My four sons, Thaddeus 24, Jonah 23, Hagar 21 and Padraic 19, never wanted an eighteenth birthday party and after the exploits of Corey Worthington back in the day, I happily agreed that we’d just have a family affair in the backyard instead.
As expected, Lulu was appalled at these antediluvian guidelines.
Now, I may be a primordial crone myself, but even I know that thirty guests at an eighteenth is pretty piss weak, tragic and a tad feeble-esk.
Consequently, we’ve (Lulu, Scotto and moi) frantically been attempting to unearth a venue which may accommodate a moderately numbered but fun filled crowd of seventy-ish.
It was with not a small measure of dismay we discovered the cheapest but least boganesque site for said revelry was going to cost us at least $500, plus another $500 for a few platters of greasy, lukewarm doughy nuggets, and no drinks included.
Ouch!
“What if we send the dogs to the kennels, open up the entire yard and have it here?” I pleaded with Scotto. “I could whack some Coles brand sausage rolls and spring rolls in the oven, push the dining room table across the hall so they don’t have access to the house and warn the neighbours via a considerate note in their letterboxes.”
Scotto dubiously ummed and aahed. “It’s too risky, Pinky. Things will get broken… Seventy kids? They’ll get out of control!”
I was suddenly struck with the essential answer to our teenage quandary.
“NO!” I defiantly challenged Grandad Poinker. “I know what we can do! We can invite all our friends. We could have an adult sarong party in the lounge room at the same time. We could play eighties music and all get up and dance to Nut Bush City Limits! None of them will dare to venture in the house if we do that.”
Scotto squinted intensely into a distant corner of the room.
I could see him, picturing in his mind’s eye, the sight of ten paunchy grown-ups doing the Bus Stop in our lounge-room.
And so it was agreed… seventy guests for Princess Lulu and ten guests for us.
Even the 21st birthday celebrations of the eldest three passed without any application in terms of a huge shindig.
I must have raised a bunch of introverts.
Not so however, my youngest baby, Lulu, whose eighteenth birthday is rapidly approaching.
I must have raised a bunch of introverts.
Not so however, my youngest baby, Lulu, whose eighteenth birthday is rapidly approaching.
Oh no! Princess Lulu wants the whole shebang. Naturally, mirroring her mother, she’s left the planning until the eleventh hour.
It was meant to be held at her father’s house with the million dollar views and huge verandas... but he stipulated an invitation list of thirty pax max and no-one was to be allowed access to anywhere except the front lawn.
It was meant to be held at her father’s house with the million dollar views and huge verandas... but he stipulated an invitation list of thirty pax max and no-one was to be allowed access to anywhere except the front lawn.
As expected, Lulu was appalled at these antediluvian guidelines.
Now, I may be a primordial crone myself, but even I know that thirty guests at an eighteenth is pretty piss weak, tragic and a tad feeble-esk.
Consequently, we’ve (Lulu, Scotto and moi) frantically been attempting to unearth a venue which may accommodate a moderately numbered but fun filled crowd of seventy-ish.
It was with not a small measure of dismay we discovered the cheapest but least boganesque site for said revelry was going to cost us at least $500, plus another $500 for a few platters of greasy, lukewarm doughy nuggets, and no drinks included.
Ouch!
“What if we send the dogs to the kennels, open up the entire yard and have it here?” I pleaded with Scotto. “I could whack some Coles brand sausage rolls and spring rolls in the oven, push the dining room table across the hall so they don’t have access to the house and warn the neighbours via a considerate note in their letterboxes.”
Scotto dubiously ummed and aahed. “It’s too risky, Pinky. Things will get broken… Seventy kids? They’ll get out of control!”
I was suddenly struck with the essential answer to our teenage quandary.
“NO!” I defiantly challenged Grandad Poinker. “I know what we can do! We can invite all our friends. We could have an adult sarong party in the lounge room at the same time. We could play eighties music and all get up and dance to Nut Bush City Limits! None of them will dare to venture in the house if we do that.”
Scotto squinted intensely into a distant corner of the room.
I could see him, picturing in his mind’s eye, the sight of ten paunchy grown-ups doing the Bus Stop in our lounge-room.
And so it was agreed… seventy guests for Princess Lulu and ten guests for us.
We’ll register it with the police and have it shut down at eleven by an ‘anonymous’ complaint to the coppers.
Snap!
What suggestions to be off-putting, daggy grown-ups can you make?
