The Party

Ah, the celebration of emergence from awkward, pimply teen to legal adulthood with just enough knowledge and legality to be dangerous.  Old enough to drink and get completely fucked up, but not old enough to have any idea how you got there so fast, how you actually lived to tell the tale or how to get rid this pulsing, all-consuming hangover that’s threatening to blow your head clean off your shoulders.

Boy Wonder turned 18 in May this year and required a party to tell the world of his arrival at this magnificent stage of life and to get his friends out of their tree in group celebration.  As we planned the party, it became obvious that most of his friends would still be 17 so we couldn’t have it at a venue as they wouldn’t be able to get pissed... “it has to be home, Mum”. Shit! Do I really want a bunch of youths yelling and yahooing around my house and yard to blaring music while they drink themselves into oblivion? Nope, I don’t want that shit. I want to run far, far away from that shit! But what I want isn’t relevant here because Captain Fantastic has agreed with Boy Wonder. Insert major anxiety and remove slumber for the next month… there was much trepidation on my part.  The Captain thinks I worry too much.

The event preparation started with 60-odd invitees. Over half said they were coming so I started shitting tacks from the get-go. I decided to hire security... I can’t have the possibility of a Corey Worthington party so this decision restored a little sleep.

In the week prior to the Soirée, a few dropped out, so the number was getting better and more manageable from my perspective. Of course, I catered for the whole 60 odd because let’s face it, when you come to my house and eat, if you don’t have to pop the top button when you’re done, then I have failed my ethnic heritage.

The week prior was a blur of hyped activity as June in Australia is winter so there were tarps and marquees to set up in case Mother Nature had a hissy fit, outdoor heaters were hired, enough alcohol to drown a herd of cattle was purchased, the bar was arranged (Miss Marvellous and her beau were our bar tenders), the DJ (a close mate came to the rescue) ... ready, set, go.

I had organised a couple of my friends to attend so the Captain made a nice crackling fire in the formal living room, where the ladies relaxed. His nibs and I were intermittently in that room between running hot food up and down stairs, checking on supplies and greeting pissed teens and showing them the way to the throbbing cacophony of pissed teen yelling and doof, doof music.

Only a handful turned up at the beginning and Boy Wonder was not impressed but at 9-ish, a whole bunch turned up and the party got started in earnest. Almost all the attendees had Pre’s (mostly straight vodka) somewhere before arriving and judging by the red eyes, a few smoked some weed too.

We only had around 30 people in the end, but they were a great group and they had so much fun. They went through a truck load of snacks plus 60 home-made sausage rolls, 60 party pies, 60 mini spring rolls, some pastitsies, two bowls of lollies and then a bit of cake. Oh, and a shit-ton of grog.

Every time someone rocked up, a massive group ‘man-scream’ went off downstairs as the new arrival was welcomed.  Teens were getting smashed everywhere and Miss Marvellous had absolutely no problem being savage Bar Bitch with the drunks, refusing alcohol until water was consumed.  She also took possession of the vodka jelly shots because there were jelly shot pigs in the mix and they needed to be contained.  She could be a prison warden, although I’d take exception to anyone calling her vinegar tits (Prisoner… 1980s).  Everyone got smashed, except me (someone must be the parent).  Turns out alcohol removes all filters.  Explicit language became the norm and eventually, I stopped cringing and blocked it out.

On one of the trips outside to check on supplies and deliver more hot food, Boy Wonder ran up and screamed at me “this party is fucking LIT!” Then the DJ put an 80s song on, and he grabs me firmly by the upper arms and says “You’re gonna dance!”  Fuck me, I don’t want to bloody dance… I’M NOT EVEN TIPSY!  He grabs my hand and yanks me hard after him, oblivious little shit, but there was a giant pot plant in a concrete planter between me and the dance floor.  Boy Wonder gives no fucks as he pulls me after him and absolutely cripples me as my right knee collides with the planter and the impact zone is the worst possible place, right in the corner of my knee at the juncture of knee cap, tendons, muscle, bone, nerves and whatever else is in that area.  My leg buckles and I almost land on the ground but Boy Wonder yanks harder and pulls me into the room and I stumble in his wake.  Nobody gives a flying fuck that Mother is down.  Miss Marvellous is in the process of taking pictures of pissed youth and runs to my aid to help me limp up the stairs.  I retreat to the living room and quietly wait for the throbbing pain to abate.  Boy Wonder hasn’t even noticed I’m not dancing with him.  Rude!

The cake nearly didn’t happen because I didn’t want to ruin the vibe of the party. I went down and spoke to Miss Marvellous, her Beau & our DJ (who was sober at the time) and asked if we should leave the cake and not worry about it.  The consensus was ‘everyone is having so much fun... it will spell the end of the night’ so we canned it.

I took the bowls of lollies out and the people were pleased. During this deliverance of jellied joy, Boy Wonder came up and hugged me so hard the air left my lungs with an “oof!” my back cracked. He said in front of all his mates “Donna, I fucking love you! If I die, I wanna come and do it all again because you’re a fucking LEGEND!” Yeah cool, Geez. Then he gave me another bone crushing hug and leaned so far forward in his drunken love that I nearly fell onto his friends, who were nestled around the heaters.  My knee was still throbbing from earlier when he smashed me into the pot planter.  This kid needs hazard lights on him.

At this stage, 1/2 the party was shooting hoops in the pitch black of the cobbled ‘right of way’ lane behind our house.  Boy Wonder was very drunk, and the gate was padlocked but this little bastard lifted it clean out of the latch then went running through the party yelling “I lifted the gate outta the latch! I am Yoda! I’M FUCKING YODA, FUCKERS!!! YAAASSSSS! CALL ME YODA, BITCHES!” Oh Lordy.  Our neighbours were getting an earful.

By now, The Captain, aka Peter Pan, was downstairs smashing beers with the boys (thanks for your support, jock strap!) and was already thick tongued and slurring.  Our DJ, who had been mainly sober up until now, started sculling Vodka Cruisers, of all things!  It was at this point that a lot of the boys approached the bar, awkwardly asking if they could ‘try’ a Vodka cruiser because they really should try one at some point in their lives… elbowing each other in masculine jocularity “Hey, let’s be girls together, LOL!”  Miss Marvellous almost lost an eye in her eye roll (she doesn’t tolerate stupid testosterone bravado) “For fuck’s sake, settle down, son. You want a nice tasting drink?  Just ask, mate.  You don’t have to swap the drink for one of your testicles.  I promise you’ll still be a man afterwards.”  This was when the boys started to get really shit faced.

Then at around midnight, Boy Wonder comes running (literally) into the warm room with a crackling fire,” Mum! We haven’t had the cake! People are asking where the cake is!!!” Um, ok, so I carried the cake downstairs.

I started lighting the candles and then Boy Wonder went screaming down the lane telling everyone we were doing cake.  A very drunk mate yells “it’s time for Happy Birthday! Sing happy Birthday”. Then outside and inside, boys are scream-singing Happy Birthday at a thousand decibels, getting louder with every verse! Boy Wonder comes tearing into the room like a rocket sled on rails and runs/slides up to the cake and blows the candles out. What the fuck? Everyone cheers, cake is over.   No fucking photos except the blurry one Miss Marvellous managed during his “risky business” slide to blow the candles out. Grrrrrr!

Boy Wonder then delivers a smashed speech, said “hey y’all” about 20 times. He also said he ‘fucking loves” everyone repeatedly. Then the Captain gave the second slurred drunk speech of the night. We got some family photos, but Boy Wonder was falling all over the shop in his inebriated state, so we were all on the tilt in them. Drunk bastards!

At around 1am, there was a mass exodus.  Everybody pretty much left all at once.  The music went off, last drinks (travellers) were obtained and Boy Wonder and a couple of mates went for a Macca’s run via tram.  Our smashed DJ didn’t want to go so they took off. Then the DJ stumbles upstairs; he could hardly stand upright, and says ‘where is he? I need to say goodbye.’ He got completely messed up on cruisers and Moscato (women’s drinks they called them… obviously too strong for men).  His Mum (one of my friends who joined me in the living room) was absolutely shocked because it happened in the space of 1/2 hour. He was fine ... then he was smashed. He left all his DJ equipment on (had no more fucks to give at this stage). I turned it all off and walked them out... DJ stumbles his way to the car, and they were gone.

We went downstairs and cleaned up all the empties, put the grog away, locked everything up and then I put my Jim jams on and sat by the fire to read a couple of pages before climbing into bed.  It was almost 2am by this stage.

Ten minutes later, Miss Marvellous, who had joined me and is lounging drunkenly by the crackling fire, gets a distress call from Mate 1.  Mate 1 says Boy Wonder is in a bad way, he hurt himself and could barely walk (because he was smashed), please help. We could hear Boy Wonder saying, “Aw man, my ear hurts and I need to throw up.” Then we can hear Mate 1 yelling “No, mate, don’t run on the road. Oi!  Stay here, man” Shit! I went in to chat to The Captain, who had put his drunk self to bed and was trying to entice me to join him to ‘ride the wild pony’. No mate, there’s been a call and I’ve got to go get Boy Wonder. He’s not in a good way. The Captain, all care and responsibility, says “Tell him to get on a fucking tram”. Nice. The kid couldn’t even walk and was trying to spastic-run up Warrigal road.  He’s not getting on a tram.  That’s ok, I’ll be the parent.  You just get yourself to sleep.

I got a bucket and towels for the potential Vomitron and went to fetch the boys, dragging the smashed Miss Marvellous with me.  The streets were empty at that stupid hour (except for drunk teens running amuck) so we got there pretty fast.  I parked down a side street then we made our way to the bus stop to fetch Little Boy Pissed.  Boy Wonder was indeed a mess and when he saw us, he shot his arms in the air and screamed “Heeeyyy! What up, Niggers!” Oh, holy God, get him in the bloody car before someone shoots us all in the street. Turns out, these drunk dickheads thought it would be a great idea for Boy Wonder to climb into a shopping trolley and Mate 2, who was very pissed and stoned, was running around pushing him.  Apparently Mate 2 was so far gone that the trolley was on two wheels for most of the adventure, so it was only a matter of time before mishap occurred.  And occur it did – he hit a kerb at high speed and the trolley smashed into a power pole with Boy Wonder in between.  Stupid arses!  He has hurt his face, shoulder, ear and neck (all have grazed abrasions - not good, although to the untrained eye, they could be mistaken for hickies… but Boy Wonder wasn’t that lucky).  The worst injury was his elbow, which got a little crushed. His arm was bad on Sunday. Stupid drunk youth.

Mate 2 had buggered off so Mate 1 rode gunshot, but it was too awkward to move the seat, so he looked all bent up like a giant grasshopper for the trip home.  I had the insane urge to giggle but wasn’t sure I’d be able to reign it in, so I bit my tongue and kept myself nice.  Miss Marvellous sat in the back with her drunk brother, belted him in and held his head in case he needed to vomit.  He said he was going to throw up a few times, so we were pleased that we made the trip without the stench of vomit in the car. When we got home, he couldn’t even walk so Miss Marvellous and I had to carry his dead weight up the bloody stairs... it was like carrying a Shetland Pony. Jesus H Christ on a popsicle stick. 2/3 the way up, he jerks awake and becomes alert and sprints up the last few steps and speed smashes into his bed, moaning that he wants a couple more frothies.  Yeah, nah mate... GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP, SUNSHINE!

I undressed him, surrounded him with towels and the bucket and put him to bed.  Mate 1 went to bed in the 4th bedroom and I finally locked up and went to bed myself at 3:30am.  In his drunken state, the ‘wild pony’ had star fished in the middle of the bed on his back… so I slept precariously close to the edge, next to a snoring, farting Shrek all night, almost getting drunk myself on the vapours rising from him. 

I was up at 7:30am for clean up. They all, every single one of them, had a hangover on Sunday morning so I had to make a mercy dash for bacon, eggs and Panadol.  The Pony was in bed by 7:30pm on Sunday night.  Miss Marvellous went out with a bunch of girlfriends for round 2, a true seasoned Newlands.

Footage emerged the next day of one of the drunk boys trying to make his way home.  Holy crap, he was walking like something straight out of the Zombie apocalypse.  Shuffling along, using only one of his legs and dragging the other one… his eyes closed, and he looked for all intents and purposes to be asleep.  The video ended with this kid laying in a toddler position on the nature strip.

Teenagers, who’d have ‘em?

Sigh.

Shit Happens at Big River

So our 2018 camping trip at Big River started okay but...

We left home at around lunchtime on the Thursday before Good Friday to collect Boy Wonder from school after his English SAC test.  The other family we usually camp with, the H’s, left very early that morning to gain a camping spot for us all.  We sat outside the school for 40 minutes in the 4WD with a bulging, packed trailer attached, looking like bored creeps.  An Uber Eats delivery bike pulled up, greeted by a ravenous girl who glanced at us like we were weird.  What about the fact that you ordered Uber Eats for lunch at school??  You're weird!   Boy wonder finally emerged and entered the car with his familiar teenage vernacular, chirping "waddup" at us.  We were off.  

The squeak of one of the trailer wheels was cringe worthy and hard to ignore, even over the music blaring through the earbuds in my ears.  I mentioned it to The Captain and he concurred it was squeaky, but shrugged it off.  I braced myself for the trip through the Black Spur, which usually leaves me a little green and delicate with travel sickness.  For a change, I was strangely unaffected.  Not long after we emerged from the Black Spur and drove into Buxton, we pulled over so The Captain could purchase some bait; ever the optimist for a lucky bite whilst fishing in a river that gives up little.  

Obviously feeling a little concerned about the squeaky wheel, he bent down to feel the hub and seared his finger.  The tip of his finger was white and looked for all intents and purposes like he had touched it to a hot plate or red hot element.  This did not spell good news for us.  We had to get the trailer wheel looked at because we couldn't continue with a wheel that is unsafe and a potential hazard.  Imagine if it broke when we were on our way down into the valley where we'd have no means of communication because shortly after turning off the main road to descend into the valley, we usually lose all internet and phone connection and are essentially, 'off the grid'.  Captain Fantastic pulled out a can of grease, which he handed to Boy Wonder, and some spare bearings, which I ended up with, and then set about finding someone to help.  

We found a garage and the attendant directed us to a car mechanic up the road.  As we pulled into a yard full of cars, a very large balding man, who Boy Wonder dubbed the ‘Fat Controller', emerged from his shed, reeking of grease and oil.  I placed the bearings in the trailer guard and took the grease can from Boy Wonder.  The Fat Controller advised that he had other cars before us and it could take a couple of hours, telling us to walk down to the pub.  The Captain asked for the can of grease but I had no idea where it went.  One minute I was holding it, allegedly (I don’t recall having it in my hand, but I also don't recall putting it down so I'm hanged if I know what happened to it).  The Captain asked if I threw it away?  What?  Of course not, stop being a dick.  I just don’t know what I did with it.  He was shaking his head in perplexity and barely able to contain his frustration with me because, where’s the fucking can of grease?  I was sure we’d find it at some point.

We left our trailer in the capable hands of the Fat Controller and wandered down to the pub. Now, Captain Fantastic is not shy about throwing back a cheeky beer but we were anxious to get to the valley and start setting up the Taj Mahal tent, which usually requires all hands on deck and a minimum of an hour of daylight to erect, and the afternoon was ticking by. 

An hour after finishing his beer and getting a little antsy, The Captain made his way back to check on the car.  He called a short time later to announce the trailer was fixed and he was just waiting for the Fat Controller to return, so we could pay him and be on our way.  It was very hard not to do my happy dance in the middle of that country pub but considering our very presence screamed 'Out of Towners' to all the locals, I managed to keep my shit together.  Boy Wonder and I walked back to the yard.   It turns out that wheel was fixed so hard by heat that it required an oxy-torch to remove and the Captains bearings were so old and rusted, they were useless.  The grease was probably too old too but "we'll never know" touts The Captain.  Yeah, whatever, I nearly lost an eyeball in an eye roll.  To this day I have no idea where that can of grease went.

When we finally arrived at the campsite, Mr & Mrs H were already set up, had been out and retrieved a large load of firewood from the forest, which was chopped and assembled and ready to go, and they were wondering where the hell we were.  We all pitched in and got our giant tent up in record time.  We even managed to cook a meal and wash up before darkness pitched us into the black.  Out here, the stars are bright on a clear night and the moon was full this night so we watched its lazy ascent into the sky.  As we sat around the campfire, we discussed the other campers surrounding us.  In our usual spot, which is a very large space, only one pissy tent stood wasting a stack of space.  However, there’s an unspoken rule that you don’t pitch your tent in someone else’s space.  We asked who was camping there, and it turns out some dorky guy, who had tickets on himself, spent most of his time with his shirt off.  Mrs H said she wished he’d put the bloody thing back on because…and then she shuddered.  I got an eyeful of that milky boyish body and decided Mrs H was correct.  He got called Vladimir Putin from then on, for obvious reasons.  

There was also a very large group celebrating some chick’s thirtieth (in the bush?  Bloody sedate 30^th), a young family with two kids and a dog called Leila, a bunch of 30 something year old guys and a group of Russian women.  Wow, The H's had it all sussed it all out.  The boys drank their way through a stupid amount of beer and got themselves half pickled.  I retired long before The Captain stumbled in.

Day 2 dawned bright and clear.  Mrs H, rose early and had the fire burning beautifully for us all.  Our tent was on a slight rise and The Captain complained he was hanging off the bed most of the night.  I couldn't help that I rolled into him all night long.  You could roast a bloody pig next to my husband, he puts out so much body heat, and as it gets super cold down in the valley, I'd started off that night in socks, a tee, tracksuit pants and windcheater. Overheating next to my spooning human oven, I'd shed layers during the night and woke in just knickers and a tee.  Brrrrr!

As the day went on, we had a lovely cooked breakfast on the BBQ and the little kids from the young family made themselves known, zooming past on their bikes calling to their dog, "Laila...come on girl".  Very entertaining.  Every time the kids went past, Mr H called out “Leila” in a surprisingly high octave (like…elastic band around the testicles kinda high).  It was pretty funny. 

After lunch, things got a little more interesting.  Putin had zipped up his tent and disappeared early.  As I was making my way to my tent, one of the Russian chicks, whom I’ve never met, marched up to me with purpose, using ski poles to aid her stalk, and loudly barked in my face "if this guy comes back..." points a ski pole at Putin’s tent, "...tell him the Russians have gone fishing!"  Wait, what?  Then she marched off through our campsite.  What the fuck?  I'm nobody's messenger, bitch!  As she was leaving the site, she rounded on Mr H and abruptly demanded, "which way to the top?"  Mr H jerked back because...what the fuck?  He pointed to his right where the track winds around and leads up and out to the main road.  Babushka turned left and walked in the other direction.  Mr H looked at us with an astounded WTF expression and then yelled after her "if you're going to go that way, you'll need more than ski poles to get you up there". She didn't even look at him, she just shook her head and bellowed "nope, too high" and kept walking.  Channel Jim Carey "Aaaaaalrighty then."

About an hour later, two car loads of stupid youths with pickup trucks loaded with trail bikes turned up and start setting up camp in Putin's site.  We all looked at each other excitedly because this is going to get interesting when Putin returned.  Their doof-doof music was echoing at a thousand decibels, completely destroying the peace and tranquillity of the bush setting.  Some bloke in a cowboy hat started shuffling to the doof-doof music, mid-set up, beer in hand, marijuana joint dangling from his lips.  Jesus, what was our night going to be like?

After they finished setting up, they started drinking heavily.  They were loud, obnoxious and swearing like nobody was listening.  The more they drank, the louder they got.  Even their profanities were slurred.  The Captain decided to get more firewood.  Mr H refused to go with them because he was not cutting down wood for someone else.  This perplexed me until I found out later it was originally for the topless chicks down near the water.  I wonder how emasculated their boyfriends will feel when his nibs turns up with a load of firewood just to get a perve at the girls’ titties.  Please, the lengths a man will go to for a cheeky perve.  Monumental eye-roll from me.  They got none of it in the end, perhaps The Captain thought better of it, but Mr H was not impressed with their choice if wood.  They’re fussy bastards, men and their wood.  

Dickhead stupid youths were pissed to the point of stumbling now and started sawing down standing trees with a chainsaw for firewood.  Oh my Lord.  Mr H, who cannot tolerate stupidity and could not contain himself, wandered over to educate the fuckwits loose in the forest with a chainsaw.  He reminded them that it is illegal to saw down a standing tree, it could land them with a massive fine and it simply won't burn because it's green and unseasoned and will just smoke.  This had the equivalent effect of hitting one’s head on a brick wall to figure out a maths equation…Fuckwit youths continued to cut up said tree and ignore Mr H, who decided they were dickheads and walked away in disgust.  Correct, Mr H!  We were still waiting with baited breath for Putin to return to discover the invasion of his camping space.

Just as the sun started to drop behind the trees, Putin returned.  Boy Wonder and I sprinted to the side of our tent because we could not imagine what was about to go down and we were excited for a bit of argy bargy.  We could hear the mob of dickheads start to verbally shit themselves as they worried out loud about Putin’s reaction.  Annoyingly Putin, who realised he was outnumbered and was obviously missing his testicles, tucked his tail between his legs and shook hands with the dickhead youths and sat down to drink with them; effectively becoming their mate and practically rolling over to show them his belly.  The jittery laughter of stupid youths became guffaws as they started the ridiculous male behaviour of beating chests and scratching balls.  Boy Wonder could not suppress his disappointment at Putin's  underwhelming reaction and returned to the campfire, grumbling "well, that was anticlimactic."  Yes it was.  Putin, you're a little bitch.

If the 30th had taken off down below, we couldn't hear it over the doof-doof crap from the shuffling fuckwits.  These knobs were getting louder and more inebriated by the minute.  We had dinner and cleaned up and still they got drunker and louder and more annoying.  Then over the hum of our conversation and the noise belting out from the campsite across the way, voices grew more aggressive.  Great, now they were drunk and getting nasty.  It sounded like a fight was going to break out soon.  Boy Wonder and I bolted to the side of the tent again because we were up for some entertainment.  Putin had put himself and his pussy to bed but how he could sleep through the aggressive yelling was beyond me.  He was more than likely lying awake, quivering with fear in his sleeping bag as the drunken fuckwits failed to contain their testosterone around his fire.

The noise level rose and it became apparent that a drunken idiot was trying to get onto his trail bike to ride home.  One of his mates was not allowing him to get onto the bike, great mate right there, and the drunken dickhead and abusing him for his efforts.  Oh my fucking God!  As we peered around our tent, we could see the stupid idiot in full bike gear, complete with helmet and bike boots, trying to get onto his bike.  For fuck’s sake, this stupid git was either going to plow through someone’s campsite and do God knows what to God knows who, or hit a tree and kill himself.  Boy Wonder’s testosterone level kicked up a notch and he started pacing and threatening to punch the dickhead off his bike if he came our way or started anything.  Sit down and shut up, son, I don’t need you to add your furry nuts to the melee.  I started to worry about the young family and the group of girls celebrating, albeit very sedately, down below.  Worse than that, I thought of this stupid git’s mother.  Imagine if her son killed himself and I did nothing about it.  Fuck it, I had to try.

I walked over to the boys sitting around the fire and asked what the hell was going on.  Drunken dickhead in bike gear was getting very aggressive and slurring profane insults all over the place.  No way Putin was asleep, he had to be absolutely shitting himself inside his little tent.  The boys around the fire explained that their mate was trying to get on his bike and ride home.  I told them that could absolutely not happen because if he gets on that bike, he will die tonight.  One of the boys said “I know, that’s why my best mate is over there trying to talk some sense into him.  He’s had too much to drink.” You think?  No shit, Sherlock.  He was also a fuckwit but I kept that observation to myself.  The best mate threw up his arms and walked back to the others sitting down.  I told them I had to go talk him out of it and they started panicking, “No, please don’t go over there, he’s really drunk and raging.” I countered, “Well, I’m a Mum and I cannot stop being a Mum so I’m going to try to talk him out of it.”

I walked over to the dickhead, who could barely keep his bike upright let alone climb onto it.  I decided to go with a passive conversation because drunk dickhead had a face like thunder.  I said “Hi, how are you going?” He rounds on me and screams in my face “I don’t fucking know you, fuck off!” Jesus, ok, maybe I’ll play the guilt card on the fuckwit.  “Yes I know, hon, I’m from that campsite just there.  I just wanted to ask you to please not get on your bike tonight.  I’m a Mum and I can’t stop being a Mum and I’m a little worried about you.”  His expression morphed into hurt, “I just wanna go home and these c*nts won’t let me go.” Jesus mate, don’t tone the language down for my sake.  I ended up saying “hey, that’s because they’re your good mates and they want you to stay and go have a drink with them.  They just want you to stay and have some fun.” His eyes were darting all over the place in unfocussed inebriation, perhaps trying to work out which one of my three blurry heads he should talk to but I got through and he mumbled “ok” and made his way back to his mates.

I contained my victorious fist pump until I made it back to our campsite and told them I hoped that was that for tonight.  Things settled down pretty quickly after that and then the music stopped and they finally went to bed.  Thank fuck for that.  Putin could finally relax in his tent and let his balls descend, and we all got to go to sleep.

The next morning, one of the boys rocking Krusty the Clown hair do, wandered over to our campsite at 10am to apologise, beer in hand and sucking on a hand rolled ciggie (or a joint, I’m not sure which), already getting started.  It turns out this was the dickhead who wanted to ride his bike home.  He said he’d skulled half a bottle of Bombay gin and has no memory of what went down.  He said his mates dragged him by the feet into someone else’s campsite in his full bike kit and helmet, and left him there.  He said woke up beside someone else’s car in someone else’s camp site.  His relay of events was peppered with expletives and absolutely no fucks were given for the women standing in the group before him.  What a knob but we just thought that the silly bastards just got a little too pissed and messed up.  Mrs H pointed at me and called out “this was your Mum last night who talked you out of riding home.” He looked at me and said “Oh hey, thanks.  I hope I didn’t say anything too bad.”  He was genuinely appreciative of my efforts.  I told him he’d aggressively yelled at me that he didn’t know me and to fuck off and he was shocked when I told him that.  He really didn’t remember anything.  After he left, we all thought it was pretty decent of him to come over and apologise.  We thought they might have a chill night tonight and perhaps not be dickheads again.  We thought wrong.

A few minutes later, they all piled on their trail bikes and polluted the air with the loud and annoying revving that drowned out the birds and fractured the tranquillity.  Mr H, who was still grumbling about the standard of wood produced by The Captain and Boy Wonder, ushered them all back out to the woods to get some more firewood.  Mrs H & I took advantage of their absence and snuck in a little nanna nap before the dickhead youths roared back into the campsite and turned the doof-doof shit music right up and destroyed any chance of a snooze.

Later that night, the drunken dickheads were out of control.  A whole bunch of them all piled into one of the cars and hooned around the campsite.  They drove around and around the camp grounds on the tracks, hanging out of the car and shining torches into our eyes as they sped past.  Putin was nowhere to be seen – he wasn’t enduring a repeat of the night before so he was probably hunkered down with the Ruskies or celebrating the 30^th.  Around and around these fuckwits zoomed.  Even though we were deep in the bush and there were no roads, only tracks around the campsites, these dead-set fuckwits kept indicating when they got to the cross road.  Boy Wonder and I were killing ourselves laughing every time they went past because we’d watch them stop and indicate before doing a burnout and starting the loop again.  We were just waiting for them to crash into a tree or worse, plow through someone’s site and injure people because they were so bloody drunk. There were still a few of them sitting around the camp fire and behaving like normal people and every time they went past they shook their heads at the fuckwitism on display.  One of the boys around the campfire cracked the shits after a while and just stood up and marched over to the bend in the track.  He belted the car as it went past.  When the car stopped, he screamed at the car load of dickheads “get out of the fucking car, you idiots!” and believe it or not, they did.  They all looked a little contrite as they joined the others and it all seemed to calm down. 

Something happened somewhere at some point because while it was all quiet and we could finally talk, one of the boys came tearing into our campsite and asked if we’d seen his mate because he was missing.  He’s probably taking a shit on someone’s car and finger painting with it.  This kid then launches into a scenario, said he was sitting around the campfire talking to some bloke from another campsite and then he just turned on him and king hit him for no reason.  I found that hard to believe because I wanted to punch the idiots myself and I’m non-confrontational by nature.  He jacked open is mouth and shoved it in my face and asked if his tooth was chipped.  I don’t know what he’d been drinking but it smelled like pure methylated spirits in there; my eyes watered.  For fuck’s sake, it was pitch black out there and I could barely find his face let alone look into his mouth.  I just pretended to look and said I couldn’t see anything.  He said he could feel it with his tongue.  Okay, whatever dude.  Then he ran off to his campsite again.  I felt like Alice and I’d fallen down the rabbit hole.  Curiouser and curiouser.  At some point during the night, after the idiots had fallen into a drunken slumber, Putin crept back into his tent like a little bitch. 

Mr H went to the other campsites the next morning to check on everyone and discovered that one of the drunken dickheads tried it on with one of the girls from another campsite and when she turned him down, he took a shit on her car and smeared it in.  Hmmmm, interesting.  I wonder if that was the missing bloke.  She was disgusted and decided to leave that morning.  I don’t blame her, filthy act by a filthy scut.

The stupid idiots woke early and started with the doof-doof music at an offensive time of day, but they were packing up.   This could not come quick enough; I was tempted to go over there and help them throw their shit in the backs of the cars.  Putin had disappeared very early and did not return until dickhead central cleared out.  We were practically bouncing in our seats and we almost cheered as they finally drove out of the campsite and normalcy and tranquillity was restored.  Sigh.

The rest of the holiday was wonderfully undisturbed as the natural sounds of the bush lulled us into the relaxing atmosphere we had come to expect.  We took an extra day in the bush and packed up on the Tuesday, avoiding the returning crowds.  Unfortunately, the ascent out of the bush and the Black Spur had me feeling very queasy and out of sorts.  We returned to an excited kitty cat and days of washing ahead of me.  Another year done and dusted.

Doona   

Shit Happens – On The Way To A Party

We were invited to an 18^th for the daughter of my very close friend.  I offered to make something sweet to bring along.  From the list of offerings, my friend and her daughter chose rich chocolate brownies slathered in salted caramel sauce.

I made the product and salted caramel sauce on the day of the party, neatly plated and in a container with a carry handle for easy manoeuvrability as we were catching a train to the party (so we could all smash some alcohol).

After waiting an age for Miss Marvellous to finish her bloody make-up, we finally locked the house up and left for the station.  Of course, our train was pulling out of the station when we got there.  Then, as we’re standing on the platform waiting for the next train, which would arrive in about seven minutes, Captain Fantastic frowns at me and says “weren’t you supposed to bring something to eat?”

“Shit, shit, shit.  I left the brownies at home!” I exclaim in horror.  Boy Wonder decides to save the day, “I’ll go!”  He takes off at a sprint and I am sure he will not get there and back in time.  I look at Miss Marvellous and say “Jeez, I hope he carries the container horizontally so the brownies don’t end up sliding off the plate.”  Miss Marvellous decides to send Boy Wonder a text message which I find out later reads: Hey, don’t fuck up the cakes.   Communication between these two siblings is up there with the Bogans. I start to panic a little bit so I ring Boy Wonder and tell him not to worry if he misses the train as there is another one coming in 20 minutes.  I’m more worried about my brownies so I ask him to please try to carry the container horizontal.

After I hang up, I start stressing about everything so I’m jumping from foot to foot in anticipation when we hear the announcement that the train is approaching.  Holy Crap!  Now I’m pressed up against the fence looking for him when I see Boy Wonder round the corner.  He is running like the clappers and the fucking container is vertical!  Aaaarrrggghhh!  His arms a pumping back and forth with the container swinging vertically and I can just imagine what is happening to my brownies inside…are smashed brownies a thing?  I want to say something but the train has arrived and he’s running up the ramp and I actually want him to make it.  He runs into the carriage as the doors are closing and hands me the fucked up product, then drops into a seat; The Captain drops beside him.  Miss Marvellous and I move down the carriage to a couple of free seats.  I eye her and look at the container on my lap and she gives me a look that translates to “Shit!”

Sweat starts pouring off Boy Wonder and he looks pale.  He is seriously dripping sweat everywhere and his tee is stuck to him and he looks for all intents and purposes like he has been for a swim in his clothes.  The train pulls into a station and a family disembark, leaving a group of four seats free, so we call the boys over and we’re sitting as a family.  I tentatively open the container to retrieve some paper towel I had wrapped the jar of extra salted caramel sauce in, and start to dab at my poor son’s sweaty neck.  I now remember that I have also forgotten the birthday gift and silently berate myself for being such a forgetful git.  I announce my stupidity to the family.  Miss Marvellous rolls her eyes, The Captain shakes his head and Boy Wonder is silently, non-judgmentally sweating up a storm beside me.

Miss Marvellous says something to me and suddenly Boy Wonder has Tourette’s and is glaring at us angrily because we have the audacity to speak.  I ask if he is ok and he barks at me with all the hostility of a raging bull, “I feel sick, I’m all sweaty and gross and I just want to get off at the next station and go home.”  I gently say that he can’t really do that as we’re expected at this party and he just rounds on me and rages “Look at me!  My shirt is stuck to me and I’m disgusting and I’m going to stink!!”  Jesus, where is this coming from?  The Captain is scrolling through pictures on his phone, not giving a single gram of fuck; he randomly shows Miss Marvellous some pictures from his cache.  Miss Marvellous gives her father a moment of her attention but she is having none of her brother’s rage and she tells him to calm down but he turns on her too and says “I just ran all the way home and got those things!” nodding at the container in my hand.  Miss Marvellous tells him that we told him not to stress because there is another train.  If looks could kill, Miss Marvellous’ head would have exploded all over the train.  Boy Wonder feels unappreciated and misunderstood.   Nobody voices the fact that he volunteered because the rage has been unleashed and he’s a man-child now.  Miss Marvellous glares back at him and chooses to stay quiet because he is outrageously angry and marinating in his own testosterone.  Boy Wonder is still raging beside me “I am not going inside until someone brings me a freaking towel and some deodorant.  I mean it, I am NOT going in!”  I soothingly tell him I will go in and get those things and it will be ok.  I try to lighten the mood by laughing about the messy product within the container and to my horror; Boy Wonder gives me a death stare and an expletive.  Still raging, “I did this to myself to help you!”  I’m horrified into speechlessness because he has never been rude like that before.  I’m still blinking at the back of his head when the anger just leaves him and he looks at me sheepishly and starts cracking jokes. 

The Captain shows Miss Marvellous another picture and says “here’s a pic of you with your sister.”  Miss Marvellous guffaws because he has shown her a picture of Boy Wonder with long hair.  Boy Wonder thinks it’s funny and gives his father some skin.  I’m still reeling from the insult.

We pull into the station and as I stand to leave, the lid comes off the container and brownies go everywhere.  I catch most of them (and the attention of most of the train as I yelp and rattle around with the brownie container) but about 10 fall all over the floor.  Miss Marvellous takes the container from me because she thinks I’m a clumsy dolt and doesn’t trust me to get what is left of the smashed brownies and goo to the party without flinging them everywhere like a monkey flinging shit.  We collect about 5 of the fallen brownies before Miss Marvellous barks at us to get off the God damned train and leave the others on the floor for some lucky bastard to discover.  We deposit the collected brownies in the bin make our way out of the station. The text message arrives from Miss Marvellous to Boy Wonder about the brownies.  They both laugh because it’s hilarious that it came through 40 minutes after the fact.  I’m not laughing – my brownies are fucked.

We finally make it to the party and I go in and ask for male deodorant but Boy Wonder is telling me it is no longer necessary.  I think to myself, “It bloody is, mate, because if you start to stink you might lose your shit again and I can’t take anymore teenage rage.”

Everyone calms down and we enjoy the party.  I tell them we will drop the gift by the next day and everything is ok.  Miss Marvellous consumes a decent quantity of alcohol and finds herself dancing with a bunch of 40+ year olds to music from the 80s.  Some drunk chick keeps asking Miss Marvellous, repeatedly, like every few seconds, about passwords. I am in my element, a little tipsy and dancing like nobody is watching…but Boy Wonder is watching.  He is embarrassed by my dancing.  He tells me this many times in the train all the way home.  I tell him I don’t care, I dance how I dance and he can get stuffed (I’m still a little stung by his expletive insult on the way in).  We discuss the antics of the drunk people at the party, one of which is a 6ft 7 giant who was dirty dancing with his wife.  Apparently this bloke, all hunched over like a dog taking a shit, arms flailing everywhere and dancing like a knob was ok, because it was funny.  Mine was just shit dancing with a very high level of embarrassment.  He mentions crumping…I did not crump.  I don’t crump because the last time I did so in the kitchen (completely sober, mind you), I put my back out.  I’m too old for that shit.  

Sigh, so much shit happening.

Shit Happens: How I Broke My Butt

There are times in life when one must admit that they are not cut out for certain activities.  It could be a case of being too old, we do get past it, or being so ridiculously spastic and uncoordinated that we fuck up even the most basic of activities.  We may have attempted these activities in the past and failed, but years later, after witnessing a small child succeed in such activities, common sense does not prevail and one thinks, "I might give that another go, maybe I can do it this time."  Fuckwitism at its most prominent.

One such idiotic moment occurred on our 2017-2018 stay in Bright over the Christmas break.  This is an annual family holiday, broken in 2016-2017 by our trip to the USA.  We had missed the tranquil setting of our cabin in the Riverview Caravan Park, through which the Buckland river flows, and we missed the river itself.

The water hole is a daily activity, usually in the morning when it is quiet and peaceful and quite often, ours alone to enjoy with the happy sounds of birds and the calming flow of water.  The first toe dipped into the water effects a stifled scream as the icy temperature, straight from the mountains, makes the nipples pop and the balls retreat, irrespective of the 30•C temperature outside.  Within minutes though, you're up to your thighs and gathering the intestinal fortitude to dip the nether regions and get the shock over with.  Not so Boy Wonder; bolstered by the bravery of youth, he climbs the rocks and leaps off into the icy depths, emerging like a bullet from a smoking gun, gasping and grinning with the crazy only a teen can produce.

The same water hole in the afternoon can be a seething mass of loud and obnoxious teenagers, leaping off the rocks doing bombs, laughing loudly and showing off with backward somersaults to impress the fairer sex and make all mum's in the region dig their nails into their palms and clench in fear; we're born worriers, irrespective of who owns the kid.  The fathers are busy sucking in their beer guts and openly admiring the tight arses and firm titties of the girls, whistfully missing their lost youth.  Get your hand off it, tossers!

As this same river flows through our Caravan Park, most people use the water hole as a launching point to ride the river rapids.  I did attempt this river run many years ago, after torrential rain had the river swollen and flowing at great speed; hiding the rocks and other dangers from the inexperienced and the stupid...yes, me.  As a rookie, I relied on the advice of the experienced; The Captain (who calls himself the coach but leapt into the river and left me to my own defences...nice coaching) and my children.  I was advised at the time by Boy Wonder and Miss Marvellous to dodge the giant boulder, the biggest threat in the water, but since I'd never attempted this activity, I didn't know what to dodge or where this giant obstruction lurked and the fast pace and swell of the river hid such dangers.  I hit said bolder with my knees at great speed, launching into the air comically, to the delight of the Captain.  Re-entry had been difficult given my accident, which put a dent in my confidence, but I made it back alive.  Amazingly, I attempted this run two more times, each one eventuating in some mishap (one of which was completely my fault as I'd launched into the water on a blow up lilo-mattress with a separate pillow that belted me half to death about the head and nearly smacked my glasses off, then rammed the nose pieces into my eyes. Who does this shit?) All attempts left me battered and bruised and lacking in any confidence whatsoever.  "Nope, never again", I said.  Never turned out to be only a few short years away.

So this year, I watched little children leap onto blow-up mats  with abandon and float away with confidence and I thought "the river is calm, I can see the rocks...how hard can it be?"  Enter inappropriate bravado of middle aged, unskilled, spastic, uncoordinated and awkward idiot.  I proposed this ridiculous idea to Boy Wonder and he pollitely asked if I was sure.  His tone did not hide the wariness borne out of experience with me attempting this activity in the past.  Of course I am sure, I can do this!   No I can't.

I mounted the blow up mat in the shallows so I wouldn't embarrass myself bouncing off the thing and landing on my arse.  Bear in mind, this river bed is all rocks and the rapid water flow is directed between boulders.  My son gave me directions, before we set out, to follow his lead and stay calm.  These directions went in one ear and straight out the other as I came off on the first rapid as the mat flipped.  Boy Wonder patiently helped me back into the raft and I celebrated making it through the second rapid and dodging the giant boulder.  He was shocked and surprised when I came off on the benign third rapid and watched as I floundered and guzzled copious amounts of river water.  I didn't hurt myself (other than to dent my pride) and was very pleased when we made it to the slow pace after the rapids and lazily drifted into the Caravan Park.

Imagine his surprise when I said I wanted another go.  His face was incredulous because, come on, my track record to this point was absolutely shit!  I thought that now I knew the dangers (and if made it past that fucking boulder once...), surely I can get it right this time.  The look of incredulous disbelief was only momentary, but warranted.  I fucked up badly.

When we arrived, teenagers were everywhere at the water hole, a harbinger of doom as I hastily launched myself after Boy Wonder, who was eager to get this over with.  Badly positioned on the air mat to start with, I barely made it through the first rapid when the second rapid launched me half up and I failed to rebalance, flipping upside down.  This was bad, I was suddenly bereft of glasses (which I somehow managed to grasp in the turmoil), and as it was deep, I was still trying to cling to the raft as it belted me on the head and held me under water.  Trying not to panic as it threw me around in the middle of the rapid, I tenaciously clawed my way up and inhaled in a huge lungful of water, then half killed myself trying to get my head above the water level, gasping and making goat noises whenever I managed to surface and suck in air.  I was thrown hard against a pointy boulder and bounced solidly on my coccyx, belting my shin on the fucking boulder I was trying to avoid.  Floundering, gasping and burping water bubbles, my head broke free to hear Boy Wonder screaming "Stay Calm, just bloody stay calm".  I had the wherewithal to belch "I am calm" at him, but with my voice altered by water intake and lack of oxygen, I sounded like Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon.

"Come over here!" he yelled (Danny Glover?  Still caught in Lethal Weapon).  I refrained from telling him to fuck off, concentrating instead on breathing, climbing to safety and gathering my shattered wits.

As I was still gasping and trying to climb back onto the raft, executing the vertical splits as I righted myself, some bloke floating behind us yells out "hey, where do you get off this thing?"  Mate, I can barely fucking breath, can you piss off?  Boy Wonder glared at the guy, like he could make his head explode with his laser vision...not now, dude!  I yelled back "this ends in a Caravan Park, but you can get off under the bridge!"  He exclaimed, "SHIT!" and then we ignored his arse because my air mat had turned around and I was going backwards and we were approaching the third rapid.  Boy Wonder was yelling at me to turn around and I was splashing, frantically paddling, trying to turn my mat before...ah for fuck's sake, not again!  The last thing I saw was the quizzical expression of the guy in the tube before getting tossed off the mat again at the benign and most uncomplicated and unchallenging of all the rapids, which had my son shaking his head in disbelief.  His opinion of my ability to function at a normal level of competency had plummeted to rock bottom and although he didn't say so, his expression screamed it at a thousand decibels.  I just wanted everything and everyone to fuck off so I could flop like a flaccid dick across this air mat and catch my breath.

 As we drifted into the slow lazy pace, I told Boy Wonder that I'd seriously hurt myself in the butt and he advised that I should not attempt this again and perhaps I should join him from now on under the bridge and after the rapids.  This is the point I became unhinged and started laughing hysterically.  My nose was still burning from the water shooting through it but hey, my sinuses were clear.  My tailbone was throbbing and my spine was tingling from the jarring encounter with the rock that arse-fucked me when I was at my most vulnerable.

I asked why he was screaming at me stay calm, which he flat out denied had happened.   I suspect at the time he was trying to contain his terror as he watched his mother bounce around and drown audibly.  I should learn to die quietly.  He said that everything happens for a reason and baby Jesus doesn't want me to ride the rapids.

We returned to the cabin to be greeted by a grinning Captain Fantastic, who had seen the whole thing from the road above.  Jesus!  I asked if he'd heard Boy Wonder shouting at me to stay calm and he said "yes, that's how I knew you were there."  Boy Wonder is still shaking his head in denial - he needs to calm the fuck down in a crisis but the poor kid held it together surprisingly well considering the fuckwit thrashing about in the water with him.

The following day I found it was painful to walk and I wondered if I'd actually cracked my tail bone or smacked the fucker right off.  Grimacing and groaning, getting up from a sitting position or sitting down made me cry out (my pain threshold having all but disappeared) and I was beginning to sound like the giant bulls in the paddock adjacent to the caravan park.  Any form of walking was agony; inclines and declines the most painful of all.  We wondered aloud at the fate of that bloke behind us.  "Poor guy," said Boy Wonder, "I hope he got out alright".  Nah, fuck him, I thought as I struggled to get off my chair without bovine bellowing, he saw me fuck-up on the unfuck-upable rapid - we can never see that guy again...if we do, we have to kill him.

Boy Wonder was chivalrous and helpful, holding out his hand to help me get up or sit...or just walk.  He thought it was an insight into my future as he joked that I'm like a 90 year old, like he's assisting a stroke victim.  He certainly felt like he was watching me pitch some sort of fit in the river that day. He gleefully tells me over lunch today that I'm retarded and he's never heard of anyone coming off on the third rapid, and that he can't wait to tell Miss Marvellous (who didn't join us on holidays this year) so they can laugh about it.  His dad chimed in and said it's actually impossible to come off on the third.  "No it's not", I rejoined defensively, "because I came off!" and he counters "Jeez, it's a wonder you can put one foot in front of the other".  Fuck off, Captain, you're a shit coach.

Shit Happens in USA…Los Angeles & San Francisco – Part 2

5^th January 2017, Day 3 of Second Leg of LA – Day 2 in San Francisco

We breakfasted again at our favourite café.  As we left afterwards, we were delighted to see a giant, steaming moist Mr Whippy turd in the shop entrance next door, probably deposited there by a homeless person.  Even the homeless have to shit but please, for the love of God, find a public toilet.  Although this made me dry retch and my stomach roil so I had to work to keep my breakfast down, the kids were pissing themselves laughing and The Captain was making Henry the Third references that I’ve been hearing since the 90s and which didn’t impress me then or now…Dad jokes, but what was astounding was that they actually made the kids laugh.

We caught a Cable Car opposite our hotel and had one of the most fantastic experiences of our lives.  The Cable Car was full so we had to hang off the side…like we weren’t going to do that anyway.  Woot woot!  It was exhilarating and scary all at once, made more so when we hurtled past a truck and the fuckstick driver opened his door and nearly ripped my tits off.  Thankfully the Cable Car driver dinged his bell like a psycho and the fuckstick yanked his door shut just before he tore us all a new one.  He must live on Nob Hill.  The sudden braking and accelerating of the Cable Car had Boy Wonder take a hit to the nuts with the side bar so he was quiet and a pale shade of green for a while after we alighted the cable car. 

We had to return to the hotel for Boy Wonder to change his jeans because his nuts were throbbing and he thought it might be because his jeans were tight.  I think it might have been the jab to his nads by the handrail but since I don’t have a set, I remained mute.  The Captain thought it would be a grand idea to climb a zillion steps today and as he sprinted up with Boy Wonder in tow, and exhausted Miss Marvellous and I plotted their death as I puffed on my Ventolin and thought villainous thoughts. 

That night, we caught the ferry to Alcatraz for the night tour of the notorious prison.  When we arrived, we stood in the queue and shuffled past the crude open shower area and we were each given a head set.  There was a starting point and we were taken on a personal guided tour at our own leisure.  We could pause the headset if we wanted to dwell in an area for a closer look.  The narrator was an ex prisoner who spent time at the famous prison and he entertained us with tales of happenings from the perspective of an inmate.  It was one of the most awesome and educational things I’ve ever experienced.  It was fascinating to hear about the day to day life in the prison as well as some well documented escape attempts, riots and some famous names who spent time at the prison, one of which was Al Capone. 

By the time we had to venture back to the ferry, it was as cold as a witch's tit and I wished I had the ability to teleport because a cold ferry trip back in the dead of winter seemed too much for my nipples to bear.  Thankfully, it was warm inside the boat below deck and the trip was comfortable.  This is more than I could say for the car trip back because the traffic was really heavy and the Captain was driving on the wrong side of the road to Australia (which was stressing me out) and he broke the rules a couple of time (because he doesn’t give a fuck) which made me aggressively nag him (because I DO give a fuck and that’s why I don’t have an outstanding warrant for my arrest in this fucking country) until he cracked the shits and said “would you like to drive?”  Um no, no I would not.  I pulled my head in after that, the poor bastard was negotiating driving in a foreign country and I needed to stow my bitchiness.

After we got back home and changed, we went to an Irish pub for dinner called Johnny Foley’s Duelling Piano Bar; rocking name for an Irish establishment.  Miss Marvellous and I had the Irish stew and it was absolutely divine. This was our last night in San Francisco before we had to drive back to Los Angeles.  The Captain chose this time, when we are all full and sated and ready to fall into a food induced coma to announce that we can’t take the scenic tour tomorrow as we will never get back in time for the NBA game tomorrow night.  So another trip straight down the guts was planned with fuck all to see on the drive I never wanted to take except for the scenery I was not going to see on the coastal tour I was never going to get.  I was dreading the methane farm and quietly plotting a torture session for The Captain when we reached home.   

When we returned, we sat in the lobby to update social media, The Captain decided that the night before we get back to LA is the right time to book accommodation for our last night in the USA.  What the fuck?  I thought we had this all planned and paid for…apparently not.  I cannot believe that after fucking around for a few minutes, he just gave up and booked anything in the Marina Del Rey and the fucking room cost A$500 for one night.  The Marriott Santa Monica Le Merigot had better have a gold bar of soap waiting for me to wash my bits and arsehole with at that price.  Afterwards, when his insanity dissipated and he could see the look of horror on my face, he conceded that he probably should have shopped around more.  Fuck me, I didn’t realise we were leaking hundred dollar bills out of our arses!  Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick!

6^th January 2017, Day 4 of Second Leg of LA – Trip Back to Los Angeles

This was our last morning in San Francisco.  We breakfasted again at our favourite café, although no turds threatened to greet us on our way, before embarking on the boring-as-batshit trip back to Los Angeles.  Boy Wonder was bouncing in his seat in anticipation of the NBA game we were going to that night.  Miss Marvellous was not fussed (not a fan of basketball) and I was still just trying to get through each boring hour of the eight hour trip and trying not to drool on myself as I dozed in the front seat, fighting the nausea and hating the wasted day. 

Half way through the trip, The Captain announced to me that when the kids have all grown and left home and it’s just the two of us, we will return to the USA and do a road trip holiday in a Winnebago.  Obviously he’s planning on divorcing me and taking someone else because I am not up for days and weeks driving across the country in a giant house on wheels.  I would have to spend most days perpetually stoned off my nut on travel sickness pills and he will soon tire of the groaning, sleeping or worse, puking.  I’m not a driving holiday kind of girl.  Surely 27 years of being in my company has taught him that?  Wishful thinking will not change my susceptibility to motion sickness, dude, no matter how many magic lanterns you rub.  Soon after, we had a stop to break up the trip and inhaled Macca's for the first time in the US.  It was the same as home except nobody calls it Maccas there.  We Aussies like to butcher everything with our slang.

The hotel room was mediocre but I was past giving a shit.  We had to hightail it into our room to quickly get changed before we darted out to try to find something to eat before the game.  We went to a Mexican restaurant which had waitresses who don’t actually wait on the tables.  After perusing the menu and deciding on our meal, we practically had to rugby tackle someone to get our order taken.  Come the fuck on!! There were about seven other people in the restaurant because it was still only late afternoon.  We’re not asking for the world on a plate, just a little service.  Having said that, when Jose finally made the nachos, they were gooey and yummy and hit the spot.

We took the train to the NBA game.  The Captain was in charge of purchasing the train tickets (because none of us knew what to do) and decided to use his million coins for the tickets.  Finally, the Captain got to the front of the queue and started fucking around with the tickets but nothing was happening.  Some older woman just came up and did it for us because we’re all slightly touched in the head (and the queue of people behind us were getting tetchy) so he gave her a $20 and didn’t get any change.  Who gives a fuck, thanks for stepping in, Sister.

As we got off the train and approached the Staple Centre on foot, Boy Wonder did all but bar up when he saw the stadium up ahead.  He went all macho and teenage on us and started beating his chest and bleating about it being the best day of his life.  Get your hand off it, son, you’re only fifteen years old.  We were expected to go all tourist with the camera and had to take photos of him out front of the stadium, inside the stadium, in front of a Lakers Pole, holding a soft drink.  Dude, enough of this shit, we can’t capture your joy on celluloid, let’s just get inside and find our seats.  But first, there were the Lakers cheerleaders that the Captain had to get his photo with.  Men a creepy when hot chicks are around.  Pleeeeeease!

Okay, so Boy Wonder is a massive LA Lakers fan following his introduction to the team by his older cousin.  This was a home game against Miami Heat and we were hoping to witness a win.  It was an excellent game.  There was a bout of fisticuffs, 2 players were ejected due to said fisticuffs, my sphincter got a workout in the last seconds and boy Wonder lost his voice screaming because the score was tight and if the Lakers win and the score below 100, the whole audience gets free tacos.  We missed out on Tacos by 1 fucking point (Lakers scored 100)…but Lakers won so who gives a shit, right?  We were going home the next night anyway so who cares about tacos we’re never going to eat.  Miss Marvellous worked her face really hard to look like she was enjoying herself.  Then the young guys behind us started with sarcastic yelling and trash talk and that had her enjoy the last half of the game.

We caught the train back and Boy Wonder spied a commuter wearing a Carlton Football windcheater, but he resisted the urge to tap him on the shoulder.  We were late getting back and everything seemed to be closed and we were desperate for a meal.  We hadn’t eaten since late afternoon at the Mexican Cantina and we were getting really snippy and hangry.  The only place we could find open was that shitty café we went to the first time we were in Los Angeles and Santa Monica, where the sandwiches were huge and you had to dislocate your jaw to take a bite then pour half a can of drink in your head to soften the dry bread so you didn’t choke to death on the bale of hay you were moving around inside your mouth.  Fuck it, after more circle work and finding no other eatery, we just had to settle for hay bales.  Boy wonder was correct.  The sandwiches required a flip-top head and a large drink to consume but they weren’t cheap so after pulling the guts out of my sandwich and eating it, I found I just couldn’t produce enough saliva to finish the hay bale so I scrunched it up in my napkin and pretended I’d finished it then surreptitiously dumped it in a bin when The Captain wasn’t looking.  Sorry mate, it just wasn’t worth suffocating for.

7^th January 2017, Day 5 of Second Leg of LA – Time to go home

We drove to Santa Monica and stopped for our last cooked meal.  We had a hot cooked breakfast at a small café and it cost a fucking bomb (A$120).  We were going to arrive home in Melbourne with nothing but pocket lint to our name just because of the last couple of days here.  We wandered around Santa Monica looking in shops and decided to split up so we could go where we wanted without an audience.  When we all met up, the Captain had some dried up shit on his face around his eyes but he looked about 10 years younger.  He then made us all turn around and walk a different way because he didn’t want the woman who put the shit around his eyes to see him.  Apparently she’d put this stuff on his face, thinking he was going to buy it, and he said he would go ask the wife for the credit card, like I get to control anything financial.  Of course this stuff cost the earth but he said “it’s supposed to last for days then you put more on every few mornings”.  Yeah, nah!  I don’t give a shit, by the time we make it back home to Australia, you’re still going to sport the face of the 50 old bloke I came with because we spent $500 bucks on a shit hotel which didn’t pony up with the gold bar of soap.  Don’t be a knob, Captain!

We drove the hire car to the return depot at the airport and waited for the airport bus to take us to our terminal.  Again, we were packed in like sardines, jerking around and waiting to get to our terminal.  The canvas was a bitch to carry because it kept sagging in the middle like a skinny limp baby.  The Captain had decided to take it as carry-on luggage.  Whilst at the airport, I edited a few more chapters of my next book and before we knew it, we were boarding the plane back home.  I took pills to ensure I didn’t become the Vomitron mid-flight again.  The Captain was a few rows behind us (because Felonious had to book his tickets late) and we struck turbulence just after the kids and I had received our meals and beverages.  The cart was suddenly hurried back up the aisle and the flight attendants strapped themselves in until everything settled.  I resisted the urge to look down the aisle at him and hiss “sucker.”  Regardless, we ate our meals in the midst of this turmoil, trying not to poke an eye out with my fork or wash my face with my wine but the Captain was starving three rows down.  By the time he got fed, we were replete and dozing; a third of the way through a movie. 

We arrived in Melbourne after very long flight to a nice balmy morning.  Ever the committed team leader, The Captain was taking calls and working in the cab at 9am on his way back from the airport.  He is dedication incarnate! 

I just couldn’t wait to get home to hug my cat and sleep in my own bed.  The garden was alive and happy thanks to a friend of Miss Marvellous who took care of catface and watered the garden.  What a trip!  A month aboard for all four of us that cost close to A$50,000 but fuck it, it’s a once in a lifetime experience and we had a ball…we have a full photo album to show for it.

I hope you enjoyed our trip.

Doona

Shit Happens in USA…Los Angeles & San Francisco – Part 1

2^nd January 2017, arrive back in Los Angeles

We arrived in Los Angeles from New York late in the evening.  We decided to stay at an airport hotel since we were driving to San Francisco in the morning.  LAX is a frigging nightmare.  Taxis and courtesy busses were just burling in and out of traffic with no apparent order.  Exasperated traffic cops yelled at idiot drivers who completely ignored their direction and one Asian driver, who obviously acquired his licence from the back of a cereal box, got a fist to the bonnet and a very erect finger jab by an angry black traffic controller.  Her booming voice held notes of warning and I’m sure the driver’s legs had turned to jelly because he looked shit scared.  I was on the other side of the road and I was shit scared.  My short time in this country has taught me that you just don’t piss off black women. 

I was surprised there were no fender benders given the chaos.  There were lots of horns though…American’s love sitting on a horn.  There were also lots of frustrated people, four of which were us.  We waited an eternity for our hotel curtesy bus for The Century Boulevard Marriot; even the usually unflappable Captain was looking worn of patience.  When we finally got all our cases in, we were packed in like sardines, jostling along until we reached our hotel.  There is nothing much to report about this night.  We had to be up early for the road trip tomorrow so we collapsed into a travel weary sleep of the dead.  I’m not looking forward to tomorrow…I fucking hate long car trips.

3^rd January 2017, Day 1 of Second Leg of LA – Trip to San Francisco

The Captain walked the short distance to the car hire company from our hotel while I checked us out.  Whilst in Reception, Boy Wonder annoyingly asked if we had the passports and cash again because he couldn’t wear his super hero cape much longer.  Can you fuck off, son?  Captain Fantastic arrived at our hotel looking larger than life on the wrong side of the hire car.  We hired a big Dodge (I did consider reminding the Captain that the car was not an extension of his dick but the size of the vehicle suggested he begged to differ).  Miss Marvellous dubbed the vehicle a ‘soccer mom car’.

The first thing we did in preparation for the road trip was drive back to the Killer Café in Marina Del Rey where we loaded up on food with a big breakfast before the long road trip.  The kids and I suffer from travel sickness, but I suffer the worst.  I even get sick on a swing so I was not overjoyed at the prospect of an 8-10 hour road trip to San Fran.  Before we left Melbourne, when I groaned at the prospect of the road trip and asked why we couldn’t fly, The Captain sold it to me as an amazing experience via the coastal route with lots of stops on the way for a coffee or happy snaps at some beautiful landmarks and places of notoriety on the way up.  This was a bullshit ruse and none of the above occurred.  Captain Fantastic decided that he just wanted to get the fuck there already and dissed the coastal scenic route for a drive straight up the guts.  He said we’d do the scenic tour on the way back.  Fuck you Captain.  Bastard!

Apart from the first few minutes after we took off on the highway and a plane coming in to land at LAX looked like it was going to crash right in front of us, the trip up was as boring as batshit.  There was fuck all to see except a bunch of hills and valleys, then just miles of farmland for hours…and lots of those weird things with a big head like a grasshopper that dig for oil in the ground…I think they’re actually land oil rigs???  There were acres of wind farms and the stinkiest place that my olfactories have ever had to encounter and which had me dry retching.  It was some kind of cattle farm and the cattle were so packed in so tightly in the giant field that they were a sea of black and brown, barely moving but obviously shitting and farting like it was an Olympic sport.  Fucking “Moooo!”  I couldn’t photograph any of it because the smell was so offensive that I had my whole face buried in my armpit trying to smell my own freshness rather than the methane, skin peeling stench that was going on outside of the car.  The Captain kept looking at me like I’m weird, I think his sniffer is dead. 

As we started to approach San Francisco, something set Mother Nature off and she threw the mother of all hissy fits and bucketed rain on us as we drove across the Oakland Bridge.  San Francisco looked black and white in the shitty picture Mother Nature was painting and I hoped her mood would improve soon and things would get better for our sightseeing adventures.

We stayed at the Westin, St Francis, and boy, what a posh place.  Even the loos in reception were shmancy (and Bogan that I am, I took photos of the said loos).  The Captain dropped us at Reception and went to find car parking because the concierge advised the ridiculous fee to park in the hotel parking would probably require us to sell one of the kids.  Miss Marvellous took off to visit the loo and Boy Wonder and I checked us all in.  As Boy Wonder and I approached the Receptionist, she greeted us with a sunny smile and queried “How can I help you two ladies?”  Boy Wonder, who had been mistaken for a woman again, groaned audibly next to me.  This was the third time in this country that he had been mistaken for a chick.  I spoke loudly, because he looks like a frigging guy and this woman was blind, stupid or both.  I introduced myself and my son.  She looked pointedly at Boy Wonder then started back pedalling and flapping her hands in apology but Boy Wonder was having none of it.  He said “don’t worry, I’m cutting it off as soon as I get back to Australia.  This is the third time I’ve been called a woman over here.”  She just kept on apologising and spewing words out of her mouth like vomit “…no, please don’t cut it off.  It looks really good on you.  You look like a boy, I just saw you hair and made a mistake.  Please don’t cut it.”  Save your breath lady, you insulted his manhood and completely emasculated him.  Now shut the fuck up and check us in, bitch. 

Miss Marvellous guffawed with mirth when Boy Wonder regaled her with the mistaken identity news.  She said “you’re either a really pretty boy or a really ugly chick.”  Way to go, kick him in the nuts while he’s down.  NICE!

We got up to our room and it was small but really cool.  The toiletries in our room had an absolutely fabulous scent and I wanted to douse myself in shower gel.  There was no wifi in the room, which pissed us all off.  We either had to pay an exorbitant amount of money if we wanted to access Wifi in the room or go to the lobby where wifi was free.  Fuck you guys, we’ll sit in the lobby every night like antisocial arseholes and update our Facebook and Snapchat. 

That night, we walked our surrounding streets looking for a place to eat.  San Francisco is as hilly as fuck!  Our gluteus and quad muscles certainly got a work out.  We walked through a neighbourhood called Nob Hill and I absolutely pissed myself…because I’m five. We found an Italian restaurant, which was just okay, but our expectations for good food in Los Angeles took a plummet after The Terrace shit-on-a-plate experience so the disappointment was minimal and we were hungry.

4^th January 2017, Day 2 of Second Leg of LA – Day 1 in San Francisco

The next morning we found a fabulous café that made great bagels and really good coffee and hot chocolate.  This became our daily morning ritual.  After breakfast, we drove to the Golden Gate Bridge.  The walk across was really cool and we took some gorgeous photos, despite Mother Nature’s surly mood, which gave us a grey mediocrity.  Boy Wonder found the experience was marred by his annoying sister, who leaned out over the bridge for better photographic memories, but had the poor boy’s balls tingling and his heart racing.  Absolutely no fucks were given by Miss Marvellous as she continued to traumatise her brother in the name of Polaroid excellence.  Captain Fantastic was in his element as this was one of the most coveted experiences in San Fran for him.

After the trek across the bridge and back again, we headed off to Pier 39.  Here we saw a herd of seals, lounging on the piers and barking loudly; diving in and out of the water and completely oblivious to us.  We walked to Fisherman’s Wharf and wandered through a sweets shop that had the kids buzzing with a sugar high.  After the lolly shop we indulged in the famous clam chowder.  This was served in a hollowed out loaf of bread, surrounded by bread pieces to dip in sop up the delicious soup.  This proved to be a very tasty and hearty meal and just the thing to thaw us out.

On the drive back home, the Captain stopped at the top of a windy road and asked if anyone in the car knew where we were. Silence was broken by two “‘no’s” and one “yes”…of all the occupants in the vehicle, it was Boy Wonder who knew where we were, much to the Captain’s joy, as he had driven (crashed and stacked, more like)  cars here in Watchdogs, an Xbox game.  For the love of God, he knew Venice Beach by the Xbox games and half of the places we visited in Los Angeles.  What the fuck is happening in the world??  Anyway, we were driving down Lombard street which was noted on the map as the ‘windiest street in San Francisco’ (as in wound, not blowing a gale) and thankfully, The Captain can actually drive so we didn’t stack but it was very windy and made very exciting by the stupid dumb-arsed sightseers who kept trying to die in front of the car on the way down as they darted across the road.  San Francisco is fucktard central.

We dined at another Italian restaurant and this one was a more superior event.  Eating was just getting to the point where we had to fill a hole inside our guts and not experience gastronomical joy.

Look out for the last instalment…Part 2