Ladies’ Day at the Races (or Old Girls Behaving Badly)

                                                                          Dolly

“You have to be fricking joking?” I exploded at the girl at the ticket booth. “Eighteen dollars for two Rum and Cokes? That’s a bloody rip-off!”

She burst out laughing in my face; clearly amused and not at all concerned about a tipsy, loud-mouthed, feather-crested woman carping on about drink prices.

Dolly and I had abandoned the pristine marquee in order to get down and dirty with the plebs in the public bar. We’d ordered the drinks at the bar and tried to pay when the barman told us we had to purchase tickets as they weren’t taking money at the bar. He’d already snapped open our two ice-cold cans of Rumbo.

“Keep them under the counter for us!” commanded Dolly to the barman. “And don’t let anyone put Rohypnol in them either! I don’t want to be raped!” 

She was wearing her “Miss Marple” hat and was in very fine spirits. I seriously don’t think anyone would have been game to spike Dolly’s drinks for fear of what extreme behaviours it may incur.

She’d already upset Michael at the photo booth in the marquee when the two of us decided we needed some happy snaps.

                                         Michael

Looking pointedly at the half curtain in front of the booth she turned to Michael before we went in, 

“That curtain’s no good!” she protested. “How are we supposed to get our gear off in there? Everyone out here will see us!”

Michael coughed nervously and didn’t know quite where to look. I think he thought she was serious.

I had several surreal and hysterical conversations with Dolly over the course of the wine-sodden afternoon and it was necessary every now and then to jot down what she or someone else had said so I wouldn’t forget it.

I caught Patrice taking a ‘Basic Instinct’ beaver shot of one of the Dolly Birds to send to her husband. It’s very early in the day for those sort of high jinks, I thought. 

How will this day end??

“Is your husband away overseas or something?” I queried.

“No,” she replied casually, “he just dropped me here.”

“Don’t put that in your blog!” a chorus of sozzled voices would chime in a futile attempt at censorship, each time I pulled out the notebook.

“I don’t like Pink!” declared Dolly vehemently at one stage. “I think she’s a lesbian. That husband of hers is a decoy. I wouldn’t go and see her in concert because she’d probably rape me! So put that in your blog and smoke it!”

I’m not sure what the fixation on being raped is, but never mind. Jules and Dolly then became immersed in a quiet discussion about the merits of Pink as a performer, with Jules defending her (as only a truly loyal Pink fan is able).

                             (L-R) Jules, Dolly and Pinky

Quackers, one of the Dolly Birds joined us in the public bar and a debate about tattoos came up. Dolly confessed that in her rambunctious youth she daringly self-carved and inked a tattoo on to her ankle. It was supposed to be a mushroom but unfortunately looked more like an umbrella which wasn’t nearly as radical as she’d planned.

Years later, wanting to rid herself of the unexciting umbrella tattoo she applied liberal amounts of Wart-Off and lo and behold, now she only has a tiny scar.

Dolly and I took Quackers outside to show her “The Tree of Knowledge” under which we usually sit when we go to the races and pursue ‘knowledgeable chats’ whilst supping delicious beverages. 

As we were discussing the virtues of the tree as opposed to paying exorbitant prices to sit in a boring tent, a Channel Seven cameraman approached and asked if he could film us.

“Of course!” we tittered happily. “We’d love too!” 

After a few minutes of him filming us pretending to be examining Quacker’s marquisate watch, Dolly called out with a dramatic Karate chop, “Cut!”

“Thanks ladies!” he smiled, “Everyone else told me they didn’t want to be on the Telly because it’s too embarrassing. Everyone else.”

I’m being too severe when I say the marquee was boring. 

It wasn’t. 

I had the most entertaining day catching up with the Dolly Birds and meeting new ones. There was even a ‘touch-up station’ set up where a beautician would re-apply lipstick for you when you went to the loo! 

                               Quackers getting a touch up!

Three of the Dolly Birds, Laura, Patrice and Jules made it into the fashion parade and sashayed down the catwalk with uber- style as we raucously cheered them on like a bunch of middle-aged Beliebers.

At one stage I squatted down beside Val and Deb and had a wonderful conversation but there came the moment when I had to stand again and I discovered my leg muscles had clamped into paralysis and getting up gracefully was not an option. I think I nearly took the table down as I used it for support. Too old to squat any more it seems.

                           Val and Deb (and Quackers on the right).

We pooled our bets all day and each of us walked away with crisp twenty dollar notes in our handbags which was fantastic since I probably spent eighty dollars on drinks.

I’m sure at the end of the day the staff were happy to see the back of us.

 But we will be back next year! I love the Dolly Birds!

Presenting.... some of "The Dolly Birds"

                                      Val

Laura

                                         Jules

                                       

                                       Patrice

Scotto and the Dolly Birds

                            Jenny and Pinky rockin' on!

According to the Urban Dictionary … a Sabre-tooth Tiger is a woman well past her prime of being a Puma or even a Cougar. They lurk just before dusk in huge groups drinking Cosmopolitan after Cosmopolitan. They are looking for any form of action and are no stranger to the chase. They typically wear grey and white fur coats, have way too much gold jewellery, and wear more make up than Bozo the clown.
"OMG look at that dude, he's getting mauled by that Sabre tooth."

Lovely description of someone’s Mummy isn’t it?

I’ll bet my Cosmopolitan it was written by a man too. Single women in their thirties are coined a Puma (hi Kaz) and Cougar is the name delegated to single women from thirty to forty-nine. 

We know all this already Pinky! I hear you mutter impatiently.

But did you know that the fortyish male equivalent of a Cougar is a Rhino; always horny and usually ugly.

Grave robber, Big Game Hunter and Milf Hunter are some of the names assigned to men who are attracted to older women.

This is one example of the species.

                                        Val, the Grave Robber and Julie.

But isn’t that Scotto? I hear all my readers gasp (both of you).

Yes it is. Scotto is ten years (alright, ten and a half years , now shut up Scotto and go back to Candy Crush) younger than I and he will vouch for the fact that being married to an older woman has some definite advantages.

Yesterday I dragged Scotto along to watch a band called “The Reclining Rockers” who were playing seventies and eighties music in the beer garden of an unfashionable pub on the wrong side of town. 

As suggested by their name these blokes have been around the block many times. The tread on their tyres might be a bit thin but they can still rock and roll with the best.

My friend Dolly was going out to lunch with her tribe of gal pals and had asked us to come along to the gig. All of the other husbands sensibly optioned to stay at home and watch the footy or play golf... but my young buck was keen to party on with us wrinklies.

                                 Scotto and Dolly

There he stood; the honorary gigolo, surrounded by a bevy of mature beauties. Scotto entertained all of us with his silly pranks, 

his Austen Powers impersonations and an endless stream of seemingly hilarious jokes. (I'd heard most of them)

I think he was the youngest person there until his favourite stepson, Thaddeus, turned up and stole his thunder.

It’s our seven year anniversary tomorrow and I just wanted to say Happy Anniversary to my young spunky toy boy!

Thanks for being so much fun!

Middle-aged Mother Embarrasses Teenage Son

Warning: This post may contain puns.

                                              (L-R) Thaddeus, Dale, Jonah, Newman.

Back in the Saddle Again

Returning to Townsville after a year at university in the big smoke, Jonah was keen to reestablish the band after its period of quarantine.

He strategically acquired the services of a talented drummer, Poiter, and a rhythm guitarist Dale, who added additional eye candy to the ensemble (or so my middle-aged women friends indicated).

Jonah has the proclivity towards, how can I put this politely?… officiousness.

He established a punishing rehearsal schedule and demanded a level of dedication and self-discipline from his fellow band members that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Nazi boot camp.




Thaddeus seemed to be permanently in the dog house with Jonah due to his tendency towards procrastination in respect to learning lyrics, his unpunctuality, and his general air of apathy.

I speculate that there may have been a few heated confrontations (think Gallagher brothers) taking place during those intensive months.

Before long it was deemed by the lads that track conditions were good and Loudhorse was eligible to go to the starting gates.

Placing her money on the nose, Newman’s intrepid mother hired a hall, invited family and friends, organized canapés and alcoholic beverages and Loudhorse was groomed, saddled up and led to the mounting yard.

The boys played covers of bands like Dire Straits, ACDC, the Angels, Van Morrison, the Doors and a variety of other comparable artists.


Scotto and I, along with the other punters; boganesqued our way through the night, dancing, clapping and having a bloody ripper of a time.

Loudhorse played many gigs over the next year at various watering troughs in our city with generally positive reactions.
Various friends of mine were hoodwinked into patronizing some of these gigs which demonstrates how desperate my friends are to go out for a drink (just joking guys).



All of us parents conscientiously fronted up to as many gigs as we could manage, pretending all the while to be detached members of the public.

“So which of those kids is yours?” I would invariably be asked by a jaundiced bar fly at almost every gig.
Newman’s mum and I were consistently the first to get up and dance, gawking indulgently at our fine-lookin’ boys.

That may have been what gave the game away.



One particularly admirable coup for the band was landing the gig to play as the entertainment at our city’s Amateur Racing Carnival.
I’m not sure if they were nominated because of the band’s name or because of their more than reasonable fee schedule.
Scotto and I had already arranged to meet friends at the races anyway and this was further incentive to stay late and party.
Now the Amateurs are a brilliant place to run into long lost friends and I certainly managed to do that on this occasion.

Many, many glasses of bubbly were consumed and with the excitement of the boys’ performance looming I was in a very high-spirited frame of mind. I donned my promotional fascinator and urged all and sundry to stay and watch the brilliant band who were to perform after the races were finished.
By the time the band started playing I had complemented the champagne with a couple of shots of Cointreau from my friend Diana’s hip flask and I was three sheets to the wind.

As every woman knows, it is a physical impossibility to dance on soft turf wearing high heeled shoes. No one was dancing yet but one of my girlfriends, Chelsea, pulled me up out of my seat. Abandoning my shoes I began dancing like a wanton zombie on Stilnox, pointing at the band and telling anyone who'd listen,
"Thatsh my sons playing!"
Watching the local news the next day I noticed they were showing footage of the Amateurs’ celebrations.
Imagining proudly that I might see a shot of the boys’ band playing on television I was all eyes and ears.

Instead the channel seven camera man panned over the crowd, focusing on a middle-aged woman who appeared to be channeling Peter Garrett.

Oh shit! It was me!
Jonah was on the phone about forty seconds after it aired.

“Did you see yourself on television Mum? What sort of dancing was that? You are so embarrassing! What were you thinking?”
To think of all the things I’ve done for that ungrateful, judgmental little sod.