Baby girl Lulu, turns seventeen next week.
“What would you like for your birthday darling girl?” I asked her yesterday.
“Mum! You’ve already paid $2500 for my netball trip to the U.K. in September, plus you’re going to have to pay for two formal dresses, two lots of make-up, two lots of hairdressers, two pairs of shoes… gosh Mum, I’ve cost you so much already… just give me some money and take me out to dinner for my birthday. That’ll do.”
Mmmmm.
Yes… you read right. Two lots of formal overheads because not only is she attending the Grade 12 formal for her own school, but she’s also accompanying her boyfriend, Jock to his all boy’s school formal.
I suppose I could sell the $1300 treadmill I’ve only used six times in two years… or I could pawn my engagement ring… or sell the cat... in order to cover these incidentals.
“Would Jock like to come out to dinner with us for your birthday dinner then?” I asked, even though I’d only met the elusive Jock once in the last few months and was curious as to why he hadn’t been coming over.
My first boyfriend when I was seventeen, Adro, liked my parents far more than he liked me. If fact even after he callously dumped me, he still came over twice a week to catch up with Mum and Dad. (I think my parents probably preferred him over me as well, if truth be told.)
“Why doesn’t Jock ever come in and have a chat?” I asked Lulu, concerned about his anonymity. “Why do you always go over and spend time at his place with his mother? What’s wrong with him? Is he hiding something?”
“It’s not him, Mum,” sighed Lulu, “It’s this house. It’s filthy. I don’t want him to see what a pig sty I live in. The toilet smells like wee.” She followed this comment with a regal sniff.
Really? I wonder why the toilet stinks? Years of badly aimed doodles splashing litres of impossible to clean widdle into the tile grouting most probably.
So yesterday, shamed by my unimpeachable daughter, I dragged the vacuum cleaner out and begrudgingly whisked it around the (not really) obscenely dirty floors, all the while swearing under my breath and thinking, ‘If it’s so filthy then why doesn’t SHE get off her butt and lift a finger around the damn house.’
And who should mosey on in to our den of debris in the afternoon but Prince Charming himself. I have to say… he seems lovely (Lulu is the one who’s been keeping him away from her freak show parents) and he’s coming to dinner with us so I’ll be able to wreak revenge on her by telling embarrassing stories all night long.
Let’s see… which one will I start with?
Lulu and her "Jock"!
“Would Jock like to come out to dinner with us for your birthday dinner then?” I asked, even though I’d only met the elusive Jock once in the last few months and was curious as to why he hadn’t been coming over.
My first boyfriend when I was seventeen, Adro, liked my parents far more than he liked me. If fact even after he callously dumped me, he still came over twice a week to catch up with Mum and Dad. (I think my parents probably preferred him over me as well, if truth be told.)
“Why doesn’t Jock ever come in and have a chat?” I asked Lulu, concerned about his anonymity. “Why do you always go over and spend time at his place with his mother? What’s wrong with him? Is he hiding something?”
“It’s not him, Mum,” sighed Lulu, “It’s this house. It’s filthy. I don’t want him to see what a pig sty I live in. The toilet smells like wee.” She followed this comment with a regal sniff.
Really? I wonder why the toilet stinks? Years of badly aimed doodles splashing litres of impossible to clean widdle into the tile grouting most probably.
So yesterday, shamed by my unimpeachable daughter, I dragged the vacuum cleaner out and begrudgingly whisked it around the (not really) obscenely dirty floors, all the while swearing under my breath and thinking, ‘If it’s so filthy then why doesn’t SHE get off her butt and lift a finger around the damn house.’
And who should mosey on in to our den of debris in the afternoon but Prince Charming himself. I have to say… he seems lovely (Lulu is the one who’s been keeping him away from her freak show parents) and he’s coming to dinner with us so I’ll be able to wreak revenge on her by telling embarrassing stories all night long.
Let’s see… which one will I start with?
