Goldilocks – pure hell

Around this neck of the woods I am the sole arbiter of banned words.

The list grows daily, a collection of unpleasant name calling and insults, but that’s probably to be expected when a speech delay becomes less so.

As their limited diets expand alongside their word count, they are dogged in their search for the most apt description of
flatulence.

My son is only to happy to be dubbed ‘Stinkfly’ to align his bodily functions with his love of Ben 10. He is not insulted by this nickname, it’s more of a badge of honour.

Meanwhile I enjoy a brief shower. Oh to be clean! I pay dearly for yet another error in judgment. In a moment of weakness I agreed to buy the very expensive shampoo and conditioner. I should have negotiated with the hairdresser, told her that I was quite happy with whatever happened to be on offer at Target. Instead I opted for escape and a hole in my cheque book. Debates can be time consuming if you also wish to remain polite. I wasn’t sold on the ‘you of all people deserve it,’ message, it was more a case of ’23 minutes to get across town to collect children’ imperative.















I should have stuck to my ‘don’t buy a bottle of anything that isn’t already upside down’ rule. Thus I fight with goop that won’t co-operate. The dispenser fails, so I rip of the top and commence CPR. I am rewarded with a handful of slime. It is immediately apparent that I have accidentally purchased some kind of medicinal liniment as the stench is unimaginable. I flip over the bottle to examine the list of ingredients. Without the bifocals I am unable to decipher small print that covers every available space.




















I wash my hair and recall ‘it lasts forever, you only need to use a blob the size of a pea.’ I slap on another handful and curse. My eyes sting. Who on earth manufactures such a shampoo these days? All those rabbits tortured for nothing. I become aware that I seem to have "deep heat" on my face, surely every pore is about to spontaneously combust. The meager suds slip down my body to attack other regions. I’m tempted to check for burn marks but I lack "bendygirl’s" skills.’ I dither about ‘return policies’ but prefer not to outline my objections. How many other innocents have this experience? I conclude that American hair washers never wash their hair in the shower with this product, it’s a strictly salon, horizontal expose. Hence forward, I shall only shower in pure rainwater. How toxic is rainwater these days? Maybe I need to move to a different State where precipitation rates are higher? I wonder which State has the highest daily rate of rainfall and the most liberal views on public nudity?



I pull on a pair of sludge coloured trousers and a ratty old shirt of a similar hue. Maybe I should have bought some new clothes instead? Probably cheaper too. I stagger downstairs with an air of John Wayne. My son awaits me at the foot of the stairs, "dat's a great colour on you mom!" I examine him closely for any hint of sarcasm.

None.

This is several light years away from earlier "compliments" like 'I love yur red eyes.' Strangely, it is every bit as disconcerting.

"Thank you dear, I like your brown T-shirt too."
"Now we are be matchin twins."
Identical.

I grab the "shoehorn" and commence the new, improved 9 minute "shodding" campaign. I assume the position of supplicant and kneel before the first pair of tippy toe feet, head bowed in focus. “Eeeooow!” he snorts falling back onto the carpet and rolling away, “dat is dah worstest Stinkfly ever.”

Better make that 9 hour shodding campaign, with a fair wind behind me.

A "bath in beer" may be my only option.