Then

The thrill of Saturday night, with all the promise of giddy lust and parading.  Planning outfits in my head for days.  Saving enough cash for drinks, and a secret taxi stash.  Phone calls to and fro to set times and places and double checking of outfits and who would get ready where, who would sleep where, who would do what with whom.  No thought of Sunday, other than to see her peek over the horizon if the night was a good one.

Now

Saturday night?  A night to be endured before the relief of Sunday- a whole day of our little family with beach and fresh juices and languid lunches.  Preferrably beers and footy on the couch, a few tunes, savour some air up on the top deck and then sweet blessed bed.  If we have to, we go out, but hopefully early.  So we can get home early.

Then

Hey, Hey It’s Saturday on your Mum’s donated telly and Barbie Doll shots of vodka & raspberry.  Three or four girls getting ready in one place, the bathroom humid with hairdryers and hairspray and perfumes intermingled.  Primping and parading and do I look fat in this?  Ice T or Frenzel Rhomb cranked up as loud as can be endured.  Salacious thoughts of what you might do to that guy from Chem Prac with the Rollins Band t-shirt and the celtic tatt, if he shows up.

Now

Funniest Home Videos on the flatscreen to keep the kids quiet whilst you squint to see if your bum looks too big, the clothes too ‘young’.  A shot of ristretto to keep you awake past 9pm and a fleeting thought of George Clooney in a suit, or even better, your own husband with his greying temples, that dips as soon as you see the dishes in the sink, your libido down the drain with the suds.  Michael Franti turned down low enough to give instructions to the babysitter.

Then

You head out as late as possible so you can hit the ground running.  A few quick pots of tap beer and then it’s onto the dance floor or the pool table, teetering on your heels, a sashaying walk.  Dancing and singing and dancing, pupils so big as to take up your whole eye, drinking in the lights, the boys, the night.  The night that blends seamlessly into tomorrow and you watch the sunrise, foggy brain registering the beauty.

Now

Meet at a friend’s place as early as possible to drink fancy champagne and craft beers, before you head out to a restaurant where a meal costs your (then) entire pay packet.  You comment on the quantity of the food and the quality of the service and whether or not the staff dote on you enough.  If you can convince the others you might be able to squeeze in a dance or two before it is curfew time, with the babysitter on an hourly rate.  Home for a few hours sleep before the kids wake up, and you watch the sunrise, foggy brain registering the beauty.

…From The Ashers xx

Bored shitless, and trying to avoid Twitter (Yes, that Mia Freedman victim-shaming-rant fallout is still going on) so we decided to watch Dancing With The “Stars”.

Oh Holy Mary, Mother of God what the Hell is going on here?

Firstly, there’s a new host.  Where is Sonja?  And why does this new chick look suspiciously like her?  Is Channel 7 having a “single white female” moment?  And why did she just say “cock-a-roaches” instead of cockroaches?  If she says “aks” instead of asks, I’m ringing the switchboard.

Secondly, some dude just did metal fingers because he got a “rock” song for his poncy dance.  But he didn’t really do metal fingers, with the index and little finger like pointy debbil-horns.  No, he did the two-fingered “up yours” fingers from 1974.  But he meant them to be horns.  What a tool.  Plus: not a metal song.

I’m cringing so much I can hardly watch.

Cut to the audience, and by the looks on their faces, I think some of them are experiencing the searing pain, of images burning, burning, their retinas.  The rest are sitting quietly, zombiod*, reflecting on how they may best re-arrange the soft furnishings in their lounge-rooms tomorrow.

Thirdly, who are these stars?

One of the contestants was so uncoordinated, the choreography was designed to prevent him from, well, dancing.  The Annoying Judge said, “You just might win Non-Dancing with the Stars”.  What?  What stars?  Doesn’t he mean “Dancing with the Non-Stars”?  WE DON’T KNOW WHO ANY OF THEM ARE.

So we have invented a game**.  The rules are as follows:

1. Turn down the audio and avert eyes whilst the intro and mini-montage of the “journey” part is on
2. Watch the dancing bit
3. Try to guess which one is the dancer and which is the “star”
4. If you get it wrong: scull.
5. If you get it right: also scull (otherwise the show really is unbearable)

That is the end of the game.  Brilliant in it’s simplicity, no?  It seems the show is getting better each time we follow steps 1 through 5.  I am considering adding in some new rules.  Like: every time someone mentions how they hope they aren’t going home this week: scull, every time someone mentions how much they’ve grown: scull, every time Daniel McPherson says “That might just be the dance of the night”: scull.

I’m changing my mind, this show, really is pretty good.

OH BLOODY HELL, NO, THE RUDE AND ANNOYING CHICK FROM THAT HOME COOKING SHOW JUST CAME ON, HOW ON EARTH IS SHE A STAR? SHE DIDN’T EVEN WIN: Scull.

Okay, I take it aaalllll back. This show bites: scull.

*Possibly a made-up word.

**We didn’t invent it, and it’s not a game.  It’s just called getting pissed I think.  But with added yelling at the telly.

Do you watch DWTS?

Have you invented any excellent games I must know of?