Think I’d better dance now

Lately, whenever I feel I’ve put my foot in my mouth, or in fact both feet, AND my fist, the words of Tom Jones appear in my head unbidden. Or when I’ve had a really shocking day, and I can’t quite think of anything else that could go wrong, there is Tom, thinking he’d better dance now. How did he get there? How will I make him go away? Can I choose a more attractive earworm, under the age of 70? Thankfully I’ve resisted Tom’s call to action, since capping off inappropriate words with bizarre behaviour usually doesn’t have a redeeming effect. Particularly in job interviews.

One of these days I’m thinking it may all become too much, however, and before I die of shame or embarrassment, I will actually dance my way out of a room or a situation that has become dire. Stay tuned. I promise I’ll let you know when it happens.

When it does, I’ll take a leaf out of the book of these girls. They dance like nobody’s watching.

girls dance 2








girls dance 3girls dance 4




These photos bring me joy. This week I’m feeling a little pensive, and I’m grieving for the little girl you see on the left, who didn’t have diabetes in these pictures. I have a strong, resilient, mature daughter, but I grieve for the one who kicks up her heels and just dances for no good reason. My little girl is joyful, but now she thinks about things, a lot. So do I.

I think we’d better dance, now.


Linking up with Tegan at Musings of the Misguided, for the Lounge’s ‘Favourite photos’ theme this week, and Grace for FYBF.



Dance like nobody’s watching … really?

That “dance like nobody’s watching, … Sing like nobody’s listening” quote is a pretty sounding piece of crap advice. I’m pretty sure that’s how the Harlem Shake meme came about. Because, if anybody was watching, they probably would have told them to stop. That’s some BAAAD dancing. On Saturday night, as promised, however, I did sing like nobody was listening. The next day, I was still Livin’ On a Prayer … to make it through the day… Dead or Alive. If you’re under 18, I suggest you stop reading now in case some of the alcohol in my system has seeped from my fingers into the words on this page and is right at this moment intoxicating you by osmosis …

Thanks Jon – I’ve got it from here. You can pop over and mind my kids though, if you wouldn’t mind?

Paid babysitting. So much pressure. You pretty much need to start doing high-kicks the second you close your front door just to make the most of your night out. Pressure aside though, it was awesome. I MISS MY FRIENDS so much and it’s so great to hang out properly. And the Brumbies did me the big huge favour of winning against the Waratahs, to make me extra happy. After a couple of cheeky ciders at the pub, we went for Japanese in Neutral Bay, where the food is fabulous and the decor, unique.

If you’re prone to nightmares, best look away from the Wall of Cat

Yum, yum, yummity-yum. I think I should become a food writer, so expressive am I. We ate sashimi, and gyoza, and ‘yummy as soybean babies’, and tempura, ‘a mouth water explosation of prawns, fish vegetable’. It was as exciting as it sounds. Truly an explosation.

It seemed almost cruel to eat these little guys.

There was also wine, of course. One bottle or two, or three, or four. Who can be sure? What is certain though, is that by the conclusion of the meal we were in a karaoke state of mind. The Pickled Possum was our destination. This place? It’s a Sydney institution of STRANGE. But by god it is FUN. Beers come by esky, mixers by home brand bottles lined up behind the bar due to the lack of postmix. But if you’re arriving sober and quibbly about such things, you should probably go elsewhere. It’s friendly and everyone sings along with everyone else. The guy who runs it likes to sing every second song, however, so be prepared for a wait!

I think my ‘Living on a Prayer’ went ok. There was no falling face first off the stage (because, you know, that would be predictable ;), there was fist pumping (mine), and there was even some back patting and ‘You’ll go a long way. You were great’, from some nice old dude who looked upset when I cynically came back with ‘Thank you! But yep – all the way back home to my kids.’ You can take the cynical bitch out of the girl, but… actually, nope. You can’t take the cynical bitch out anywhere, really.

At one point a couple of hot girls (I can say that can’t I? Not sure what else to call them in this context) got up on stage and dragged a practically comatose but good-looking guy up with them, and I was wondering what on earth they were going to do with him. He had those half-mast eyes and dopey dazed smile, obviously hoping he could grin his way out of any trouble because he had no idea what he was doing. Definitely in no state to sing, and in NO state for back-up dancing. The strains of Carly Simon’s ‘You’re So Vain’ started up, and they make him the focal point for their ridicule. It. Was. Hilarious. He took it with good humour – ‘who me?’

I’m modifiying the aforementioned ‘dance like nobody’ quote to include “drink like there will be children jumping on your bed at 7 the following morning, and know it will always hurt”. No regrets though. I woke refreshed in spirit, (despite being embalmed from the inside out), having spent more than 2 hours in adult company. I felt like a whole person again, without labels attached. And with bonus mystery bruises. Game on!


Where’s my over-age club?

We went out last night. Wooooooo. Yep, it’s a weekly event for most, but we don’t get out much these days since babysitting came into the equation.

It was wild girls afloat – on land. OK, maybe inside my head. To the outside world, I get the impression we were more like mummies. Yes, I know you know there are children. I’m talking about the dead kind – from Ancient Egypt.


So hot right now – oo oo! Put your hands in the air!

It wasn’t a girls’ night, but we all went out for dinner together as a gang, and divided a neat line down the middle of table, with boys up one end and girls up the other, while one end drank beer and the other cocktails. That didn’t really happen. We’re far too mature for that, and mixed and mingled with the opposite sex like grown up adults. (Yes it did). One end of the table maturely shared the food on the share plates and offered seconds to one another, while the other end  fought like toddlers over scraps. One end carefully perused the wine list and selected a Pinot Grigio from Victoria that complemented the Asian flavours nicely, while the other side stuck doggedly to beer. One end discussed jobs, careers, our weeks, handbags, cocktails, politics (no we didn’t), and physio vs chiro, and the other end did some grunting and laughing. This may or may not be a faithful recording of events. The food at China Beach in Manly is awesome though. So awesome I ate it all before I took a photo.

Me and my gorgeous friend who is named after a herb. We shall call her Parsley.


Then we kicked on to a place that shall not be named, ready for a few post-dinner drinks. The place was full of 20-somethings and possibly (possibly?) late teens, and I honestly didn’t think we stuck out that much. Until.

Five minutes after we’d arrived, a girl sat watching us, smiling, and then said ‘You guys are so awesome’. I was all ‘YES. Yes we are, totally. Thanks for noticing.’ And it was then … the horrible realisation dawned. She’d been smiling at us like you smile at your 90-year old grandmother, or your sweet pet dog, in that ‘aren’t they cute’ way. And she thought we were awesome JUST FOR BEING UPRIGHT and dancing rather than lying down in our crypts at midnight, being over 30 and all.

I needed to take stock. Absorb. Process. Go and see the ugly truth. So I went to the bathroom where another rude shock awaited.

A very kind, concerned sign on the back of the stall door said ‘Confused? Don’t be. The toilet paper’s behind you.’ I turned around, only to be confronted by a reflection OF MY BIG NAKED BUTT in a mirror. Oh, and some toilet paper. AND MY NAKED BUTT. Ha. Ha. Ha I get it. Was that supposed to be a joke? What kind of person wakes up in the morning and says – ‘oh – I’ll just go and get some mirrors to stick up behind my hotel toilets today’?? A man kind of person, I suspect.

Once you’re in your 30s, are we not supposed to dance anymore? Or just dance ironically, at funny 80s retro clubs doing the sprinkler? Or just sit in swanky wine bars, or, better yet, keep ourselves to ourselves, secreted away in each others’ homes drinking wine and falling asleep on the couch? Pubs and live bands are fun, but not so much for dancing.

I don’t want to go out dancing all that often, but I don’t want to feel like an old freak when I do. What I’d really like is an over-age club, where you need to show your ID to get in, and you have to be over 30 to get past the bouncer. Would that be too weird? Would that bring about all kinds of ageism?

I probably should have slunk home in my crypt-keeper dance floor shame, but I’ve decided not to care. I had an awesome night out with my friends, and I know something those other 20-somethings apparently don’t know. One day they’re going to hit 30 too.