?”
ME: “Are you serious?”
[I then explain rickrolling to my husband. He thinks for while before responding.]
This is the t-shirt my 15-month-old son was wearing yesterday.
And here’s Mr Squish showing off the back:
“What would Fonzie do?” it asks. Good question, t-shirt.
If my son is taking the Fonz’s influence seriously (and why wouldn’t he be?), then the iconic Happy Days character must be in the habit of doing this:
- Having a runny nose and continuously sneezing, usually right at his mummy’s face.
- Hysterically crying throughout the night. Then as his mummy is comforting him, getting annoyed and wrestling her. Like “What the hell, mum?! Put me down. I WAS TRYING TO SLEEP!” (Last night, this happened eight times. EIGHT TIMES.)
- Producing 6 pooey nappies. All before midday.
Yes, clearly my son has caught some kind of yucky virus.
Either that or there’s some messed-up episodes of Happy Days out there.
Straight up I have to ask the burning question: why didn’t they ask me to submit my whittled carrot? WHY?
I am the critically-ignored Carrot Whittler Extraordinaire to the Stars. And yet I have been publicly snubbed by both the whittling community AND my own townsfolk? No, it was an outrage!
Perhaps they’ve never heard of me, but that sounds unlikely. I mean, how on earth could a small town librarian NOT have heard of a Sydney mum who once whittling a carrot into a TV remote control in an effort to get her infant to eat it?
No, the only possible explanation is that they can’t handle my non-traditional use of a carrot instead of wood. Purist bastards!
Anyway, I wasn’t going to take this lying down. I decided to fight back for the sake of carrot whittlers everywhere (which is really just me, let’s be honest, but I am a very vocal minority). Come hell or high water, I was going to get my carrot into that damn exhibition.
And so began Operation Whit-less!
Very soon into the mission, I encountered my first problem. And it was a doozy as far as problems go. I had nothing to exhibit. My whittled carrot no longer existed because my husband ate it.
However, I did have a photo of the carrot on my computer. So I added a wooden frame effect in Photoshop (to make it look exhibition-worthy) and printed it out.
Here is the result:
That wooden frame is pretty convincing, hey? You’d need to be some sort of frame specialist to notice that isn’t real.
Anyway, my sister came over and was more than happy to help with the “sting”. We decided to slink (oh yes, slink) into the library, hang my picture amongst the artworks, get video evidence, and quickly leave. The word “stealth-like” was bandied about quite a bit.
So we grabbed the photo, a wad of bluetack, a camera, and set off to the library.
During the drive there was naturally only one thing to discuss: what our code names should be.
I have previously referred to my sister as Kurdles in this blog but as we approached the library she threw a spanner in the works. “I’m not happy with my code name,” she said. “I know we’re nearly there but we need to stop and discuss mine”.
So we did. We pulled into the library’s carpark and sat there debating a suitable replacement.
We eventually settled on Shootin’ Tex for her. I still have no idea why. And I was Captain Shush. I was so named because as we drove into the carpark I got overexcited and exclaimed, “There’s the library! SHUSH!”
Why did I say “shush”? Well, just in case there were librarian spies hiding in the carpark, poised and ready for such a whittling-related sting. DUR!
So with code names established, we tried to psych ourselves up and stop giggling. “I need to do wee-wees,” my sister said, clearly feeling nervous. “SHOOTIN’ TEX NEEDS TO DO WEE-WEES!”
Once we finally entered the building, the beleaguered Operation Whit-less encountered yet another challenge. You see, the ‘Whittling Exhibition’ wasn’t so much an exhibition, as a cabinet. A glass cabinet with locked doors.
Here is a photo.
Shootin’ Tex and I just stood in front of it trying to comprehend this latest hurdle. “How the bloody hell am I going to get my photo in there?” I eventually asked.
Before my sister could answer, an old lady suddenly appeared at my elbow. I jumped slightly. She was holding a home-made folder. Bizarrely, it had pictures of quilts that she apparently wanted me to admire.
“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS SHIT?” I wanted to say. “Don’t you know Shootin’ Tex and I are trying to quietly infiltrate a whittling exhibition with a picture of a carrot? THIS IS NO TIME FOR QUILT APPRECIATION, WOMAN!”
But remembering that we were supposed to be “stealth-like”, I kept quiet and nodded nicely. The sweet old lady left as mysteriously as she arrived and Shootin’ Tex and I were again faced with our dilemma. How were we going to get my picture into the cabinet?
By this stage we had been standing there for about 10 minutes. The staff were beginning to notice. I can see why. Here were two 30-something women taking photos of a cabinet of wooden carvings, whispering to themselves and looking guilty.
I decided smashing the glass may not qualify as being particularly “stealth-like”, so I had no choice but to just prop the photo against the cabinet. My sister filmed the ‘sting’. Watch the video below.
As I say in the video (which you might not be able to hear because it was a library and I had to be quiet), “The exhibition is now complete!”
And it was. Mission accomplished!
[Finally, to any whittling purists out there who want to snub me for future exhibitions, do it again and there will be more of this kind of harsh retaliation. You have been warned.]