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
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