Actually I’m eating the pudding.
And my husband’s asleep.
And I’m not even mad about it.
Seriously, move over Fifty Cent. Or whatever idiot it is that the anti establishment youth of today revile as their leader (is it Bieber?? That can’t be right). I did google it in attempt to make it relevant, because…#research. “Popular gangsta rapper who parties a lot” is now etched into my google search history for lyfe. As is, on an unrelated note, “what colour is dried sperm” due to an unfortunate incident one otherwise uneventful Saturday night when google anticipated the end of my search sentence intuitively as I was typing “what colour is dried SCREED”, and then I got the pleasure of accidentally stumbling upon a very unexpected and unappealing image cache that made my eyes bleed. Google predictive text: thanks for the memories.
This is why I need my best friend to delete my google search history if anything ever happens to me. I won’t be there to explain this stuff away with moderately humorous, mildly unbelievable anecdotes of actual events that could only happen to me.
Anyway. Point being. The closest my husband and I get to being hardcore is like… Leaving one of the kids apple cores in the foot well of the car for three months. And a sleeping baby is the new happy hour.
The reason behind this though, I think, is the fact that I tend to loosely operate under an umbrella of four moods.
I’m too tired for this shit.
I’m don’t have time for this shit.
And I’m too old for this shit.
And quite frequently, I’m sick of cleaning up this shit.
Like most parents, we’ve just got so much figurative and literal shit happening on a daily basis, that going out and doing adult things that we might have done in our pre-parent lives is just not that high on the list of priorities. Much like mopping the floor or shaving ones legs.
You know what is high on that list though?
Anyway, the dead give away that I might be partaking in some kind of grown up activity that involves socialising and being out in public (not my strong suit) is when I take forty seven and a half thousand minutes (and a hand steadying valium) to apply eyeliner.
My general go-to beauty aesthetic is something along the lines of “yesterday’s mascara is today’s eyeshadow” with a secondary palette of “didn’t think I’d see anyone I know”. But one knows something is seriously afoot when I put on eyeliner. Because I have absolutely zero chance of feeling even remotely good about myself in public unless I have a black line on my eyelid. I don’t understand that, but there it is.
So recently I put on eyeliner (badly, probably) and took a rare opportunity to go OUT, sans enfants, with that guy that looks vaguely like the one I married but I can’t be sure because I don’t see him that much. We attended an actual live gig that wasn’t at 11am and where we weren’t surrounded by pint sized humans dancing around to four grown adults wearing primary coloured long sleeve tees. And Harry Styles was not involved either (#heartbreak). Because usually the type of concerts I choose to attend for my own enjoyment are the ones at which most adults are there only under the obligation of accompanying their teenage daughter.
It’s actually for the betterment of human kind that I’ve been relegated the life of a relative homebody though, because it needs to be said, I tend to suck at life. I’m like the hybrid human embodiment of anxiety cat and socially awkward penguin.
Stupid thing number one that I did proving I don’t belong in public: walked into the men’s toilets.
Oops. So what I assumed was an interesting take on a shiny stainless steel feature wall, was in fact, a urinal.
I blame channel nine and the producers of The Block for this.
I’m going to say I saw nothing. But I’m also going to say that if I was at all wondering what the flaccid penis of that total stranger wearing a Slash t-shirt looked like (I wasn’t), I can wonder no more. Take from that what you will.
I also found myself outwardly aghast later in proceedings when I saw a couple who had brought their couldn’t-be-more-than-nine-month-old baby to the concert.
No headphones on to protect tiny, fragile, human-baby ear drums.
Not tucked up in its cot since it was well after 9pm at this stage.
So I loudly admonished the #lifechoices of people who bring a baby to a live gig in the direction of my husband, but not loudly enough to risk aforementioned people overhearing (#fearofconflict).
Reason number two I shouldn’t go out in public… Overwhelming sense of responsibility over seemingly poor parental decision making for a child that’s not even mine.
I cast my eyes wildly around for security. Is this not an over-18 venue? I had earplugs in and was finding it loud, what must it have been like for tiny, soft, fleshy, fresh-from-the-womb eardrums?
Took a photo to prove it happened.
Looked like a creeper taking photo of someone else’s kid.
Pondered out loud (beseechingly) that perhaps the baby was hearing impaired and that’s why they felt it ok to bring him. Looked discretely for evidence of cochlear implants. Found none.
Facebook messaged some ladies from my online mothers group about it on the spot to vent my outrage.
Acting like someone’s grandmother? Check. Failing at being a normal human and minding my own god damn business, of which it was none? CHECK.
Reason number three I shouldn’t go out in public. This one was quite probably the first clue that my presence outside the walls of my own home is no longer required. When, on leaving the house for the evening, my husband suggested I needn’t take my handbag, my response was “but where will I put my caramello koala?”
Other people take drugs. I smuggle in caramello koalas in the back pocket of my jeans like contraband.
And I didn’t even care because boy was I going to be smug when I was tucking into the luscious caramelly goodness at 10:15pm when everyone else had to resort to spending $13 on a 100g packet of pretzels. Winning.
Except when your caramello koala ends up looking like this.
Other noteable mentions highlighting my inability to effectively interpret simple social cues include but are not limited to; when I breezily mentioned to the barkeep by way of nonchalant banter that my cider didn’t taste very appley and received the dead pan response “that’s because it’s pear” (mystery solved)…and when I felt such intense cool-person-envy on witnessing two audience members execute the most epic high five in history that I resolved then and there to later consult wikihow for tips on “how to perform a basic high five“. (Step one (OF TWELVE!!!!!). Grab a partner, you can’t high five yourself. This is instead called clapping). Hah. This is gonna be harder than I thought.
I’m not gonna lie though, despite my overall general social angst and sudden onset loss of motor skills the minute anyone is looking at me, I did bloody love it. It was like briefly being a tenser yet less toned version of my younger self again.
And you know what, it was loud, the place smelled like wee and the floor was sticky. So, really, not that different to my usual Friday night.