Scotto and I sat in the near blackness of the cinema waiting for Maleficent to start when I gave a sudden, startled squeal whilst digging around in my bag in search of elusive butterscotch lollies.
The two little girls sitting in front of us turned to look disapprovingly at the silly lady behind them causing a ruckus.
“What is THIS?” I continued, after glaring at the judgmental brats and extricating a long evil-looking orange, plastic coil from my bag.
“A skipping rope?” I choked in disbelief holding the malevolent object up to the light. “Why does this keep happening to me Scotto?” I pleaded, tears welling in my eyes. “Why? Why?”
The mystery cheese which had bafflingly appeared in my bag on Wednesday had rattled me to my very core. Now this!
“Maybe your bag has become a vortex… you know, and it’s pulling things out of another dimension,” commented my geeky husband.
“What’s more likely, is some smarty pants at work put it in my bag to see how long it would take me to find,” I thought smugly. “I’ll get you my pretties.”
It is strange though, don’t you think?
I don’t mean about the skipping rope in my handbag… I mean that Scotto would accompany me to the movies to watch a little girl’s movie.
Last weekend we sat on the couch together and watched “Frozen”.
I think he liked it even better than I did.
Two Disney movies about princesses in a row…
In his defence he did bring these home from Dan Murphy’s this afternoon just to prove he’s still a bloke.
I just hope he doesn't start acting like Homer.
No wonder women end up bitter and twisted.
Speaking of blokes; my blokey-bloke son Hagar, won a very special award on Friday night.
Most Outstanding Second Year Electrical Apprentice of the Year
His girlfriend Meggles, sent me the photo from the gala event (which I was not invited to) and apparently he even thanked the sweet girl for all her support in his acceptance speech.
Not that I’m jealous about the fact Meggles got a mention and I, the mother who slaved after him for twenty-one years, failed to come up in any conversations at all.
Remember Mitchell Johnson the cricketer's mother?
Not that I’m jealous about the fact Meggles got a mention and I, the mother who slaved after him for twenty-one years, failed to come up in any conversations at all.
Remember Mitchell Johnson the cricketer's mother?
She audaciously stirred up a big fuss in the media because he took his girlfriend to watch him play cricket in England instead of her; the mother who’d dedicated her life to making sure his cricket whites were white and sat around for a zillion hours watching the most eye-gougingly, boring sport ever invented… the very same mother who no doubt sacrificed buying herself nice things in order to pay for his play away games and coaching clinics.
No wonder women end up bitter and twisted.
It's not like I'm about to curse their first-born or anything...
