Happy birthday Kezzie and Debs

I learned a few things in the last 24 hours. (Yeah, yeah, I hear ya - old dog, new tricks, haha.)

For example, I learned that when completely desperate for a top to wear on the first night out in oh, I dunno, a year (?), you will find absolutely nothing. Nuh-thing. This is me yesterday afternoon: oh geez, all my clothes are packed, and even if they were spread out in front of me, I would still have nothing to wear tonight. Huh. What to do?

Leaves kids with Daddy, drives hurriedly up to local shops. Searches Target (yes, top-shelf for me, all the way!) fruitlessly, finding only skivvies, warm woolly knits, and work blouses that make my boozies look like my name should be Helga. Bugger. Searches Best and Less (did I mention I was classy?), finds scary, stretchy, shiny work blouses, skivvies and warm woolly synthetic knits. Christ. Searches obscure little clothing shop tucked into corner of the shopping centre. Finds lurid party dresses in all manner of frills, frightening Mary-Coustas-costumed-as-Effie type blouses, and red mesh see-through type stuff. Exit stage left. Searches Rivers outlet (only option left other than Coles). Nah. Runs back home in rivers of sweat, searches suitcase packed with clothes. Tries on top that was too small last time I wore it. Fits enough. Awesome.

I also learned that 15 minutes is the same as a few hours when getting ready for a big night out, for this little black duck, anyway. In ye olde goode days, I may have been known to set aside a generous portion of the day to prepare for the night, doing such deeds as drinking a few litres of water, having a sleep, shaving my legs, blowdrying my hair, and so on, and so forth. My preparation for last night consisted thus: pull off dirty, snot-encrusted housework clothes, pull on clean(ish) clothes (that fit marginally better since my workout running around the shops), smear makeup on face with more hope than skill, drag brush through hair to get rid of the largest chunks. Run out door. See? Minimal effort, fairly similar end result. Or maybe I need glasses.

I learned that the combination of warm weather and the night before Good Friday is an intoxicating thing. The buzz in the city last night was just a bit fabulous. Kirst and I got dropped off in St.Kilda to meet up with Pauleen and Jess, and even standing in a dodgy pub with the footy on the telly was exciting. Even though I had already realised that my heels were a tad dressy, I didn't care. I said I was wearing them because I'm short, which is partly true (well, I am short. Not partly. Totally short. I digress.), but I was really wearing them because they make me feel good. Apparently I swagger in them. I prefer to call it 'sauntering'.

I learned that there is a reason why people with half a large intestine should not drink beer and eat fatty food. Neither of which I have done in a very, very long time, and most especially not since my last surgery. But for some unknown reason, standing in the Prince of Wales last night, having a pot of Carlton Draught seemed like an excellent idea. And since the first one went down so nicely, I followed it with a second. So far, so good.

What I learned next was, that the problem with beer is not the actual swallowing, but the digestive processes that come after.

I learned fairly quickly last night that I can no longer keep up with my beautiful friends in the beer-drinking department, and so after a little break, I switched to lemon ruskis. Which, I may say, I have not had since the barmaid who served me was a babe in arms. And my, my, were they refreshing. (But I showed my age when I tried to order one and didn't know what to call it! I was trying to look after my friends and wanted to get the first round...thank goodness Paulsa was there to help me out with naming the bloody drink. Sheesh.) Somewhere along the way, I must have learned to stop before things got messy, because after two ruskis I had had enough, and was more than happy to drink water. Which I suppose shows absolutely nothing except I am a boring lightweight. Whatever.

I learned that my body will now tell me, very quickly, when it has had enough. And that my intestines are a weathervane for the rest of me. So girls, when I sat at the table rather than shaking my booty with Kezzie, it was not because I was being a party pooper. Rather, I was trying not to be a pooper, full stop. (TMI?? Sorry. I guess when they took half my bowel they took my discretion?? Or was that on the birthing table...???)

I learned that celebrating a 37th birthday is pretty much identical to celebrating a 17th birthday. At least, with my friends, it is anyway!! We were all still rapt to see each other, there was lots of squealing and hand-flapping and hugging, we still tried to out-do each other telling embarrassing 'do you remember the time when...' stories to Paulsa's new bloke (who, by the way, is completely lovely), we still just had a great time hanging out together. The only difference was, we were the group of old chicks in the pub being eyed suspiciously by the 18 year olds. Meh. We might be old(ish) biologically, but we're as immature as any other them when we choose to be! (wait a minute....)

I learned that I am absolutely able to get up and drive home relatively early after a big night out and very few hours sleep. Buoyed by a cup of tea and some of Kirsty's magic sourdough toast, I felt fab enough to come home to my babies. It was only in the early afternoon that I began to sag a bit...ok, enough to go back to bed and sleep for a couple of hours...

I learned that my babies missed me, but they do not hold grudges. They were so excited to see me this morning, I felt a bit like a rock star when I opened the front door. And then Harry Potter replaced me...but the Mouse kept exclaiming "Mama!" every few minutes, which was lovely. I made them vegetables and fish for their tea, and stewed apples for sumpin else. We ate our Good Friday dinner early, all together. It was nice to be home.

I learned that with a storm raging outside, and tired kidlets asleep (or "fweep", as it is in Mousish) in their beds, I am glad to be home tonight, rather than tripping the light fantastic in the city. Jarmies, a cup of tea, and the promise of easter eggs over the weekend, are all wonderful things in themselves. What makes them even better is the warm and fuzzy feeling you get, thinking of the brillliant night you had with your mates last night. The only thing that tops that, is the thought that in four weeks, we can all go out again for my own birthday! And luckily, I have already learned that I will be doing something that allows me to wear comfortable shoes (in which I can still 'saunter'), and that I will NOT be drinking beer.