I'm afraid we've reached an impasse. Between the flood crisis in Queensland, and the impending birth of the third child of a woman we'll call Mrs Superamazing, I haven't been nable to have any fantastic adventures to share with you. Spraining my ankle probably didn't help either, but we won't dwell on the negatives, instead we' ll rehash an adventure we had previously.
Cast your mind back, if you will, to the first Tuesday in November. Mrs Superamazing and I had a cunning plan to celebrate by overdressing, eating yummy things, and laughing a hell of a lot. We didn't really know anything about the horses running in the Melbourne Cup, and we didn't care. It was an excuse to dress up, and wear silly hats, and Mrs Superamazing and I were more than willing to look out of place as we dropped the children at school, if it was in the interests of having a fabulous time. Which it was.
We looked fantastic, which shouldn't surprise anyone, we are the Real Housewives of Mount Druitt, and as such, it's our job, no, our sacred duty, to look damn fine, all the time. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it, and we don't disappoint.
Before we go any further, I must confess to a small problem. You might not have noticed, but I have a tendency to go off on strange tangents, leading to new, uncharted territories, usually because I've stumbled across something that intrigues, or sickens me. Or both. This tendency led to the subject of our Melbourne cup conversation.
You see, I'd been trolling the Internet looking for free breast implants (a bit like the modern womans search for the holy Grail, but much more important), when I discovered the recurring use of the term "designer vagina", which, I'm sure you'll agree, is the sort of thing that makes you go "WTF? Are you kidding me?", and then you discover that, no, it's not a joke. Though, perhaps it should be.
Of course, once I discovered the ancient art of vajazzling, I had to share the news. I approached Mrs Superamazing and squealed, "vajazzle?", and, in true form, Mrs Superamazing, laughed, and we began to ponder what sort of woman would add rhinestones and sequins to her genitalia. After looking over the women outside the school, we decided that it would be better if we didn't try to imagine any of THEM sporting vajazzles.
Then, we added champagne to the mix, and that made vajazzling seem like a really funny idea. I grabbed a pack of rhinestones, and we started making the guys very, very uncomfortable. There's a sort of hypnotic effect caused by constant repetition of the word "vajazzle", guys can't leave while the conversation continues, but it's too girly a matter for real comfort, thus creating a time/space vortex from which there is no escape.
By 2pm I was drunk, and my stomach ached from laughter. "Vajazzle!", we cried, as I raised my glass and quaffed cheap champagne, and dissolved once more into giggling fits more suited to fourteen year olds than respectable mothers. I don't know which horse won the race, but I do know it was Jennifer Love-Hewitt, on the George Lopez show, who was the first to mention vajazzling on a televised broadcast, she recommended it a cheer up procedure, after a nasty break up.
We, or at least I, never tried vajazzling, but, without a shadow of a doubt, vajazzling provided me with the most fun I've had on Melbourne cup day, ever, and I doubt I'll be able top it without actually leaving the house.
There's no point to this story. But if you can guess the identity of Mrs Superamazing, you win bragging rights.
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