Toilet Humour

There's a saying, "When you have a baby, you leave your dignity at the door". Seems they weren't just talking about the birth. Children have a way of directly or indirectly lowering your glamour status in the community. Today my dignity was left at the door. The toilet door.

With Michelle in tow, we sisters took our three children on the train to visit Sea Life, the Sydney Aquarium in Darling Harbour. After leaving the station via the wrong exit, it took us a bit longer than expected to walk to Darling Harbour. By the time we arrived, the kids were a bit fractious, so although I needed to visit the bathroom, I decided I'd just go once they'd seen a few fish.

What I didn't know when I made that fateful decision, is that the toilets are towards the end of the aquarium circuit.

As time progressed, being surrounded by water, the impact of my selfless decision was becoming apparent. By the time the toilets were on the horizon, I was ready to push pregnant women aside and jump over toilet training toddlers.

My ever helpful sister suggested we avoid the queue by piling into the disabled toilet. So there we were in this little room: me, my sister, my two daughters, and my nephew. We decided we'd all go but I had priority.

With the door having just closed, it took me all of one second to be sitting on the toilet. I had one further second to think to myself how bizarre it was to have so many people in the toilet with me. That thought was quickly replaced by horror as the disabled toilet door suddenly slid open.

In case you're not aware of the positioning of disabled toilets, they're usually in hallways full of people. Better still, this one was adjacent to a cafe. So there I was, sitting on the toilet, with my bright blue undies around my ankles, entertaining the diners.

My sister gallantly tried to shield me by putting her body in the open doorway. I think she has a poor body image because it would have taken six of her to completely block the general public's view. At that point, I'm thinking... and yelling, "Just press the button to close the dooooooooooor!!"

Chaos ensued.

My sister was madly pressing buttons, while trying to stay in the doorway. It soon became apparent that standing in the doorway was keeping the door open. Michelle was laughing so hard, she couldn't tell me the buttons wouldn't work. She was barely a functional mute. Over the next 15 seconds, the door continued to open and close. Open and close. Open and close. My sister was jumping about, laughter continuing to steal her entire vocabulary. The three kids were screaming, helpfully pointing out that the door was open. I was half standing at this point. I'd pulled down my skirt but my undies were still around my ankles. The commotion was so loud that even if the many cafe patrons weren't looking in our direction at the start of the fiasco, we certainly had their attention now.

Finally, we managed to close the door and press the lock button. Relief. But it wasn't over yet. Clearly the sensors in the disabled toilet aren't set to accommodate a large number of people. That's because normal people probably go to the toilet alone. Just a thought. As I sat back down for the long awaited moment, the door slid open again, setting off the same hysteria as before. Open, close, open, close. People were looking at us like we'd just left the lunatic asylum. At that point, I need to assess my options. I'm still busting to wee. Do I just go? Or do I stand up, walk out, and hope it all stays in? It's amazing how much can go through your mind in a split second.

With absolutely no functional assistance from any members of my family, I made a choice. I ditched everyone and ran into the female toilets, past all patrons, and into a vacant stall. The moral of the story? Some things are better done alone.

The Luckiest Day

It was a 'student free day' today. Like two weeks of school holidays isn't enough? I know, I know, teachers have to plan. As do parents. I don't get customer free days so in preparation for my six year old daughter's day off, I booked her into an activity day at a local Anglican church, with many of her friends.

I should preface this with the fact that we're not church going people. But we are Catholic and I went to an Anglican school, so I figure it's not too much of a stretch. The event was 9am - 5pm, and included all food, drinks, and activities. All for $10. A far greater investment for the church than for me.

At that price, I figured there'd be a bit of attempted indoctrination. They have to get something in return for their effort. We can handle it. We have no beef with God so my kid doing a bit of praying, although a foreign concept for her, won't do her any harm.

When she got home, I asked about her day. Excitedly, she said there was a jumping castle, craft, face painting, dancing, drawing, a pirate show and more. She said she also spent a fair bit of time in the church. That was my cue. "So did you talk about God?" I asked. "We'll, we prayed twice." she said.

That seemed a little light on compared to what I expected. I imagined at least some attempt to embed the idea that they should return with mum and dad for a mass one Sunday. A couple of prayers didn't really seem like a lot of return on their investment. I enquired a little further.

"What were the prayers about?"
"One was funny. It was 'Thank you God for the food'. How funny is that!"
"And the other one?" I asked.
"I can't remember."
"So," I asked, "what was the best thing about the day?"
Her response was immediate, "The food."

I thought that was quite a curious response. Of the jumping castle, face painting, pirate show, dancing etc, the best thing about the day was the food?

"What did you eat?" I asked.
"Um, well, ah... I ate apples and oranges."

Hmm...

"What else did you eat?"
"Well, you know those things that are shaped like a saucer with a pointy end, and they're covered in icing and sprinkles? I ate one of those."

I have no idea what those are, but as she described more and more of the food on offer for the entire day, it became very clear that, besides some fruit slices, she only ate sweets. All day. I asked why she didn't eat the sandwiches. I assumed there would at least be Vegemite sandwiches. But she insisted there were no sandwiches. In her reality, the only real food on offer were the apple and orange slices.

As I argued with her that there couldn't possibly be no normal food, she said adamantly, "Mum, I had to walk the whole length of the table with my plate, and I didn't see one sandwich. Except for the apples and oranges, it was all junk. It was the luckiest day of my life!"

She then handed me a flyer on a positive parenting seminar being held by the church. "Mum," she said, "can we go? Please? They have a program for kids while you're at the seminar, and there's food!"

The Anglicans have it all worked out.

Mars, Marriage and Cruise Control

Albert Einstein was a very smart man. And of all the insights he shared with the world, none more adequately reflect his worldly wisdom than his observation on marriage. He said, "Women marry men hoping they will change. Men marry women hoping they will not. So each is inevitably disappointed".

How very true.

Is it Mars and Venus? Or are us girls just hard to please?

Some believe the contract was up for TomKat. I think she really was in love with him. Or at least in awe. My vote is that she just wasn't thinking. For the rest of us the evidence was clear from the get go. The minute he jumped on the couch, the warning bells blared for millions of normal people worldwide. Does Oprah get her money back for that couch now?

And really, how many people will agree to start a relationship with a guy who sends his religious posse to put the hard word on you? Interestingly, before Katie, he tried Jennifer Garner, Scarlett Johansson, Jessica Alba and Sofia Vergara with a similar Scientology audition process. But unlike Katie, all of them ran for the hills dodging a bullet of Penelope Cruz proportions.

Not Katie though. Scientology knew they had wife number three stitched up when the elders read an article about Katie in which she mentioned wanting to marry Tom Cruise. She was ripe for the picking. She'd only recently taken down his posters in her bedroom. Fast forward five years. He continues to behave like a nutter and she gets sick of living her life on Cruise Control. Like the two wives before her, she made her exit at age 33. But unlike the other two, she seems to have escaped relatively unscathed; at this stage.

Mimi Rogers career was all but over after divorcing Tom. Nicole Kidman left her kids behind (I still can't get over that). Did Katie learn something from the Wives of Christmas Past? There's obviously some benefit to being wife number three. As with all break ups, how he treated the others is how he'll treat you. So she had to be smarter, more devious, and more organised. And clearly she was. Less than two weeks later, it's done and dusted. She gets the kid and everyone breaths a sign of relief. Makes you wonder what she has on him? Something good obviously, but we'll never know.

So the search is on for wife number four. My tip to Tom is to choose a woman who is older than 33. Wives that age just don't work for you. Ryan Seacrest is older that 33, so that might work?

Kim x

Who are you callin' chicken?

I recently made a dinner reservation on behalf of a group of friends. There were six of us dining out on a girls night as part of a girls weekend away in the Blue Mountains, north west of Sydney.

We found a local restaurant in Blackheath, called Vulcans. It was hard to get a lot of information about the menu, which is tricky when trying to cater to different tastes, preferences and allergies. I couldn't find a website for the restaurant and there were no menus online. That should have been my first clue.  But after consultation with my group of travelling companions, we booked.

The booking process was not overly pleasant. The person on the phone made me feel like I had boarded the Crankypants Express. That should have been my second clue. Then, I needed a credit card number to secure the booking. A first for me to simply book a table of six at a country establishment, but I obliged. However, in hindsight, that should have been my third clue.

Once in Blackheath, a day and a half before the evening in question, one of the women in our group expressed some concern. Although the food was supposed to be excellent, she'd found out the menu was quite limited. And by limited, I mean three entrees and four mains. I get more choice at our family Christmas. My friend was concerned because the only protein she eats is chicken.

Now, how many restaurants have you dined at that don't have a chicken dish? Admittedly, it's also rare to meet someone who only eats chicken, but hey, we're paying customers right? So we get to choose what we pay for.

I immediately phoned Vulcans. Of course, to my surprise, there was no chicken on the menu. My friend said she'd eat salmon as a compromise. No salmon either.

A very nice man described the whole menu to me over the phone. With only seven dishes, it took under two minutes. Even so, I was glad I wasn't speaking to the person who took my booking. I appreciated this lovely guy's time and his friendliness and I told him I'd discuss it with my chicken appreciating friend and get back to him soon.

Within a couple of minutes I was calling back to confirm that unfortunately we were going to have to cancel our booking for the following evening. Also, very unfortunately, I had again boarded the Crankypants Express.

I recognised his dull and unfriendly voice immediately and his posh accent filled me with dread. I quickly apologised and very politely explained that I'd have to cancel our booking, hoping to get off the phone in less than 60 seconds. It was not to be.

His exact words were, "Is this about the woman who only eats chicken?"
"Uh, yes", I said.
"So", he continued with a well spoken and sarcastic tone, "does she eat chicken for breakfast, lunch and dinner?"
"Well", I responded, "I'm pretty sure she eats cereal for breakfast."

Clearly the conversation wasn't going well. Expressing some exasperation, he continued, "I wish you had asked this question BEFORE you booked!" I explained that I'd never heard of a restaurant that doesn't serve chicken, so I never imagined the need to ask. I tried to finish the conversation by politely saying that I wanted to give him as much notice as possible of our cancellation to allow him to arrange his schedule for the following day. In a smarmy posh voice he said, "Oh, thank you so much for that." Click.

Did he just hang up on me? OMG, he just hung up on me! He has to be the chef.

Kim x

First Impressions

Anyone who tells you that they don't care what others think of them is lying or delusional. I however, being the honest and self aware type, know I care. Not to the point that I change who I am, but just enough to hope that people can recognise and appreciate my good intentions.

Don't get me wrong, I don't lose any sleep over people who don't like me. I'm smart enough to realise that I can never please those who aren't on 'Team Kim'. However, for those who are on 'Team Kim', I like to think I'm making them happy, helping them out and and bringing a bit of laughter into their lives. And of course, I always hope to make a good first impression. How successful I am at those first impressions varies wildly.

Take my most recent efforts as an example. A small group of parents at my daughter's school have decided to form a fundraising committee. Our first meeting was at my house this week.

There's only one problem with having humans at my house. My dog. Riccardo the lover dog, a white, fluffy, shoe polisher type, has very low emotional intelligence. He jumps, he humps, and he's generally a big nuisance... much like a husband.

Riccardo greets everyone who enters our home with the usual vigour associated with a home schooled dog. His behaviour at our inaugural fundraising committee meeting was no exception.

The good news is, I knew some of the people in attendance, and I know they like to see the good in people. However, there were a few people I didn't know so well. So that's where the first impressions come in.

We opened a bottle of champagne and only a few of us were having bubbly. The boys were drinking beer. I had two glasses over three hours. Not a lot. However, in the context of having had an alcoholic beverage, what happened next is less than ideal. I went to sit down on my chair but only half sat on it, aiming to slide the rest of the way across. At the same time, my dog was causing havoc at the edge of the table. Being the multi-tasker that I am, I thought I could do both things at once, seat myself and manage my pooch. As I reached across to move him away, I came flying off my chair and landed on the floor. It wasn't pretty, people.

So for those on 'Team Kim' I certainly brought a bit of laughter into their lives. I laughed myself (life's too short not to). But what about those poor unsuspecting victims who haven't yet decided to join the team? What on earth could they be thinking? "That woman can't hold her alcohol"... "two glasses and she's under the table"... literally. Maybe that's what they were thinking. Maybe not. To say I was mortified would be an overstatement. But to say I was slightly mortified would be fairly accurate.

To top it off, I spoke to a friend this morning who wasn't present at the meeting. She had heard the story from "numerous" sources. So again, I'm doing my job and bringing laughter into the world. Not quite as I planned though.

Fortunately for me, I have nice friends, who I expect will rib me about this for some time. Rightfully so. For those who aren't yet my friends, but hopefully will be, all I can wish for is that they're the type who are looking for kindness and laughter with the occasional crazy slip up thrown in for good measure. If that's the case, then I've made a great first impression.

Kim x

Speed Marriage... you can't keep up with a Kardashian

It looked real to everyone, including the groom apparently, but Kim Kardashian had other things in mind. So how does someone file for divorce within 72 days?

Let’s look back in history. Kim’s first marriage (yes, Kris is her second husband) to music producer Damon Thomas, lasted less than four years. Ok, we can accept that in four years things can go wrong. But, her second marriage to Kris Humphries was shorter than Taylor Swift's speech before Kanye took the microphone (thanks Twitter... and you should all be thanking me for not telling you what Wil Anderson thought was longer than Kim’s marriage).

Kim has said “I had hoped this marriage was forever but sometimes things don't work out as planned”. Apparently, Kim doesn’t want to live where Kris lives, in Minnesota. Just thinking maybe that’s a conversation you would have before the $20 million wedding? But I’m a stickler for the details. Kim says it was not an easy decision. Huh? Some people spend more than 72 days deciding whether to cut their hair. In fact, I know one guy who’s had the same hairstyle since 1982. Now that’s commitment.

So, now the questions... 

How long will the mourning period be? Experts say that for every year you’re together, you mourn post relationship for 6 weeks. So for a marriage that lasts less than three months, it seems just over a week will be plenty. If we’re generous, we could say they met 10 months ago, so that would make the mourning period around 5 weeks. But my money’s on the one week scenario.

Will she give back the bling? The monster accessory reportedly cost $2 million. Given she’s worth about four times what he’s worth, and she’s the one filing for divorce within a millisecond, she should pop it in the mail to him, registered post of course.

And finally, who’s next? There have been a few entertainers and a long string of footballers in Kim’s past. However, she might have done her dash in the sporting arena for now. Even the dumbest footballer isn’t going to fork out for the type of bling that will catch Kim Kardashian’s eye, knowing he might never see it again. She needs someone who will blindly idolise her. I'm thinking a network executive, or a plastic surgeon. But given she’s supposed to make an appearance at the Spring Racing Carnival in Melbourne this week, my money’s on our very own ‘Idol’ Milsy (thanks Starsh).

☺

Kim x

Personalised number plates

I was in far north Queensland recently, driving behind a red Nissan sports car (370z coupe or similar) with the licence plate number DRBOBS. I’ll admit it, I jumped to all sorts of conclusions about the type of person that is - Dr Bob. I couldn’t see him, only the back of his car. All I knew about Dr Bob that could be based in fact was his choice of car and his personalised number plate that told all and sundry he was a doctor. So here’s my theory on Dr Bob…

He’s in his late 40s, or maybe just turned 50. He’s a plastic surgeon. Or a cardiologist. He’s losing or has lost some of his hair. He has a need to prove his worth to others. He likes nice cars.

The car is nice and I have no issue with his ride. I would drive one if I got it for free. Not that I couldn’t buy it if I rearranged my priorities. It’s just not a priority of mine to drive a red Nissan sports car. However, there are some things I wouldn’t own, even if they were free. Close to the top of that list is a personalised number plate.

Now, I could legitimately drive around with a number plate that says DRKIMS. Nine years of university certainly says I’ve earned the right. But would I? Absolutely not. Why? Do I really have to explain it? Even Dr Bob has to admit that a licence plate number like DRBOBS doesn’t project a flattering image of the good doctor.

But it’s not even the unbecoming representation that a personalised number plate can project that worries me. Some personalised number plates are totally inert. But really, who wants to be so easily identifiable?

I like a little mystery… and that involves a number plate that’s not so easily identified by my friends, acquaintances and those who vaguely know of me. Maybe my car is parked outside the party shop while I organise a surprise event for a friend who happens to be driving past at the time. Or maybe my car is parked at the local Breast Screen clinic which perhaps I'd like to keep private. Or maybe I want to stalk an ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend at her place of work. Hypothetically.

Dr Bob can’t go anywhere without those he knows and those he doesn’t know, knowing his every move. That’s just not cricket. But then, Dr Bob does want to be noticed. I guess that’s the point of his choice of car and licence plate. Maybe he’s a podiatrist.

☺

Kim x