Celebrating Your Millennial’s Birthday In Style

In spite of Kim Jong-un’s very obvious intention to spoil all our fun, Saturday marked the end of the last birthday “event” in our house for this year, as well as the end of winter and its excuse for visible leg hair. girl-438133_1920

 

It was NC’s 23rd birthday “event” and she chose to mark its Grand Finale with an intimate gathering of close friends at our place. You see, we don’t celebrate a birth “day” in our house, we have full-on festivals that usually last a minimum of two weeks or until the old man puts the birthday cards in the bin. It is a tradition passed down by my mum, who, even when the Bailiffs were knocking at the door, celebrated birthdays and Christmas in style. Once I got my head beyond the other tradition in our family – which is dying under forty – I decided it made sense to fully embrace her wisdom of making every year count.

 

With so little blood family here with whom to celebrate, the onus is on our little band of warriors to make our birthday “events” really special – difficult when you’re married to Scrooge – and those that have stood out in the past include NC’s seventeenth when she was too hungover to turn up to her own birthday lunch, and her twenty-first – which had a Marvel theme rather than the Cinderella theme I had anticipated, much to my private disappointment. It was relatively easy to return the pink ball gown back to Myer, but the cancellation of her dowry of two-for-one Simmonds to her Prince Charming – something Kurt seemed up for – was awkward.

 

Warm-up celebrations began two weeks ago and kicked off with a Bachie marathon, for which we fully intended to dress up in our cocktail dresses and sup on Champagne until we remembered that we don’t own cocktail dresses. Anyway, PJs are so much more comfortable than dresses especially as it was still winter here and as my brainiac daughter pointed out – Matty J couldn’t actually see us! Wine replaced Champagne because I suspect Kurt drank the only bottle of Champagne to last longer than a few hours in our house, that I thought was in the cupboard – a bottle the old man must have bought in a rare moment of madness prior to The Great Depression of 2015.

 

Then came the family celebration on the day itself – a meal out together where all our best intentions to be civil to one another for one night of the year ended in tears before the arrival of the chicken wings, negating one of NC’s best opportunities to moan about animal cruelty while we pretended to care. Kurt is usually the surprise guest at these meals because not even the promise of free nosh can tempt our son away from his bedroom and Breaking Bad these days.

 

Which led us to Saturday’s Millennial gathering – an intimate soiree of close friends, all twenty-something and gorgeous, for which the old man knocked up his now infamous Sangria and spent the remainder of the evening averting his eyes to breast spillage and feigning deafness during talk of penis size. Even Kurt was on form, breaking the family record for Sangria consumption without projectile vomiting.

 

Obviously, we have to conceal the full list of birthday events from the old man when all our birthdays coincide with the end of the financial year and it is a time of family mourning in our house. But between you and us, they included:

 

  • FULL access to the tv for once, for our marathon session of Bachie. This package included the predictability of hourly snipes from the old man about how we are supposed to be feminists – yawn! – while he pretended not to watch it. His refusal to get out ‘his guns’ so that we could pretend he was Matty J and objectify him was a disappointment – and frankly very un-British
  • A girls’ lunch of oysters and Sparkly prior to the birthday dinner
  • A shopping trip to buy an impulsive party outfit that neither of us will ever wear again
  • Pres, before the party pres
  • A full body makeover for each of us to include our leaving the house/end-of-winter leg shave. All hair will be donated to either the costume department of GOT for John Snow’s cape for Season 8, or my preference, a charity that turns it into hair extensions for those menstruating women or ones that have recently come out of a relationship, chopped all their hair off on impulse and look nothing like Charlene Theron in Mad Max: Fury Road
  • Cake-testing session
  • A visit to the hairdressers to become Daenerys Targaryen, because blondes definitely seem to have more fun
  • Hourly readings of the temperature of the Sangria for NC to record the impact of climate change on Spanish alcoholic beverages

 

 

 

 

 

Fuck! I’m Nearly Fifty

So I’ve had nearly fifty years to organise my half-century mammoth birthday party to end all birthday parties.

Fuck! I'm Nearly Fifty
FreeImages.com/Yaziki Ekrem

And I have thought about it a lot in the past. But now I’m actually here, I’m not sure I can be bothered.

What happened to me? I used to pride myself on being an obsessive organiser and have wasted hours of valuable living time ruminating over all these fab plans since my fortieth. I was going to have a formal sit-down dinner, live jazz playing gently in the background, hired help (young, male and shirtless, preferably), the surprise appearance of Chris Hemsworth and loads of expensive Champagne.

But then life got in the way and my energy levels feel so depleted at the moment I hardly know what day it is at the moment, let alone how to really celebrate what is fundamentally not a great milestone in your life, other than the relief at having made it. This is not a moan for once – I’m actually in a reasonably good place with the kids both away and the old man pretending to be at my beck and call because he feels guilty about not working at the moment and is obviously questioning just how I balanced work and being a housewife for the last twenty years without combusting. But I’m just too bloody busy to think, sleep or even find the time to drink wine at the moment.

We have too many damn things to celebrate at this time of the year, too and there’s only a certain amount of smiling this old face will take. We’ve already suffered the old man’s birthday with his cruel taunts and reminders that I’m a whole year older than him. Like that’s new! Then there was Kurt’s 18th where we all maxed out on the dangerous levels of testosterone in the apartment, it might be our anniversary sometime during the next week and NC’s 21st is drawing perilously closer and I haven’t even started on the anxiety and insomnia required for that – although I have started dreaming about accidental damage insurance and looking at my pristine carpet longingly…

So my fiftieth has kind of passed me by, been downgraded to a level 2 and no doubt will evolve into another of my mish-mashed, last-minute-dot-com, fumbled-together affairs where I forget vital ingredients or to cook at all because I remember to drink. I blame the meds – they remove some of the stress but they also take out any sense of urgency from my event-planning these days and I’ve turned into a ‘just rock up’, ‘laissez-faire’ type of girl now.

Even the thought of what I’m going to feed vegetarians and coeliacs isn’t phasing me, so I really can’t be bothered, can I?

It’s not like I can trust any of the organization to the old man, even if he has assumed unemployed bum status since he become a professional ‘in-between jobs’ person.

The ageing process is slowing me down, that’s what it is. MY fifty is the new sixty. Partying no longer turns me on in the same way as snoozing in front of movies, fantasising about Gary on Masterchef, getting to bed as early as possible and drinking vast quantities of herbal tea to prolong the health of my bladder. And frankly, the thought of squeezing my voluptuousness into a tight dress makes me feel quite nauseous.

Fuck I’m Nearly Fifty!

Being Absolutely Fabulous

Champagne Mumm
Champagne Mumm (Photo credit: dpotera)

As time is not my friend at the moment and I’m chasing my tail rather like a dog with rabies, this post is as an ode to Faux Fuchsia, a blog I l adore. Faux Fuchsia focuses on style, society and fashion and is directed at wannabes like myself who have a talent for eating anything edible, drinking too much Champagne and have an unhealthy appreciation for the absolutely fabulosity of life, darling.

 

I’m on a bit of an absolutely fabulous roll myself at the moment, with an engagement party yesterday afternoon, dinner with old friends from the UK tonight (MONDAY FUCKING NIGHT!) and then a blogger event on Thursday, where I actually get to inhale as much bread and wine as I want.

 

Tough gig, that one!

 

Sod’s Law, really. You have fuck all in your diary for weeks and then three events at once, so it goes without saying that I’m having daily meltdowns about having ABSOLUTELY FUCK ALL to wear; which is every woman’s right and obviously the old man’s fault.

 

And I’ve also got a cold, so just when I want to look drop-dead gorgeous to have a chance of competing with all my gym bunny friends, my eyes are attractively puffy and there is a permanent layer of dried snot framing my nostrils.

 

Never mind!

 

Absolutely Fabulous letters - BBC
Absolutely Fabulous letters – BBC (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We were treated to a veritable feast of Champagne and an interesting fusion of Asian and Belgium food at our friend’s party yesterday – basically noodles and chocolate or in other words, every girl’s dream. I caught up with some of my besties and due to some very speedy over-quaffing in our toddler excitement, I MAY have been very drunk by the time we got home and I remembered that I still had to cook Sunday dinner.

Egg medley - Explored!

 

I’m sure the kids didn’t realize.

 

I’ve finally decided on my little Zara polka dot number for tonight and I actually found a scarf to go with it in this tiny little boutique in Neutral Bay when I collected the Princess from the groomer this afternoon. Thankfully, I had cash on me so the old man will never know.

 

Being Absolutely Fabulous

God, who would work in a vet? That place smelt like a diarrhoea tsunami had hit it this afternoon – no wonder the Princess was in an even more heightened state of anxiety than usual, other than simply stressing about her bad hair day.

 

Even better, the scarf compliments my other favourite outfit at the moment, which consists of my Peter Alexander cookie pj bottoms and UGGs.

 

Look!

Being Absolutely Fabulous

 

 

Because I’m so OCD super-co-ordinated and somewhat of a middle-aged fashionista I like to accessorize absolutely everything if I can, so I bought these yellow flowers as a token of the old man’s ‘too mean to bring more than one bottle of wine’ appreciation for tonight. I wish they were for me. It’s been a long time since I received anything other than the bargain basement dead type they give away for free at the petrol station.

Being Absolutely Fabulous

Middle-Aged Girls Night

Chocolate Fondant Cake/Lava cake
Chocolate Fondant Cake/Lava cake (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yay, it’s finally the weekend!

If there’s one certainty in life about the weekend, it’s that the vast quantities of food and wine I consume over the next 48 hours will be substantially greater than the meagre volume I allow to pass through my lips on the other five days of the week.

The weekend brings a different mindset to party people.

Fuck the diet! Fuck the weekly alcohol allowance dictated by some pretentious medical association who stupidly believes that 13 units is enough to keep us women sane and happy.

This is the first weekend in a very long time that I haven’t had to brown-nose to clients on a Saturday, and so the potential for liver damage is close to suffocating me with excitement.

All concerns for my health fly out the window at the weekend and my approach to eating and drinking becomes distinctly libertarian, turning from caution to decadence. I can already taste the melting chocolate from my Chocolate Fondant dessert coursing down my throat.

OF COURSE I can party all night long with NC and her friends, silly! Hangovers are for losers.

Anyway, there’s always sodding Sunday to worry about that shit.

On the menu tonight is a very late birthday celebration with some girlfriends in the city, followed by a session of Karaoke. NC and some friends are also coming along to help keep us middle-aged party animals awake beyond 9pm.

‘Why Karoake?’ I hear you ask.

Because I’ve never done it, and because I still can. Because during some mad/sad moment when I was feeling that life was slipping me by, I forgot that I wasn’t eighteen and it suddenly seemed appealing and something I HAD to do – of course, I could blame Pinterest for allowing me to believe all those crappy inspirational pins about ‘only being as old as you feel’ and embracing life while you still can.

Nevertheless, I’ve been practicing all week. My defining Karaoke moment will be ‘I will survive’ by Gloria Gaynor, and don’t worry, I am sure that it will be video-ed.

This is all complete bravado bollocks, obviously. All of us middle-aged women are secretly petrified. 

Nights on the town are a little different these days and if truth be told, the fall-out to this evening was embarrassingly disastrous – only the ‘real’ women are still ‘in’.

I’m not sure when exactly we women lose our ‘party’ balls? When did we start drinking equal measures of water to wine, cutting out carbs and sharing desserts?

Oh, the shame of it!

When did we start worrying about how many Tannins are in the wine or if the cream on our Tarte Tatin will make us bloated? What happened to those nights when we weren’t afraid of enjoying ourselves, or making fools of ourselves  and were proud of bad hangovers?

When did I start worrying about how I will feel on Monday on Friday night?

Half my girlfriends are driving tonight. WTF!

When did we become so fucking sensible? Did the ‘Sensible Fairy’ visit one day, sprinkle us with ‘sensible’ dust and cut off our balls in the process?

At what point in my life did I start getting anxious about getting rat-arsed on a girls night?

I need someone to blame. Is it the kids fault, or that old devil called responsibility? Is it my deteriorating body or fear of premature death? I think the fear truly started from that first torturous 24 hour hangover (post kids) after a night drinking beer and chasers with my younger brother?

NO, tonight’s going to be different. I’m going to throw caution to the wind, let my hair down, party like it’s 1984 and show those teenagers how to really have some fun.

If I book the cab for 10.30pm, I should be in bed by 11, shouldn’t I?