So if you read my last post, you'll know I was mid-preparation for a big night out. I was all in a panic over Glowless arriving at Parental Parody Palace, and had spent a large portion of my child-free day mopping. And re-mopping. And re-re-mopping. Also de-festering my fridge contents for the first time in
weeks months too long to admit to a while.
Part 2 of this epic saga starts post-cleaning. It's a mega huge long post (even by my standards), but it is the end of the story. I promise.
So I go upstairs and set out my outfit. The key item of which is the tautest, tightest pair of industrial strength underpants that have not passed retail health and safety regulations, and are only available on the black market (ie. some dodgy open-air market in Asia, where I think I paid entirely too much for such a masochistic and unsexy pair of undies, that may well have been tried on by many fat, sweaty Asian lady bum's).
No time to dwell on the outfit much, as I have a 5 point plan in place, just for taming my hair so I'm not sporting a tepee shaped half-afro after the first drink.
I wash my hair. I use the expensive conditioner. Then I do the expensive treatment that I really shouldn't need with such expensive conditioner. But I do it anyway, because I'm going out to a place that isn't the Golden Arches and doesn't allow kids.
Then I do one of those hot oil things because they are cheap enough and it can't hurt, right?
Then I do another treatment just for good measure. Only, this is a treatment I bought at the discount shop, and so while it is supposedly a brand name product, I can't understand the Middle Eastern instructions on the back. The accompanying images aren't helpful. I eventually glean that it is most likely a leave-in treatment. But I'm not sure. So I wash half out and leave half in.
Think your dodgiest kitchen cloth, after it's been left sitting in dish detergent all night - slimy and soft. That was my hair.
Then I go to de-fuzz my legs, but I don't have any lady razors. I raid #1 Hubby's manscaping toiletries. In amongst the sizeable collection of man-fume, I find razors.
Suffice to say, I was not prepared for a man razor with 48 blades, let alone a brand new sadistically sharp man razor sporting 48 blades of hell. The bastard thing had me weeping enough blood down the shower drain to completely obliterate the mass of dodgy allegedly-leave-in hair treatment that was suspiciously not washing down the drain.
Once I'm finished and sufficiently less light-headed from the blood loss, I get out of the shower and start shoving wads of tissue all over my profusely bleeding - but smooth and hairless as a baby's arse - legs.
At this point, for some reason, I think some more about if Glowless may want to use my loo. Because, we've had kids, and it is entirely possible that - in the 15 minute drive from hers to mine - there's a good chance she'll need to use the facilities, according to my scientifically calculated wee-factor-probability-ratio.
So, in a totally non-dodgy way (seriously), I thought about Glowless sitting on my loo, whizzing away like a respectable lady, and looking down. At my lovely sparkly tiles. But also, my tile grout. The only fucking thing I have not even looked at, let alone cleaned.
So I bust out of the bathroom, wet, naked except for the mega tissue spit balls stopping my legs from bleeding out. I am armed with a toothbrush - tile grout cleaning tool of choice, grabbed on my way out the bathroom - either Miss5's, or one of the twins'.
Now, it's worth mentioning how poorly I had thought this through. Since you wouldn't have already come to that conclusion for yourself. I had my front door wide open, only the screen door was closed, and not locked. My brother lives in the unit NEXT DOOR. He goes past my door to get to his bin. He comes over. Regularly. But here I am running past the door, completely starkers bar the spit balled legs, intent on scrubbing the shit out of the tile grout in the downstairs toilet, with a toothbrush belonging to one of my kids.
Anyway, false alarm. The tile grout was all good, as it turns out. Lucky for whoever was the owner of the toothbrush I was brandishing, as I had every intention of dousing it with some sort of cleaning product (probably the Jiff Cream again), scrubbing the crap out of the tile grout, and then simply rinsing it off and replacing it in its usual place in the bathroom.
So by now I'm crazy late. I spend the next 2.5hrs in the bathroom. I blow dried my hair for the second time in my entire life. That alone took almost an hour, and afterwards I had severe difficulty lifting my arms. At all. I soldiered on and sizzled the crap outta my hair with the hair straightener. The aroma of the sizzling allegedly-leave-in hair treatment was akin to Donut King preparing their next batch.
As I depart the bathroom, Glowless arrives.
Mad dash to bedroom to throw clothes on. No time to stress over which potential outfit provides the least faux pregnant look (on account of my ever present Mummy Tummy).
Disaster strikes - where the hell are my industrial strength black market lycra tummy sucking undies?
I tear the bedroom apart as much as is possible in 3 minutes. They are nowhere. I am now freaking out, desperate, and late.
I rip through my drawers, and decide I'll just have to go with my next best option.
No, not regular undies. Not dental floss. Not even 'commando'.
The next highest lycra content under garments I own : bathers bottoms.
So I put them on, and Miss5 - who has been watching all of this - is all excited, and squealing "Yay! Are we going swimming Mummy?".
So I explain to her that we're not. That I'm just....erm.....cold....and they are kinda like thermals and they will keep me warm. *cough*
This seems a plausible explanation to her, so she leaves me to panic and rant and rave about my missing shoe.
Until I put the top half of my outfit on.
"Mummy, you forgot your bathers top?"
She's helpful like that.
So then I have to explain to her that only Mummy's bottom is cold, and so Mummy doesn't actually need the bathers top. All the while, I'm eyeing it off and thinking you know what, maybe that's not a bad idea? Extra lycra couldn't hurt, right?
But I left it out...I mean, I'm not
crazy stupid deranged fighting a losing battle OTT or anything....right?
As I finally alight the Glowmobile, I spew forth my underwear debacle for poor Map Guy's information as well as Glowless'. I then turn to Tricky and offered to blow up an empty wine cask for him to use as a car toy. By way of reward for being such an awesome little dude and waiting patiently in the car while I handled my wardrobe malfunction.
I'm classy AND a giver.