Cute

Baby Shower and the Job of the Weird Aunt Present

Went to a baby toy shop today. I know, didn’t think you would ever read about this in hellonwheels did you? Didn’t think I would write about it either. I’m 51 years old, a single barren spinster. Not all of these things by choice but here we are. Just in case you are new here.

I’ve never been invited to a baby shower before now, so it’s nice to be included, my younger cousin is due in March and I’ve been included so its lovely. So, alas, I visited a cute baby toy shop in Carlton today. My girl Wednesday (25) is into dinosaurs and found the six dinosaurs in moments, but I spotted to fake tattoo’s. I win that one, I think. A previous Girl-Friday had recommended the shop as her friend owns it. I’d seen it over the years but never had a reason to go. Until now.

The first step inside, a young child in a pusher blocked the way, said child having been strategically placed there to watch the turtle in the tank. I mean it. Its name was Guppy. I asked.

My ovaries hurt, I mean the toys, all the cuter teddies, soft toys I’ve seen young children with when out and about. Now I know where they come from. What? My ovaries still mourn not having babies, but then I hear a young baby scream in a supermarket because they have discovered how loud they can be and how much attention they can get from strangers in public and my ovaries dry right up again.

I’ve been saying for some years when asked if I would have a baby, I refer to my abdomen in general with a sweeping motion and state, “She’s suffered enough!” Let alone that I’m on the edge of the Pause so that’s not an incentive to throw caution to the wind and smash one out to Complete Me.

It’s still a case of, meet the right guy, have enough time to get to know if they are mentally unhinged or not, then have enough time just being “Us”. Then the baby stuff. And I’ve failed to mention before now, the diagnosis I received during the Covid crazy days of I’ve got Endometriosis. So, would I likely struggle to get pregnant even if I was trying too? Don’t answer that. She’s still suffered enough.

So, I bought a few very cute things today, and I even got a 1st birthday gift because I couldn’t leave it behind. It’s also going to be for grandad, my uncle to put together because it’s one of those see but don’t touch gifts. What? If you have been in one of those places, you will understand.

I’m hoping to sharpen my skills as the weird Aunty Helen. Why is she always pinching my cheeks and talking about the war?

Just an FYI, officially this baby will be my second cousin. Of which I have even some third cousins, but they have grown up and live interstate to me. So, here we are Weird Aunt ready for duty.

Cute

I’ve been called many things in my life. Many, many things and on a rare occasion I get called ‘cute’ or more that I have done something ‘cute’.

Being cute

Last week upon arriving at my favourite café, I don’t speak ‘hospitability’ so it’s got the system where you arrive, walk past all the beautifully made and displayed “sweet things”, then the savoury. You are often prompted by a friendly face behind the counter who takes your order, you pay, shuffle along, receive a number on a small metal stand. Then you take a seat and your purchase arrives with a cheery smile. To be clear, I don’t need a number. The staff know my by name and where I sit.

Walk into a cafe

Occasionally, someone doesn’t seem to know the ‘system’ and I don’t want to push in, if they are ahead of me in the queue, so I offer a prompt, if they are undecided about what to get.

Make a decision

Two slim gentlemen were away from the counter, so I kindly asked if they needed help to decide. They very shyly motioned they were waiting for their order to take with them.

My name was said and I looked behind the counter (on my blind side) Robert the owner was there. I thought to mention to the waiting me, this was Robert the owner when he handed out a packet of “Goodness” to them and I read the situation correctly to move on.

Move on

I politely smiled, inclined my head and moved to order, pay and find my seat.

Let me premise this next bit by saying, to the common foodie, like me, famous chefs host Masterchef and go by the names, George (Calembasis), Gary (who my chiro states, is seen out in her neighbourhood walking his dog) and Matt (Preston). The cravat king of Australia.

Masterchef

Once in my seat in the room before the kitchen, he stopped at my table to ask me what I had said out the front, I explained and he told me it was really cute because…

Oh? Why?

Keeping in mind, a woman once asked if the carrot cake was good. Said customer was like me, we do not eat a packet mix carrot cake. It must be moist and have cream cheese frosting with just the right amount of sugar. Just like a CWA (Country Women’s Association) would make.

Carrot cake

Like I make or my mother. The staff member she asked at the time was new and hadn’t tried the carrot cake, so I offered my tick of approval. I didn’t just tell her it was good, because I thought it would sound trite, so I did it creatively. She seemed to appreciate my efforts, I’m certain she bought it.

So, I digress. My offer to advise was cute, because he was a famous chef.

Famous chef

What! Was he? He wasn’t George, Gary or Matt Preston and I don’t do ex-foodie adventures, so I didn’t know, I had to ask.

Robert mentioned several restaurants around Melbourne, he owns all of which meant little to me. I asked him to write down his name for me, he obliged.

I have some “Foodie” friends and my older sister and partner, do the “Foodie” scene in Melbourne.

Foodie Friend

Mentioning him to my Boo, my friend who once worked for Gordon Ramsay, gave me a bit of a “meh” OK? Which I took to be akin to a “whatever”, so I mentioned to another of my gay “Foodie” friends, who very promptly responded with a big smile.

Gordon Ramsay