booooooooooooring

On Saturday I went to a trivia night held by the P&C of my son’s school out of a sense of guilt that I haven’t made an effort to make friends with his friend’s parents.  It actually was okay.  My table was not full of the hyperconservative boring snobby ogres I expected (I live in a hyperconservative boring snobby suburb so I feel my assumption was not completely baseless).   They were actually really nice.  The dads remind me of what I think some of my friends will be like in their 30s…. 40s?  I don’t know.  They didn’t seem that old but they made scary assertions about remembering the 70s.  Maybe like how I pretend as if I can remember the 80s.  

Then I went to a friend’s housewarming.  Because of trivia, I didn’t arrive until around midnight, but I’ve done that before and it’s been fine.  No, instead I arrived to a backyard of drunk people yelling "spider… trap…. trap spider…. spider trap" over and over for 5 long minutes.  At first I was thinking they were welcoming me in their own strange way but after the 30th repetition of this mantra I realised it was just alco-zombies yelling out nonsense, and that if someone else were to arrive after me, they’d all be yelling something else at them.  

The hostesses were all passed out in their bedrooms already and their husband/fiance/man-bitches were emptying out large tubs of vomit into the drains.  The neighbours’ kid was having an 18th, and I felt sad for them, because they’re obviously one very parent-whipped teenager.  Either that, or there are 18 year olds out there that like Wings and KC & the Sunshine Band.  In which case, that’s even sadder.  Apparently the 18 year old girls from the party had tried to invite themselves to the party in my male friends’ collective pants.  Beef had a very loud drunk chick weaving around him who looked 15 but allegedly was 23, whom had earlier on been convinced by everyone that I had a penis.  Basically, it was very obvious from the scene before me that I’d just missed all the fun.  

Lanky and I had to herd them out on to the street when it was obvious we’d overstayed our welcome, which of course was like herding cats.  The extremely drunk chick that kept screaming about how she was freezing her "little Asian arse off" recognised me as penis girl, said "I’m so honoured to meet you", hugged me and then fell on to Beef, her would-be drunk rapist.  They went home.  I went home.  

I spent all of Sunday down in the bush at the back of our suburb with the Palex, while we pretended to rock climb like Bear Grylls.   We saw some water dragons hiding under rocks and weird mushrooms and a bush turkey and lots of things we hadn’t noticed before.  He wore a fedora hat that we bought while out shopping the other day, so he looked like he was Indiana Jones.  I don’t have a cool hat, but I didn’t fall in the creek like he did.  I’m sure-footed like a mountain goat.  Goats don’t wear hats.  Actually… they don’t wear clothes… so I’m going to end the comparison at the hat status level.   They do chew things, however, and I like to chew things.   

This concludes my report on the not very exciting weekend.