Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Hens just wanna have fun. And flash boozies.

I'm back!

I'm croaking like Kirstie Alley, my liver is threatening divorce, and I still feel the lingering pain of the shampoo-flu, but mostly I'm warm and befuzzled. It's the glow of lady-love.

Oh, how I love an all-estrogen affair. This is Lucy, the inimitable Dr. Dog, who arranged the whole proceedings. She proper medicine-woman, which is desirable when a bunch of out-of-condition mothers and assorted cougars are let loose on bottle shops and serviced apartments.

And here are some of the ladies, frocked up and just a little over-excited. Shaky fingers. Quivering morals. Tenuous grip on dignity and self-respect.

No kids! Champagne! So much to talk about about! We laughed so much we nearly fell off the penthouse balcony.

Did I mention the penthouse?

Dimitria swore that there is a chemical called 'copulin' that will drive men wild. Oprah told her. Then somebody confessed that they can't talk at all during sex, somebody admitted giving constant direction, and somebody shared that they say one thing only: 'What do you want to to do to me now?'

You know who you are.

There was karaoke. Sonia didn't sing much but did a lot of star jumps. It's her signature move. And then Emma-Jane performed this version of Paul McCartney's 'My Love' that got slower and more depressed until it drove us all home to bed, and left this ringing in my ear for two days:





Next day we shifted to the Hilton, where Lucy, Dim and I tried to pony up for another nights debauchery. Chips, coffee, Nurofen, stat.

We pulled it together, Dimi did a beautiful job on my makeup and we swauntered on downstairs, feeling quite the young moderns, at least until until Dim realised she was carrying a Franklins bag full of takeaway Chinese.

More champagne, garcons! Burlesque fabulousness and hilarious good times! So many beautiful buddies. These seem to be the only pics I have, so some of the crew are missing. But not from my mental charge-sheet.

Sonia, Rach and Tiff look happy. Bianca shows the crazy-eyes.

Me with my two sexy nerds Amy and Christey.

My darling sister Sammy, who drove 5 hours from the country to see me. and lovely Katie, with the other Sam, our molecular geneticist/dancer, busting out a little Aga-Doo in the back.

Something happened onstage. Lucy and I weren't sure what it was.

Monday morning we were feeling just a little delicate.

I trundled my little suitcase through the city, got on the train and went back home, where Ivy showed me the only use she had for shimmery body-glow.

Re-acquainted me with my other friends Murray Wiggle and Big Girl Kangaroo.

And showed me the only person getting tramp-stamped in this family was Teddy.

Thank you all for being the greatest girlfriends I could ask for, and rest assured that I can never get married again - I couldn't make it through another hens weekend. Five weeks to go - bring on the wedding!

Monday, September 7, 2009

The Bagina Monologues

Gosh, it's been a while.

Here's a brief update:

Keith remains a fine figure of a man. Bum like two puppies fighting under a blanket. He is creaking a little under the pressure hose of life with two under three though, as I am. Hunching over a computer all day, driving too often to Canberra and throwing little people in the air is putting pressure on his back. It's gone funny. It hurts.

Ivy, soldering synapses at an incredible rate, learns more by the day. She's doing well on the toilet training front. Sportacus underpants. Many successes. And many momensts to remember. In the bath, with Teddy, Ivy usually adds her own little organic product to the mix. My argument against weeing in the bath water doesn't fly. 'It's not nice, Ivy,' I tell her. 'But Mummy,' she insists, 'It is nice.'

Hard to refute that.

Last night she contorted herself into a position worthy of a Ukranian gymnast and announced proudly: 'Mummy, I'm holding the wee in my bagina so I don't do it in the bath.' After a pause, a look of surprise. 'Mum! I did wee on my hand!'

Another day, another lesson.

Teddy, luckily, is still as adorable as a golden retreiver puppy, because he's got about as much sense. He hasn't got the memo yet about our improved routine. If I move two feet away from him, he wails as though I'm cutting his legs off. It's so sweet. He loves his Mummy. But it is


When he does get up to his own fun for a moment or two, it's Labrador-style. At the computer, he's clicking the mouse frantically around a box reading 'Are you sure you want to delete the file 'work in progress' and all its contents?' Then he's into the CD cabinet, and the glassware shelf. And when he does one of his mammoth poos, he's not happy until he's fully explored its textures with his foot.

Me, I'm cracking up just a little bit. Not enough to warrant a Prozac, rocks, with a twist; but enough that everyday life is starting to present new challenges. In recent days I've put deodorant on my face, filled my coffeepot and put it in the microwave, and after a massage, put my clothes back on, slung my handbag over my shoulder, and had my hand on the doorknob before I realised I had forgotten my top.

In general, I'm feeling a bit exhausted from the everyday grind. (Case in point - I'm writing this during our Wiggles break in the afternoon. Ivy just leaned in: 'Mummy, here's my boogie.' 'Your what?' 'My nose boogie.''I don't want your boogie, Ives.' 'But why not?' Face falls. 'Take my boooogieee..' And so it rolls.) I am in real need of a tiny break so I can have the distance to miss and appreciate my two little buddies. This stay-at-home Mum needs some be-in-world time.

This weekend I am heading away for two days with the ladies - hens weekend! It couldn't come at a better time. Lucy, organiser extraordinaire, sent me this email: Penthouse suite. The ladies. Karaoke downstairs. Adult incontinence diapers.

Full report later, if I'm not in custody.