Tag Archives: family humor

The Lies We Tell

Butter Wouldn't Melt in his Mouth!

Butter Wouldn’t Melt in his Mouth!

The lies I told today when making a booking with the ‘pet friendly’ hotel today:

Them: “Is your dog a small dog?”

Me: “Well, you know he’s not teeny small, but he is a small-ish Labrador.”

(Lie #1. He weighs 40 kilos and he can easily put his paws on my shoulders when on his hind legs. He’s huge. In fact I’m not so sure he’s not part Great Dane or Mastiff.)

Them: “Oh, well we usually only accept small dogs. Is he very well behaved?”

Me: “Oh yes, he’s an angel, he is quiet as a mouse and doesn’t chew. He’s basically like a guide dog but we’re not blind.”

(Lie #2. He’s terribly behaved. He eats shoes like he’s on his last meal – prefers expensive designer brands –  He howls terribly if we leave him alone for more than a few hours because he’s used to me being with him all day (I work from home). If he were a guide dog the blind person wouldn’t last a day,he’s the most (happy) undisciplined dog I’ve ever met.)

Them: “And is he used to travelling with you and being left at the hotel if you go out?”

Me: “Oh yes, he’s a regular traveller, we travel with him all the time. He loves it and he’s just a part of the family, waits patiently for us to return when we’re out and gives the hotel and it’s patrons no trouble at all. All the places we’ve stayed love him.”

(Lie #3. He’s never been to a hotel with us before. It’s really hard to find pet friendly hotels in Australia (God Bless America – so much easier to find them there) and  because he’s such a pain in the ass to take places we leave him with my sister who he adores nearly as much as he loves shoes. Or as a last resort, in a kennel where he pines and has been known to attempt suicide. Really.)

The thing about him, he’s adorable. We’ve actually just signed him up to start stem cell therapy for his elbow displasiya and osteo-arthritis – ground breaking stuff in the animal world. He’s sweet and loving and funny….and not very well behaved.

All this for a last minute quick trip away, oh the lies! Blogging is my confessional.

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The Humble Iron is Not Like An AK-47

Image by John Kasawa

A few weeks after we arrived in Australia, my sister and her boyfriend came to spend a weekend at the beach with us. They live inland and don’t get to the beach often, so it was a great weekend of sun, sand, surf, and catching up.

It was the last day of their trip, and the boyfriend pulled out an ironing board and iron, to iron his shirt.

My kiddo walked by, and asked him what it was he was holding.

“What, this?” said the boyfriend,  holding up the iron. “It’s an iron!”

“What does it do?” kiddo asks in all sincerity.

(The boyfriend is flabbergasted by the turn of events.)

“You iron things with it. It makes your clothes neat. Have you seriously never seen your mother use an iron?”

(Kiddo is somewhat perplexed, but losing interest fast, given that the strange object wasn’t a toy, chocolate or a something to pull apart.)

“No, she doesn’t use that thing, our clothes are already neat.”

I actually heard this conversation from the other room and tried to dodge the proverbial bullet, by escaping into the kitchen – without a confrontation – but had no such luck and was  accosted by an incredulous boyfriend near the refrigerator. He gave me the rundown, and demanded an explanation as to how an almost-seven-year-old did not know what an iron was, nor what it did.

Valiantly, I explained about the miracle and wonders of dry cleaning in America, (where I had lived for the preceding 10 years). In the USA dry cleaning is cheap, efficient, easy to access (most have drive through windows) and thus, used regularly by me. If the truth-be-told, my son had probably never even seen me use an iron.

Here in Australia, (The boyfriend will be pleased to know), I iron all the time and the kiddo has now become intimately familiar with it, as I curse my way through his school shirts. Some bright spark on the board of his institution – in their infinite wisdom – decided that it would be a fantastic idea to put 7-year-old boys in white, button up, crisp cotton collared shirts, for school (along with a tie, no less)!

This necessitates me washing and ironing on a weekly basis. These shirts get indescribably dirty, requiring the use of industrial-grade stain remover (and shirt replacements every couple of months), due to the stubborn marks that appear and defy all laws of stain removal.

My grandmother always says; “You’re never to young to learn,” and since my love of old quotes is far greater than my love of ironing, I’ve decided to pass the baton and allow kiddo to experience the thrill himself.

That said, can anyone tell me the legalities involved in allowing a 7-year-old to use an iron? I mean, it’s not like it’s an AK-47, I couldn’t get arrested, right?

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Torching Me Seems A Little Excessive

fire

Image by matthewvenn via Flickr

Hubby and I were doing spring cleaning around our place last week and as expected, marital bickering was a part of that deal. Even so, nothing prepared me for the following events.

I was weeding the garden and hubby decided to push past me on the path, instead of going the long way around me and keeping it nice and simple. (like a normal person). Sounds all very innocent, right?

At the time he was holding a whipper snipper (weed eater to the Americans), and had unscrewed the cap on it. (For a still-undisclosed reason, I might add.)

As a result, when he squeezed by me, he had to perform a contortionists act and in doing so, upended the contents of the whipper snipper tank all over my back.

Have you ever been doused in any kind of fuel? If you haven’t, and you have it on your list-of-things-to-do-before-you-die, I suggest you take it off. Now. (I can assure you, it’s nowhere near as cool or amusing as you may have imagined.)

For a split-second after it hit my back, I thought it was water and gave him the death stare while I screeched in protest. A nano-second later, when the stench hit my nose and I realized what it was, the death stare darkened and became even more evil, as I responded to my instant reflex – and stood up.

Big mistake. Huge.

Standing up caused the fuel to run further down my back to my, er… rear. An important point to note here, is that fuel running down your rear, burns. A lot.

I still hadn’t yet said a word to him as I bolted for the shower, with him following me calling out “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! I’m so sorry!” (Being married to me for almost 10 years, he was well-aware that no sound from my mouth, coupled with the death stare = whole world of trouble for him.)

After I showered, I put the clothes in the washer and washed them three times. They still stink of fuel and will have to be thrown out; an outcome I am less than pleased about.

However, a slightly more disturbing issue is the fact that my husband doused me with fuel and cannot provide a plausible explanation as to how. He explained that he had the cap unscrewed, but couldn’t seem to elaborate as to why it would be undone on a tank full of fuel in the first place!

He maintains that since I did not view a lighter, pack of matches or a piece of flint on him, I cannot claim anything more sinister than the accident he is  professing. Still, a girl can’t help but have her suspicions and while I do, I’m planning on milking it for as many ‘make-it-up-to-me-gifts’ as I can get.

After all, in the midst of some garden-variety spring clean and tame marital bickering, torching me does seem a little excessive.

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