What does a wicked Wednesday in Brisbane often entail?
Sometimes, it entails waking up next to my cousin after having crawled into bed with her in the earlier hours of the morning. Where I spend a couple of moments breathing in her particular scent of sleep and perfume that has always accompanied my Little W as a tiny tot. Before the reality of life seems to find its way under the closed door as she snuggles a little bit closer to me before adulthood comes a knockin’ with a beep of a mobile device.
It is within these moments of tender quietness that I tend to find myself thinking about the dark haired tot perched on a gown covered hip. The same dark haired tot who had the ability of appearing sweet and innocent until you discovered her secret that saw her go from said innocence to a methane farting, mustard gas toxic toddler of my childhood in thirty seconds or under.
Before being replaced with the additional hatred I once possessed as a child when informed by her Mother that this methane, mustard gas of a horror would be effectively staying in my bedroom for the evening. I swear Dearest Reader if I had been an adult with a driver’s licence, a well-paying job and bills under my belt buckle as are the aforementioned rules to swearing in the O’Chunky household, I’d have happily informed Lois: “get f*cked, she’s sleeping outside with the cat!”
However, over the last decade or so, Little W has gone from the methane farting horror of my childhood to something of a rarity and yet, cannot be defined as being ‘ordinary’ of any kind.
Instead, my Little W has become a woman of simple natures and radiating beauty that lurks and swirls under the surface of her skin. All the while, still allowing me to pick her up and swing her around the dining room without much complaining and sitting through the whirl wind advice given.
Otherwise fondly known as sex education for horny teens 101.
So what did this wicked Wednesday really entail as both Little W and I found ourselves lurking beneath the covers of her bed, in the solitude silence and warmth?
It all began as the bustling world outside of the purple curtains speeds by like a bullet train on crack. Whilst the guy across the road discovered he could actually pull the button firmly on his blower for the leaves instead of doing putt putt motions, both of us thought about the balance we find ourselves committing on a daily basis between the hectic lifestyle waiting for us, both outside the bedroom door and in the real world, and the inner zen we often crave.
Lingering beneath those covers for another few seconds that slowly melted away into minutes, I spoke of stories of Little W’s childhood history and how she eventually became to be known by her deadly methane gas. But before I could continue on with our story, the idea of coffee being slipped into my hand as I walked down the hallway for a dip in the shower had me rolling over and checking the time.
Much like a scene out of Four Weddings and a Funeral, I found myself lurching up with a “fuck!” and so began the marathon of getting ready in 40 minutes.
20 minutes later with a coffee in hand, my hair still damp from the shower and a stern talk delivered about the care for diabetics and foot ulcers to my niece, I leant against the doorframe and watched as Little W struggled to zip up her jeans. As the mounting frustration grow on her face whilst tugging on her zip, Little W let out an angry puff of air.
As I stepped away from the door frame that had been supporting my weight while polishing off the remaining amount of coffee, I opted to be the fantastic cousin who’d spent several years being tortured with Home Economics. While shoving back the reminders of what a complete and utter failure I was as a student and my limited knowledge towards Home Ec, I set about trying to rectify the closing to Little W’s jeans.
It was in this moment of being bent over at the waist with Little W’s hand wrapped in my hair, on the context of keeping it off my face, that my Aunt decided to walk down the hall and check on us. As I was greeted with the sound of her hysterically laughing before being replaced with a body hitting the wall, I tore my gaze away from the little blue bow that had been peeking at me through the gaping hole of my cousin’s jeans and raised a brow.
Least to say, the jeans and my dignity couldn’t be saved.
Having admitted defeat while secretly wondering if my Home Ec teacher had been correct in telling me that if we’d lived in the 50’s and I had a husband, I wouldn’t be able to provide sufficient meals or sewing techniques. However, the thought was replaced with the smug satisfaction of knowing I was more than capable of holding an eight course meal for 10+ people.
All the while having the ability to communicate effectively, while decanting wine, with housewives gossiping about children and their growth spurts, teenagers on how much life really doesn’t suck as it really does get better after the age of 18 and you have a driver’s licence. Before opening the bottle of scotch and dazzling those with my knowledge of the business world and switching tactics on becoming Wonder Woman in the public eye and when the door closes with a firm push, the secret desires of Cat Woman comes alive.
Alongside the image of her leather heeled boots walking over the firm back of a male victim, while muttering about “what a bad, bad boy you have been”.
With the image of a particular someone being to my bed with floating scarves, tied in a series of knots around their wrists and them begging, the shuffling sound of Little W coming down the hallway woke me from my fantasy of Cat Woman dominating Batman. As I mentally saluted Wee Wee while muttering her name with a French accent, Little W and I’s parting reminder from my 13 year old nephew wasn’t on conquering the world or discovering the antidote for stupidity.
Rather, our lecture was on how we need to “use protection.”
Staring at him as he sat back in the couch with a rather smug grin on his face, like he had just hand delivered my acceptance letter to Yale for Medicine, whilst piling my handbag with the bare minimum essentials that every woman carries around; I experienced two completely and utterly different emotions.
One emotion saw me sarcastically reply with, “My plan isn’t to get pregnant today” while the second left me absolutely chaffed that my years of sex education, random showings of pimple like covered foreskin attached to equally disturbing penis had some how rubbed off onto his little shoulders. But before I could think of his comment in greater depth, I was shoved out the front door by Little W and just like that, we were off to Brisbane.
Otherwise fondly known as Gotham City.
As to the remaining story of whether or not Batman fell into the trap and become a little tied up with rescuing my cat stranded in the tree or Little W’s availability for more Wicked Wednesdays, I have decided that I am going to let you finish the story.
Your thoughts on what happened, if Batman is available for rescuing your cat, dog or assassinating your MMIL (Monster Mother In Law) and Little W’s availability can be sent by clicking onto my Contact Scarlett page.
However since I know some of us are time crunched because we are someone else’s super hero, I’ve included a quick link that you can find here and it will take you to the page automatically. As to filling out the contact form, its rather easy and if you want to go by your secret super hero name than by all means, go for it.
I look forward to reading your theories, conspiracies and general inquiries about Batman’s… abilities.
Until next time,
P.s. What does a Wicked Wednesday entail for you, Dearest Reader?