I am relaxing after a lovely weekend in Sydney with my cousin, Elizabeth, and her lovely husband, Christoph. One of the things that was so relaxing about this weekend was that it was without Tim and the kids (yes, I know, that whooshing sound was my vote for selfless mother and wife of the year flying by). I went up last Friday on the bus, which all in all is a great way to travel. The only problem with traveling by yourself is that you run the risk of ending up with a total tosser as your companion. On the plane from Canberra to Sydney, not so bad, only about 40 minutes – on the bus it can be a VERY LONG 3 and a half hours. The lass sitting beside me was fine but the chap in front was obviously EXHAUSTED as the second he got in to his seat, he reclined back to an angle where – well, let me put it this way : normally a man with his head in my lap is a chap I know very well (i.e. my husband), rather than a complete stranger (i.e. dickhead in front of me on the bus). When I politely let him know that he was cutting the circulation off in my legs (“mate, you are lying in my lap – could you please put your seat up a bit”) he got all grumpy and whiney about the length of the trip and how he needed to rest. He was met with my usual sympathy and compassion and for the next 3 hours we engaged in a push/shove match up the highway. My quads felt as though they had been put to good work by the time we got to Central station in Sydney. Being the complete gentleman, he left the seat fully reclined when he got up, so that the girl sitting next to me and I had to do some weird contortions to get out of our seats. Yet another person I wish gonorrhea upon.
So, off to Potts Point where my cousin and he husband have a very lovely apartment, where I picked up the keys from the concierge (this in itself a novelty – a place where someone looks after you, collects mail, holds keys for guests etc) and headed upstairs to drop off my bags. I was greeted by Lucy, their cat, who went nutbags over the smells on my bag and coat. It got a bit uncomfortable watching her after a while – she seemed to like it A LOT. After she finished rolling around making ecstatic noises, she went about trying to convince me that she was totally starving and she had not been fed in weeks by her mean and cruel owners. She had a tough audience though – I had done the “children on their knees making cow eyes at you whilst silently begging for a doughnut” routine too many times to crack over a pathetic performance from a cat.
I bet you are wondering where on earth I am going with this and what on earth my trip to Sydney has to do with puppetry of the man vegetables, aren’t you? Well, on the Saturday night Lizzie had been invited to a hen’s night and was taking me along for company and a good excuse to leave early. She had told me that part of the night was a performance of “Puppetry of the penis”. Sure, I thought, I have seen a willie or two in my time and I was keen to see if either of my sons had a potential job when they get older, as at the moment they are putting some pretty concentrated effort in seeing what can be done to their various boy bits (one of them managed to stretch it out to an impressive length but it had the width of spaghetti) and then falling around in hysterics or rushing off to show their older sister, who receives these displays with a weary tolerance that belies her years. Anyway, we got to the apartment where the party was and it suddenly became clear that we weren’t going to a show, the show was coming to us. Ok, I thought, that changes things a bit. I was in a brightly lit lounge room (with the biggest honking TV you have ever seen) and I was, at best, going to be about 2 meters away from a chap who was going to impress us with his “genital origami” (no kidding, this was how he described it). I think the thing that stuck me the most was that he wore a blue velvet cape, black shoes and socks and nothing else. In the end, it wasn’t too bad and some of the stuff he did was clever, but I am wondering if this whole idea came about because two chaps had put away a case of beer each and ended up having to improvise to keep themselves entertained because the playstation broke down. The highlight was possibly when he offered the bride to be his services with a “wristwatch” or “ring”. I’ll leave it up to your imagination.
It does lead me to think if there is a market for a female equivalent. I know that there have been times lately when I have wondered if my boobs (which are ok but are showing the effects of time and gravity) could be tied into a very delicate “crane” or even better, some kind of bow-like arrangement so I would have to dispense with the problem of having to find an appropriate brooch. I discussed this with a friend of mine and she wasn’t sure about origami of the breasts, but if you used other female genitalia you could call one move “the flaps are down”. Hmm. Might leave it to the guys.
Just to finish up, must share a little conversation I had when I went to get my legs waxed recently. The girl who was doing it very good and I was asking her about how she got into beauty stuff etc. She told me her first job was at a shop called Be Brazilian, so you can imagine what she spent most of her days doing. On male and female clients. I have never gone for the full pluck, but I was curious about how much it hurt. She said that the first time was usually so excruciating some people pass out, but you just had to have it done a few times “so the area can toughen up” she assured me brightly. ARE YOU FREAKIN’ KIDDING ME???????? Think about the area in question, guys and girls, and wonder to yourself – is this an area where you want the phrase “toughened up” to be applied? I mean, if you wanted to “toughen up” your scrotum or outer labia, why not just cut to the chase and bash it for a while with a cricket bat or buy sandpaper knickers? Jesus!
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