m i a o w

–YOU KNOW YOU KNEAD IT–

Tag: Conversations (Page 1 of 4)

Alan, Alannah, Ally, Hugo and Violet

Drawn back to blogging by bum related hysteria. For almost as long as we’ve been knocking around together, the name of M’s bum has been Alan. Yes. On one occasion while he was away on tour with Augie March in Coolum, he drunkenly confided this to all and sundry and I was telephoned by someone called Declan who was gasping with laughter and desperate for corroboration. I corroborated. I probably would have done more than that if requested, his accent was exceptionally attractive.

Tonight, M stripped off in the kitchen and did a nudie dance prior to getting in the bath with Small Z. She shrieked with delight;

“DADDA has a SWINGING PENIS!!!”

M then had the taste for performing, and showed off;

“Dadda’s SWINGING ELBOWS.”

His swinging eyebrows…and finally…

“DADDA has a SWINGING BUM. His BUM is SWINGING!!”

Yes, I told her. Have I told you that Dadda’s bum’s name is Alan?”

“Al-lan?”

“Alan.”

“Ahhhh,” she made her appreciative noise, “Alan. ALAN. What’s the swinging penis’s name?”

I choked. M, of course, did not miss a beat. “My penis,” he said, wagging it, “Is known as HUMUNGO.”

“Who-mungo?”

“HU-MUNG-GO.”

“Alan and Who-Mungo,” mused Small Z. It seemed to work for her.

Later in the bath, Humungo was shortened to ‘Hugo’. My bum was introduced to her as Alannah. Then she asked the vagina question – “What’s it’s name?”

I heard M flailing in the bath, and tried to think of something inoffensive.

“Violet!” I yelled down the hall. “Your vagina’s name is VIOLET!”

I heard the little voice echoing off the bathroom walls…

“…and what’s Mama’s….”

“VIOLET as well.”

“Zoe’s bum’s name?”

“Ummmm. Let’s call her Ally,” I was running out of inspiration.

“Ah,” she said, her curiosity sated. All parts were named and in their place.

Bringing down the tone

A telephone call from our new real estate agent a few days ago. How it should have gone:



“Hi Beth, this is Peter. I’m just calling to query you on the caravan in the front yard.”



“??!”



“Uh, the owner is a little concerned. It has an extension cord running out of it. We just need to know if there is anyone living in it? Also, it would be good if it could be eventually moved around the back, for cosmetic reasons.”



“Actually Peter, I’m glad you called. I was wanting to talk to you about a similar thing. But just to clear up your query, there is no one living in it. It is 14 feet long? M stays in it if Small Z is having a bad night. My mother stayed in it last week. But do I have a longterm sublet going on from which I am profiting wildly? Unfortunately I do not.



”What I wanted to bring to your attention was that I feel that the house itself is bringing down the tone of my caravan*. My 1962, egg-shaped, vintage, restored, fibreglass caravan. I was hoping that the owner might consider repainting the exterior of his very important investment property that was, until recently, his personal home LaMarque White (Dulux) with a blue metal flake finish around the window frames? This would work much better for me than the dark green house and the cracked aubergine and white front door.”


…Of course, what happened was that I spluttered incoherently, told him where the owner could stick his concern about the cosmetics of his property and forcefully informed him that no one was living in the caravan and it was no business of anyone but myself where on the property the caravan was located. Gah. 



M and I immediately felt somewhat violated that someone (friends of the owner – who has relocated to Queensland) had been driving by, perving at our set up. It was this icky, spied on feeling. We felt instantly like we were in someone elses house, not our own. 

Of course, we have recovered our equaminity, but it wasn’t a great start to things.

————




*Suggested by L, who is good with acerbic responses.

Silvery Moon

Am nearing the other end of a week that began in kind of a meltdown zone. I could post about it, and I will. Later.

Meanwhile, for as long as I can remember, Small Z has been obsessed with the moon. When she sees it in the sky – particularly unexpectedly in the daytime she says stuff like:

“Our friend is here, Mama! I’m glad he came. Look he’s a shiny one! Give him some drinks?”

“What does he say to you?”

“Shine, shine! Hello! Glad our friend is back! Ahhhh.”

One of the songs she has been singing the longest is By The Light of the Silvery Moon, and she was thrilled when I found her a few versions on YouTube. (The Doris Day one is pure cheese….) I have been afraid that I wouldn’t get a recording of Small Z singing it – she knows the lot, but it doesn’t feature so often in her repertoire of late, so I had to take what I could get…. By The Light of the Silvery Moon. Notice how she comes over all teenager at the end… “Mama sing a good moon song?”

Finally, this morning, M solved a small mystery. Small Z had been requesting him to draw a moon playing the recorder for the last few days whenever the coloured pencils were out. “Moon playing a recorder? Moon playing a recorder, dadda?” Recently the moon has been halfway between half and full. Three quarter. She had thought that M kept pointing at the moon saying, “Look! The moon is playing recorder!”

Winding me up

Two weeks ago M tried to break it to me gently. “Those winches? The ones I was going to sell on eBay to top up our rent money?”

“Mmmm?”

“I think I left them on the nature strip when I got home from the boat one night. I’m so buggered after a day there that I’m totally vague by the time I get home.”

“You’re totally buggered? As in ‘tired’. Should we even go there? To that place where I am the high priestess? Do you want to risk the journey…?

“Um.”

“Let me just say that I have no ‘lost’ feeling on this one. They are not lost. They are somewhere. Somewhere here. They will turn [sorry] up.”

They did.

Then this morning…

“I had both winches on the floor down here. Now there’s only one. Did you move one?”

“Nooooo. I saw Small Z playing with them yesterday though.”

“Small Z?” said M. “Have you seen the other winch that was here?”

“Toot! I am a TWAIN!”

“M,” I said, “She can’t lift one of those things. They’re too heavy.”

He looked stricken. “Has anybody been in here? Come into the house? They’re worth a lot of money you know. They’d be the first things someone would take…”

I looked at him. He was serious. I realised that he is so immersed in boat-land that he honestly thinks that the person who burgles our house will walk in the back door, take one look at the winches, and go… “A-ha! Two winches! My lucky day!! They’re exactly what I came here for, and yet, I feel a pang of compassion… I will only take one with me. One winch should be enough for any burglar. To take more than one would be pushing the limits on my karma quota….”

And with that, the burglar would disappear back out on to the street, weighted down on one side by an astonishingly heavy piece of yachting hardware, and yet curiously ebullient about such a find.

Small Z and I found the stray winch this afternoon, where she had rolled it. Under the desk.

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