Tag Archives: embarrasing

Best Blunders – Episode 1

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Have you ever committed a monumental, very public error that made you want to change your name and disappear somewhere in the Mexican wilderness? Something like, say, being responsible for the Olympic cauldron getting stuck half way up it’s ascent into the heavens on the night of the Opening Ceremony?

Well, maybe it wasn’t the Olympics, but there’s one sporting moment that stands out in my memory and gets me chuckling every time.

It was a small swim meet at the AIS, something we used to call a ‘scratch meet’ – nothing more than a training session spread over two days; meaningless and unimportant race practice – but because it was in the lead up to something major (I can’t remember what), a lot of the who’s who were racing. The AIS had promoted it as ‘your chance to see The Stars in action, up close, personal and cheap’ to try and get a bit of crowd together. It can be hard to perform when there’s nothing but stony silence for atmosphere.

As it turned out, the promotional strategy worked because it was the most pumping scratch meet I had ever been to.

Now, swim meets are generally not real crowd pleasers given that the nature of the sport involves short bursts of action followed by large stretches of not much. So, in an attempt to make them as entertaining as possible, the major meets are scheduled down to the second with medal ceremonies slotted between races and loud ‘exciting’ music interspersed with pool-side interviews and commentaries. But where there is no budget, no TV rights and no big-dollar ticket sales, organisers rely on tight timelines and a bit of music over the PA.

And so it was, when mid-way through day one of said pumping scratch meet, officials experienced an unspecified technical malfunction and the tight schedule was blown out of the water (very corny pun intended in the absence of anything wittier).

The start of the next race was delayed… and delayed… and delayed again. The children in the stands became restless: “Where are ‘The Stars’?”, “Why aren’t they swimming?”, “Mummy, I’m boooooooored…”

Chip packets and lolly wrappers rustled. Parents whispered, “Not long now, how about we play ‘I Spy’?” Kids started climbing on the benches. The atmosphere was disappearing fast.

“Music! Hit the music!” somebody hissed. A fumbling at the control desk. A crackle.

And through the silence boomed a voice:

“Fatboy Slim is fucking in Heaven. Fatboy Slim is fucking in Heaven. Fatboy Slim is fucking in Heaven. Fucking in fucking in fucking in Heaven…”

It was like a carefully choreographed dance – jaws dropped, eyes bulged as hundreds of hands slapped over the ears of every near-by child before the collective gasp sent shock-waves over the pool. It was an interminable 30 seconds before further fumbling managed to replace the obscenity with a steady beat and thumping melody, but the damage was done. The competitors behind the blocks couldn’t contain their mirth, officials couldn’t hide their horror and parents in the crowd couldn’t think of how to explain what had just happened to their incredulous children.

For me, it was a moment to remember and, to this day, I feel for the poor sod who hit ‘play’ on Track 3. I wonder what their new Mexican name is…

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A language warning as I lay bleeding on the road…

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I thought about my grandmother the other day, as I lay on the side of the road, bleeding and fighting the urge to spew. I could hear her muttering, “Farting higher than you’re arse again” at the over-confidence that made me attempt something well beyond my biking ability. It was a spectacular fall that left me bruised and shredded (the bike was blessedly unscathed) and very embarrassed because I was, indeed, farting higher than my arse.

Most other grandmothers might have scoffed that I was being “cocky” or “foolhardy”, but not mine. She was the woman who taught me that “The Devil always shits on the biggest pile,” and that, if I ever got too big for my boots, I should remember that she could “still spit up” to my lofty heights.

As a kid, I chanted along to all the regular revolting rhymes – Wonder Woman losing her bosoms while flying TAA, the kookaburra with his pants on fire, penis butter and vagina-mite making a spectacular sexual sandwich – but who can boast that their grandmother taught them a rhyme (albeit in German) that went something like:

“‘Oh my dear Miss Backhouse,

Where might I find the shitter?

I can’t stand, I can’t walk

I have to take a dump right now…’

‘Go to the right, go to the left

And then straight ahead

There you’ll find a house

Where you can crap to your heart’s content.’”

(It’s a loose translation, but I assure you, the vernacular is precise and in German, it fairly rolls off the tongue in a catchy little sing-song rhyme.)

Was she not the coolest Gran in the world?

And then I began to wonder what crass my mother will impart to my children…

And then I wondered when it was and why it was that I crossed the line from being naughty with language to swearing like a fishmonger’s daughter…

And then I wondered how I was going to handle this challenge with my own children…

And a challenge it is already shaping up to be, given a conversation I had with my 2 ½ year old Little Lion the other day:

LL: Mummy, [Little Lion] do a wee in the toilet? (My son speaks in the third person, like the queen. It’s a little weird, I know, but you get used to it.)

ME: Ok, but remember you have to take your nappy off first.

LL: Ah. Nappy off.

(He takes his nappy off, sits on the pot and proceeds to make wee sound effects. He stands, turns and makes flush sound effects as he taps the back corner of the pot.)

LL: All finished! (Pronounced “all diis”)

ME: Good boy! Now we have to put your nappy on again.

LL: Ah. Nappy on.

(He tries to put his nappy on while standing. Not a pull-up one. Clearly, this is awkward, so I offer some assistance.)

ME: Here. You have to lie down so I can put your nappy on.

LL: No! My nappy!

ME: Yes, it is your nappy, but I will help you put it on.

LL: No! [LL] put on da nappy!

(I realise that this is going be a long ordeal just as Blossom begins screaming that she is BEING IGNORED! AGAIN!)

ME: Come on. Give me the nappy and lie down.

(LL snatches the nappy and glares at me with unadulterated fury)

LL: NO! MY NAPPY! [LL] PUT IT ON!… *pause*…*sigh and shaking head*… ’Fuck’s sake, Mummy…

Could it be that Wonder Woman losing her bosoms and those fucking good sandwiches have led me to a point where, after 2 ½ years, I have already failed to impart some sense of decorum to my Little Lion? Could Miss Backhouse’s instructions to the lavatory have ruined my ability to raise children without gutter-mouths? How can I turn back the tide? Where is the line and how can I reinforce it when I, by my own admission, live on the smutty side of town?

And this was what flew through my mind as I lay on the side of the road, post stack, bleeding and fighting the urge to spew. Go figure.

There is hair back there…

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I’d like to preface this post with an Over-Share Warning. If you are not game to get more than you bargained for, to find yourself privy to waaaaay too much information, look here instead. Or here. Or here.

You see, I have a hair problem. I’m not especially hairy, but there’s this one area that really causes me grief… oh think outside the square for a minute, will you? We all have hair there, and unlike many, that hair doesn’t give me grief – I have no pre-pubescent aspirations, thank you very much. Oh, except for the divine, clear, taught skin, and the freedom to believe in fairies and dragons and little gnomes that will tidy my house while I’m asleep… but I digress. My problem zone is the back of my thighs.

If you look at my legs from the front, I look like a girl that probably needs to get a razor to the bottom half, but the top half is really quite passable (except for the bruises from being a human jungle gym, that is). But turn me around and WOA MUMMA! What the Hell is that about?!

Tarantula Legs. Ape-WO-man. Fuzzy McWuzzy.

The bizarre thing is, it’s just that strip down the backs of my legs. Bikini – fine. Knees – bare. Arms – no worries. Brows – maintainable. Pits – the same. Moustache – only in the right light or when standing side-by-side with my heavily bearded father (he brings out the mo’ in me, I don’t know why). But the black wires adorning the backs of my thighs are downright disturbing.

“Wax, girl. It’s called wax…” I hear you cry, and that’s all very well, but when it comes to grooming and paying someone to do the grooming, I struggle a bit. I mean, isn’t it a tad unreasonable to have to pay for a full/half-leg wax when it’s really only just under a quarter that needs help? Sure, it may take a barrel of the hot stuff to get that rug off, but beauticians go by area, not volume, right?

And I can’t very well go calling those hall-runners a “bikini line”, well, not unless I was a man and hung like a dinosaur… So how do I explain what needs to be done when invariably I find myself talking to a smoothed and lacquered teenager who never had more than an eyelash out of place? And in any case, do beauticians even give quotes for a prospective job? I mean, I’m not going to wait until I’m stripped and on the table to ask for a discount, am I?

I have tried the DIY option, but it’s the most challenging part to get to (unless you’re going for the crack-wax and I am not about to go there – see point above). Don’t worry, I have tried and I ended up with welts and bruising that made me look like I was into some seriously kinky stuff and didn’t that raise the eyebrows of my fellow swimmers!

I have hidden behind board shorts when at the beach, but with my Triplodalong career about to begin, I need to do some lappage and that lappage doesn’t go so nicely when weighed down by thigh rugs. I need to get into a swimming costume without the locals calling the RSPCA to come rescue the baboon lolling in lane three.

So, a little help? A few ideas? Maybe even some hairy scary stories for encouragement? Otherwise I fear my triplodalong career may be over for a third time. Or worse, I will have to hide my hail-damaged, sun-deprived thighs forever more… and what a shame that would be!

Plagiarism and Thanks

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I’d just like to start by saying a huge THANK YOU! to Curious George. In times of crisis, he comes through every time. He is the only one and I love him for it.

Secondly, I’d like to thank whoever wrote the following story that I am unashamedly plagiarising. It came to me in one of those emails, so I am sure it’s an oldie (I am always the last to get such viruses) but it still makes me laugh.

If anybody knows who wrote it (especially those in the US, because it’s a ‘mommy’ story), please let me know so I can send them the enormous pile of comment love I have stored on my desktop perchance I find the wonderful woman. Whoever you are and wherever you are, you rock!

Enjoy!

THE WASHCLOTH 

I was due for an appointment with the gynaecologist later in the week. Early one morning, I received a call from the doctor’s office to tell me that I had been rescheduled for that morning at 9:30 am. I had only just packed everyone off to work and school, and it was already around 8:45 am. The trip to his office took about 35 minutes, so I didn’t have any time to spare.

 As most women do, I like to take a little extra effort over hygiene when making such visits, but this time I wasn’t going to be able to make the full effort. So, I rushed upstairs, threw off my pyjamas, wet the washcloth that was sitting next to the sink, and gave myself a quick wash in that area to make sure I was at least presentable. I threw the washcloth in the clothes basket, donned some clothes, hopped in the car and raced to my appointment.

I was in the waiting room for only a few minutes when I was called in. Knowing the procedure, as I’m sure you do, I hopped up on the table, looked over at the other side of the room and pretended that I was in Paris or some other place a million miles away.

I was a little surprised when the doctor said, “My, we have made an extra effort this morning, haven’t we?” I didn’t respond.

After the appointment, I heaved a sigh of relief and went home. The rest of the day was normal … Some shopping, cleaning, cooking.

After school when my 6 year old daughter was playing, she called out from the bathroom, “Mommy, where’s my washcloth?”  I told her to get another one from the cupboard.

She replied, “No, I need the one that was here by the sink, it had all my glitter and sparkles saved inside it.” 

NEVER EVER GOING BACK TO THAT DOCTOR. EVER.

It’s Flog Yo Blog Friday! Hop over to RRSAHM, grab a cuppa and enjoy the reading list!

Cringe-worthy

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Kids are talented, some more than most, and Blossom really showed what she was made of the other day.

I had to do some fruit and veg shopping and then quickly duck down to the Motor Registry Office to sort out the registration for my new urban assault vehicle. It was to be a short-ish trip, and The Little Lion wasn’t well anyway, so I decided to go sans snack box. Bad move to begin with.

No sooner did we arrive at the green grocers, did LL kick up a fuss that he wanted ‘fout’. It was quite a fuss that extended to not wanting to sit in the trolley and wanting to ‘queez’ every item on the green grocer’s shelf. But I’m getting pretty adept at handling LL’s moments. I don’t even feel the eyes of every stranger in the store boring through me any more. I just carry on as though there is nothing unusual going on. But this time, LL set Blossom off and it became dire in no time.

They feed off each other, don’t they? One cries and the other trumps them with a howl, then a wail, then a scream. When the volume reaches fever pitch, the coughing and spluttering starts, or the flailing limbs or the flying spittle. It was spectacular and I thanked the heavens I hadn’t attempted the side-by-side trolley thing. At least LL wouldn’t be able to scratch, bite or eye-gouge Blossom, so long as I kept the baby carrier far enough away.

I figured my only chance at finishing my shop was if I managed to calm one or both of them. And quickly. I could see the manager’s hand on the telephone, phone book open to Social Services as I handed LL a banana, making a big deal of adding a single, loose banana to my bag to prove I was not trying to rip them off. I could feel the manager’s fingers caressing the 000 button on his phone.

LL stuffed the banana in as though he hadn’t eaten in a week and proceeded to shred the skin onto the floor, but Blossom kept up the fight. She was screaming and fighting the carrier like it was a straight-jacket, so I decided to turn her around. Maybe she just wanted to see what was going on instead of being tortured by the smell of mum’s milky bosom.

I unclipped her, hoisted her out and in so doing, squeezed just the right amount on just the wrong spot. I have never heard volume like that from a 5 month old before. It reverberated through the shop. It sent shock waves that rattled the cash registers and sent apples tumbling to the floor (OK, maybe that was LL helping himself to an ‘apool’ while my hands were quite clearly full).

An innocent bystander, clearly horrified by my daughter’s lack of decorum, gasped, “Oh dear!”

“Excuse me, well, her, I mean…” and then I realised what she was actually gasping about. It wasn’t so much the ear-shattering noise as the ungodly stench that followed.

Yep. It was enough to wilt the lettuce. It was the kind of stench that you run from, but it lingers and follows and trails you wherever you go, so there’s no denying it’s yours; the kind that burns into your clothing and drifts past, long after the memory has faded.

Blossom was triumphant and as her face broke into an enormous smile, she puked all over the kiwi fruits.

You can guess what we’ll be eating for the next few weeks. The manager was so glad to see us go that he didn’t bother charging me for The Little Lion’s extra banana and he offered to carry my bags to the car.

Later, as we waited in the Motor Registry Office, LL scrawling all over the forms they leave lying around on tables that are just the right height for toddlers to reach, I reminisced about all the cringe-worthy moments my children have given me and had a quiet chuckle to myself. Like the time LL commented on top note when he saw a very obviously very sick man being wheeled out of the hospital, life support buzzing, helicopter waiting, with a wave and a congenial “Night-Night!”. Or the time he tried to kiss every child at the playground because it was time for us go. Or the time he pulled my top up at the bank because “Bubby boobie.” Or the time he did a Poo-Splosion of gargantuan proportions while we were shopping in Spotlight, covering me , himself and the baby carrier in a yellow-green paste…

Yep. If you can’t laugh about it, you’ll die. It’s as simple as that. And given Blossom’s form, there’s plenty yet to come.

Washing wisdom

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I had two epiphanies yesterday while folding 427 loads of washing. Why so much washing? you may ask. We’ve been sick, haven’t you heard? I have been waging a war against Snot, Flegm and Mucus with my old friends Eucalyptus, Tea Tree and Whatever Else May Work. Washing is the Snot & Co War version of ‘flushing out the enemy’.

I have a system for folding 427 loads of washing. First, I sort into 5 piles: Mr D, Little Lion, Blossom, Mumma Nadz, and a Generic pile for all those household items that don’t belong to anyone specifically.

The Generic pile was large yesterday – bed sheets galore, towels, vomit rags, hand washers, tea towels and the like. Little Lion’s pile was also large, him being the original Captain Silver Sleeve when Snot & Co are about. Blossom’s was no more than the usual and Mr D’s pile was actually quite modest, consisting mainly of handkerchiefs (he goes nowhere without one) and the appropriate number of undies and socks for the week he has been under Snot & Co attack. Mine, on the other hand, was gargantuan. A pile of Everest proportions. I was mortified.

It got me thinking, “Why? Why me? I am the schmuck who has to wash it all, so why am I creating it all?”

And the answer came as Epiphany the First…

I too have been coughing and sneezing my guts up. The difference is that while Mr D and LL  have been coughing and sneezing and moaning with green goop pouring from every orifice in their heads, every time I am possessed by a coughing fit, I piss my pants. Taboo, I know, but an unfortunate side effect of two babies. The result is that, not only do I feel like crap, I am humiliated, frustrated and wet as well. Stress incontinence indeed!

As I dissected my Mount Everest it was so very clear. Every single pair of underpants I own was in there, including the slinky only-for-special-occasions-no-seams-invisible-silky-smooth pair and two pairs of bikini bottoms that immediately disappeared into my backside which has trebled in size since I last wore a bikini. Every single pair of track pants, leggings, jeans, slacks and pjs were in there too. It begs the question, what on earth was I wearing? Answer: A bathrobe.

It was at this point that my pelvic floor exercises moved to the top of my To Do list and shall remain there until I can cough or sneeze without crossing my legs, bending over, bracing and finally unravelling myself in a disappointed state because all precautions merely ensured a pea-sized wet patch rather than Lake Macquarie. I want dry knickers and that’s final. Surely this is not too much to hope for.

Epiphany the Second came as I, still furiously folding, began mentally penning this very post you are reading.

My name is Nadine and I am a Blogaholic. I think about blogging more than is healthy or natural. I log on whenever I get the chance rather than taking time to do my pelvic floor exercises and if I had an iPhone with constant access to blogaspace, I would become an entirely neglectful mother. My husband is glad for my creative outlet, indeed the other day he declared that “A Nadine without a blog is unbearable”, but I am certain if he knew the guilty moments blog and I share when I should be otherwise engaged, he would be mortified. So, I herewith declare that I will limit myself to one blog post per week (ok, so one blog post per blog that I have going, and that’s only three, so back off!) and I will ensure that my weekly logged-on time does not exceed or come close to that of my weekly ‘get fit’ time, my weekly ‘do the chores’ time or my weekly ‘attend to my family’ time.

I mean, it’s ridiculous, don’t you think? An affair with a blog. Besides, who wants to read about me pissing my pants? Honestly!

Cockroach anyone?

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I am still sick and this head-full-of-snot disease took a rather sudden and unpleasant turn for the worse tonight.

I was quietly sitting watching some crazed woman run into traffic while stricken police tried to stop unaware motorists on one of the myriad of “Reality Police Dramas” that occupy the Sunday night screen when my ear suddenly took up the wail of the police sirens and began to throb. You know, that throb that only an ear can do. The one that pierces your skull, dislocates your jaw and sends you around the twist all in an instant. The one that pops and crackles and makes you certain your ear drum is going to bust right out of your head atop a geyser of puss. Yep, that’s the one.

This was some hours ago now and it has only just occurred to me, as I lay sleeplessly cursing my damned head, why this crackling, agonising ear is doing my head in so badly – emotional scarring. That’s right. I’ve been traumatised and now am absolutely paranoia-stricken.

Some months ago, Mr D was on a bit of a fitness kick and was getting up at 5.30am to go running/cycling. This was great. He was happy and I got immense pleasure out of somebody else leaving the warm bed to exercise, having given over many a morning to the training gods myself. The only trouble with this routine was that, creep as he may, Mr D’s leave of absence was waking The Lion, and so it was on this particular morning, that Mr D crept from the house and Little Lion called out.

I ignored him for the obligatory 10 minutes, then gave in, sat up in bed and in so doing disturbed a small cockroach. I heard it flutter and I jumped, waving my arms madly, as one does when startled by a small flying creature. It landed in the vicinity of my ear and I shook my head like a furious horse, slapping at the side of my head and, to take shelter from this onslaught, the bush-roach crawled into my ear. Yes. INTO MY EAR. Not just into the outer, flappy part. No. INTO MY EAR. Right down deep into to hole.

It didn’t take long for the hapless creature to realise that there was no way outa there and it found itself stuck, quite tight. Well, it thought. This is a bother. I guess I’d best START DIGGING!

 

Yep. I lost it. Big time. It was THE WORST PAIN I HAVE EVER EXPERIENCED. Worst. Hands Down. Not to mention knowing there was a cockroach burrowing through to my brain.

I flew into action. I knew I had to go to hospital – I had seen a man with a beetle in his ear on one of the myriad of “Reality Hospital Dramas” that occupy the Friday night screen. And the pain whenever the little bastard moved was UNBEARABLE. So I whipped LL out of bed, got myself dressed, made him a snack box and was in the process of getting him dressed when Mr D returned, took one look at my tear-streaked face and thought “Geeze! Lighten up, lady, he’s just out of bed a little early…” 

Then I began to scream and hold my head.

He took over LL duties and I drove, yes I drove myself to the hospital, heavily pregnant and screaming at random moments as though possessed by demon voices in my head. When I showed up in emergency they whisked me in to see a doctor in no time.

Alas, the doctor on duty had never faced a cockroach extraction before. In 2 ½ hours all she managed to do was anaesthetise the roach long enough to rip off part of its wing and it’s backside (revealing that it was, in fact, a pregnant female roach and isn’t that funny – a pregnant cockroach in a pregnant lady’s ear! Yes. Fucking hilarious. Excuse me for not laughing myself stupid…).

So when roach-ette woke from her anaesthetic, she was doubly pissed off. Not only was she stuck in a black hole, but she’d had her wing shredded, her arse removed and her egg stolen. All in all, a bad morning, so best get digging.

After 2 ½ hours of having my eardrum scratched out by a cranky cockroach, a doctor pull and prod and yank at said cocky (each move eliciting a cry of agony, I might add), numerous syringes of water shot into my ear with a force to blast my eyeballs from their sockets but having no more effect than saturating my top, and two attempts at vacuum extraction, the doctor gave up, I cried and she handed over to the next shift.

He took one look. Shook his head. Poured oil into my ear (I think it was olive, but he assured us that canola would do). Killed the sucker dead, dead, dead. Sent for an eardrum surgery kit from the operating theatre upstairs and in two swift movements with the apropriate tweezers, pulled the beast from my ear. It was the size of the top of my little finger. Man how I screamed as he yanked it out. Man how I screamed as he flushed and vacuumed the left-over legs and bits of cocky backside from my battered ear drum. Man, how sick I felt for the rest of the day.

And man, how paranoid of buzzy things near my head am I now?!

PS: Little Lion, by the way, had a fabulous time exploring the hospital’s emergency area. He was a star, everybody loved him and he enjoyed his adventure emense ly. Good for him.