40th birthdays. What happens when the housewife's apron comes off and hair comes down?

So after the weekend just gone, there may be an argument to retitle this blog:

'Grown Up, and maybe, just maybe, a teensiest bit Old'.

Sometimes.

It was the ubiquitous Cathy, our very own and beloved Friday 50s housewife, who was persuaded to take off the Laura Ashley apron, don her signature black sequin-and-crucifix style and hit it hard in honour of her 40th birthday,complete with stilettos with not just spikes for heels, but spikes coming OUT of the heels as well.

Well, it was Saturday after all.

And forgive me if these creaking bones are feeling every minute of my thirty-nine something years right about now. And if I'm being totally honest, at something ridiculous (and way past my bedtime) o' clock in the early hours of Sunday morning, watching the latest 'young generation' in what was once my own natural habitat but now feels like some sort of alien universe, I felt, I have to admit, just a tad past it.

It's a bizarre feeling.

Whilst swapping stories with others of days of yesteryear (4 nights a week! No sleep! Didn't miss a day of work! Backed up again the next night!) it became apparent that whilst our bravado and attitudes let us talk the talk (rather loudly) our old(ish) bones are starting to fail us when it comes to walking the walk.

We started out in somewhat typical 'old school' fashion, ie. pre drinks at Cathy's, or correctly, champagne out of tumblers (quote of the day when mentioning that I should have bought some champagne flutes for her birthday, Cathy's response: 'I can't have nice things'). The only change from days of old being the tumblers were glass instead of plastic (or the bottle) and the champagne was Veuve Cliquot, instead of the far more likely Passion Pop or Spumante (or Spewmante, for reasons likely obvious but best left alone).

There have to be some positives to getting old.

We had also thrown money in the hat to buy Cath a gorgeous Thomas Sabo skull charm, but I wanted to get C something little from just me.

What else except a new crucifix, that was so totally reminiscent of Cathy circa 1990 that I just couldn't resist. Coupled with a lighter that looked like a gun and we were good to go.

No-one could have foreseen Cathy's attempt to hold up the taxi driver with her 'gun'... Well that's a total lie, it was never a matter of would it happen, it was simply a matter of when.

Fortunately with probably the only Australian born taxi driver in Brisbane (or in existence) we arrived at the German Club venue without bloodshed.

So to quickly recap: I know know what a pork knuckle is (ie. bigger than my head) and have discovered that German strawberry and lime cider tastes pretty effing good. I have also now heard Lady Gaga as sung by a German one man band accompanied on something that I think was an accordion. Or perhaps it was the cider hallucinations.

Really.

So a cast of thousands rolled up to celebrate Cathy's birthday and the festivities abounded. I have a sneaking suspicion that the German Club probably quadrupled their takings for the evening. I would ask the owner but he's probably lying one beach in the Bahamas courtesy of us right about now.

Now I will definitely post some pics but my stupid iPad camera kit won't work for me today so I will have to wait till I get home tonight.

I feel compelled to write this quickly though for a few reasons.

The first, and most flattering, is that I met one of Cathy's mates on Saturday night who sought me out to tell me how much he loves my blog, and to tell me to 'get back to work' as I've been a slackass with the posts lately. So Paul, awesome to meet you and this one's for you.

Secondly, duh, it's Cathy's birthday and what more fun post to write?

Anyhoo, so drinking...merriment...raucous behaviour...blah blah blah...

I'll get Cath to take pics of her presents too, as I've never seen a more suitable collection of 'Cathy' gifts in my life. Particularly loving the 'bloody knife' handbag.

So as any of us could have predicted, well after the usual closing time and after numerous (and less and less gentle) reminders to get the hell out...and long after locking us all out of the building and herding us into the outdoor area...we were eventually told to GTFO in no uncertain terms.

Well Ok...

I'm not sure who decided that midnight karaoke was a good choice...ok total lie, it was Cathy, so into the Valley we went to hear the inevitable massacre of many a tune that was far too massacred to even recognise what it was supposed to be.

With the exception of the housewife, naturally, whose rendition of a song peppered with motherf#%!er and something about police doing something to themselves that I've been led to believe is anatomically impossible...was fabulous.

Awesome stuff.

Anyhoo, whilst people watching in the type of seedy venue that I grew up with I noticed something weird.

I really, really don't get boys these days.

Now some would say I may be a fine one to talk, gravitating to the long haired, tight jeaned seedy looking boys that were so unbelievably different to the Country Road, RM Williams crew that ran the planet back in the day.

However, with some of those same boys turning up Saturday night, I can categorically say I had damned good taste...they were a bit of alright back then and still are to this day.

Now I can't quite say the same for the baggy crotch jeaned, dirty straggly haired with slouchy beanie boy who looks like a bath may have escaped his attention this century. Of which the Valley is being overrun by.

What was most perplexing was that almost every one was accompanied by a waify, delicate looking and scantily clad gorgeous girl fawning all over them.

Huh? I mean yeah, the girls looked pretty spacey but surely no drug in the world could polish that turd???

Oops, did I just say that out loud?

Anyhoo, I have decided this odd modern day 'individuality' discussion deserves a post of its own so I shall park it for now.

So back on point, I have a horrible suspicion that it make take quite awhile to recover from such an epic night. Lets just say driving back to toowoomba yesterday is a foggy memory and I went to bed earlier than my grandma (oh the horror!). And despite more than four strong coffees and a diet coke I'm still feeling tired, as spacey as a pretty waif and terribly, terribly old.

Unacceptable!!!

In summing up I shall also say, Cathy, thank you for a night I will never forget and hopefully not repeat for. Little while...until the next 40th of course.

Bec xx

My second favourite F word...farewell bad hair days.

So for the last couple of weekends, I've been subjected to every renter's nightmare - the dreaded 'open house'.

Having to keep the house clean at all times 'just in case' a prospective buyer comes around, and then the major clean-up for the open house, not to mention the horrible thought of people looking inside your drawers (no pun intended) and checking out the contents of your cupboards...

Ugh.

So creepy.

I made the mistake of checking out the listing on the real estate agent's website to find that they'd cleared off a lot of my stuff for photographic purposes. That feels weird. Although I did get a perverse sense of satisfaction knowing that two grown men had spent some time clearing off my Monster High doll collection from the mantelpiece and then re-arranging them in their pretty tableau. (it is rather disturbing to note they did a remarkably good job).

Haha.

It makes me wonder if the agent comes early to the open house and packs away my dollies before the hordes descend? Or if he just lets people think (correctly, as it turns out) that the renter is simply a kook, or else has a 12 year old boy who plays with goth dolls...

I'm giggling just at presumed reactions...and the look on my son's face if anything thought the dolls might be HIS.

Anyhoo, the house has been SOLD and we're just awaiting the building/pest inspections and it will be done and dusted.

So I'm FREE.

So excited to be facing down a weekend where I'm stubbornly NOT going to clean or lift a finger and instead have scheduled the most girly of girly days for tomorrow.

First up - a cut and colour and my newly adopted salon. This probably doesn't sound like that big a deal, but for many, many years I was one of those ridiculous people who was the most religious hairdresser-goer ever. My hair was perfect, my colour stupendous and bad hair days...what were those?

Then life got so bloody expensive and about a year ago, my luxurious visits to my beautiful, albeit hugely expensive, hairdresser had to be sadly sacrificed at the altar of creditors.

Oh it was the hardest decision of my life.

Now I'm also ridiculously precious about who gets to touch my hair, so I've always just gotten a cut at a salon first to see if they totally buggered it up. And sadly, since moving to Toowoomba, three salons which shall remain unnamed totally botched it.

So basically it's been a year since I got my hair professionally coloured, er I mean...yes of course I'm a natural blonde...

Instead I've been forced into a series of home jobs, some more successful than others.

Suffice it to say, there are about 7 different variations of colour on the same strand of hair, which together with the horrible roots makes me simply want to cry every morning when looking in the mirror.

And then I found Jess at Oscar Oscar. My cut last month was fabulous so I'm so excited to be going tomorrow for the full 'works'. Stay tuned for photos (or tears).

My nightmare may well be over!

I also mentioned a while ago about my imminent midlife crisis and my desperate obsession dedication to staving off 'old' in a futile attempt to keep my youthful, fresh looks.

Haha.

So anyhoo, I've since basically married Karlia at Pure Indulgence who has set me on a path that she assures me will have me looking more Kylie Minogue than Jocelyn van Wildenstein. At least she hasn't produced any needles yet.

So my 'programme' consists of a multitude of sandblasting, I mean microdermabrasian, layered with a few peels and a new skincare regime to basically get my skin to 'renew' itself.

Sounds like a load of hokey but I must admit every day my skin is looking better and better and dare I say it...younger???

Unfortunately after every treatment I'm still breaking out like some sad teenage mofo but hopefully once my skin is successfully 'renewed' by some miracle my skin might decide that adult acne really is just too embarrassing for words.

So following my hair appointment tomorrow, I get to visit Karlia so that she can go over my face with a cheese grater.

Bliss.

I cannot wait! What an awesome day to look forward to (and the best part is, I've paid upfront for the skin programme so I kinda feel like I'm getting a freebee).

Happy days!

What are your plans for the weekend? Hope you're day will come close as being as good as mine!

Bec xx

Zombies and stick families...the lesser of two evils?

For anyone who knows me the following revelation probably won't come as an enormous surprise.

I spend an inordinate amount of my life debating the likelihood of and my chances of survival in the event of a zombie apocalypse.

Apparently moving away from a capital city has increased my chances, although I lived in a highrise with a pool on the roof which would have been an ideal vantage spot to pick off the brain-eating crazies coming to get me (and the zombies too) and now live in a flat-on-the-ground house. I haven't yet investigated if my security screens are zombie-proof but will put that on my To-Do list immediately.

According to the zombie quizzes I make it past the first few hurdles but then meet my demise due to my distaste for gore, ugliness, and avoidance of close, hand-to-hand combat.

However my new plan is to commandeer a Bunnings Warehouse complete with all manner of long-handled dangerous looking implements that I believe should allow me to be dangerously effective...but as a distance. It's even got a cafe. And camp beds.

But I digress...

Anyhoo, I also haven't really made any effort to hide my utter disdain (read: complete hatred) of those stupid 'My Family' car stickers (except for the one at the link attached which quickly became my most favourite picture and I was quite tempted to put it on my own car).

So stumbling onto the following seemed like kismet.

Braaaaaiiiinnnnssss....

Bec xx

Red letter days and chicks in utes.

Do you have a particular day of the year where big things happen to you? A date that doesn't have any special significance except for events that tend to happen without prompting? A red letter day?

I have one of these - the 28th February.

Now this date really doesn't mean anything to me, ie. no-one special's birthday falls on this day or anything like that. And to be honest, up until I turned 18, it was just another day (occurring just after we'd started school for a new year).

And then my beautiful mum died. Yep, on 28th February. And suddenly that day became the most dreaded day of the year, followed closely by her birthday.

For the next million years, I would dread the arrival of 28th February to the point where I would tear up at the mention of it and quite often warn my boss in advance that I would likely be a mess that day.

Now one thing you know about my mum is she wasn't one for other people's theatrics (her own were a different story). She was from the school of 'walk it off' and get on with it. So I could only imagine that what followed was instigated by her saying 'OK enough already'...

In 2001, my sister was pregnant and due to some circumstances had to deliver via planned casearean. Only her doctor was only available on...you guessed it...28th February.

Not entirely comfortable with this, she rang everyone in the family to check our reactions. Unanimously though, we all agreed that it would be lovely to have celebrate on this bleak day.

Now I'm a bit funny about 'scheduling' a baby's birthdate as whilst I'm not an astrology nut, I do believe the date and time you're born does hold some special significance, so I understand my sister's concern about artificially deciding on her child's birthday.

Which makes what followed all the more special...

On the morning of the 'big day' we got a call in the early hours to announce that as my sister had spontaneously gone into labour, her baby was delivered on...28th February...just 12 hours earlier than planned!

It was meant to be.

So ever since then we've had something wonderful to celebrate on this once dreaded day - my gorgeous nephew's birthday. What was once a really sad day has become something beautiful and joyous instead.

And since then, other momentous things have tended to occur on this date.

And then last week, once again, 28th February rolled around. Now a couple of weeks ago my landlord rang me and said he was putting my beloved home up for sale. I was gutted. I love my home and wasn't in a position to buy it myself, so instead had to prepare myself for the invasiveness of open homes, inspections and ultimately that someone else would fall in love with my gorgeous little abode and I would be politely asked to vacate.

So this was stressing me out. However, on...you guessed it...28th February, the agent rang, after a single week on the sales market, telling me an offer was made and accepted by an investor and that they wanted me to stay for as long as I'd like.

Luck? Coincidence? I think not.

So there's my red letter day story, what is yours?

Oh, and on a totally unrelated matter, what is it about a blonde with big sunnies (despite being the wrong side of...ahem...35...) driving our work ute that suddenly attracts the attention of every male passerby???? Mysteries of the universe.

Bec xx