So there wasn't a peep out of anyone from Ireland for a few days and I couldn't figure out what it was until I clicked on accentmonkey's blog this morning and saw the pictures from the wedding.
Ah yes, of course.. Portumna will never be the same, I'm sure.
So I looked through all the pictures. And then I looked through them all again. All those familiar faces. Familiar faces that are gradually changing.
Mixed feelings...
Two years away from all those faces. Yet I still feel very strongly connected. Even though all the experiences are second hand for me now. Still, they are part of every day thanks to the wonders of technology.
Christ we're all starting to look a teensy bit middle-aged but!
In a perverse way I was glad to see it, as I had spent part of the morning panicking about getting old, it coming up on my thirty seventh birthday (what kind of an effing birthday is thirty seven!! Other than depressing!). Plus we had spent the previous evening in the company of Himself's work colleagues, who are all about twelve years old and MARRIED. Well, actually some of them are already divorced, which is even scarier.
We were celebrating my second anniversary in Canada. Well, what was really going on was that after almost six months of responsible living and parenting and with a night off due to Kitty staying with a friend, Himself announced we were going to go out and get liquored up. So I created a hook to hang the liquor on, not being able to face a night out without a reason anymore.
So I scored six tickets to the Nova Scotia Liquor Corporation Annual Summer Drinks party and off we went. Queenie, Himself, Alex and Tristan, and Eric and Gillian.
The NSLC parties are amazing concepts. Three hours of free samples of everything they sell in their stores. With food and a band. It's like a big wedding. They have three a year - summer, a new wines fling in the spring, and a winter whiskey party.
I went to the whiskey one in my first year here. I remember watching everyone standing around sipping slowly and chatting and thinking that if they had these parties in Ireland, there would be a triage unit set up in the middle of the room.
A very sedate affair.
The Summer Beach party is a whole different kettle of fish.
And I realised finally that I am getting middle-aged.
There was so much skin on view. Oceans and oceans of pale skin, bad fake tan jobs, leathery wizened tan jobs. Mostly with long, bleached, straightened, sprayed fake blond hair.
Alex and Tristan spent the first half an hour running around in pointless alcohol and women free circles, shouting 'girls', 'liquor', 'ohmygod thankyou Queenie', until Himself pointed out that there was liquor to be had. Himself had worked his way up the wine stalls and was introducing himself to the Captain (Captain Morgan's rum - staple drink of Cape Breton) at that point.
I was stupified with shock. As well as the flesh and the hair, there were arses everywhere. Acres of arses. Whole prairie-widths full of them, poured into leggings atop stiletto mules.
I saw Paris Hilton from behind. It was definitely her. A little see through baby doll dress and long legs (mahogany) slipped into little pink slipper mules. A dog under her arm. Long silvery blonde hair. Then she turned round.
Fifty. At least fifty. Life lines etched into her mahogany face like runes on a granite pillar.
Whatthefuck?
All the men looked the same; khakis or shorts with a polo shirt and sandals or flip flops. Standard Canadian summer wear no matter what you're doing. Or what age you are.
All the women looked the same too; leggings or skinny jeans with a little strappy top and wobbly mules. Standard Canadian party wear no matter what age you are.
Except it does of course.
Why does wearing clothes designed for a twenty year old not work when you're an ageing woman and work just fine when you're an ageing male?
Because the frigging women's clothes are so ludicrous in the first place.
Queenie was wearing her jeans and her green long-sleeved top that she's had for seven years and her black zip up biker jacket that she's had for six and her flat pumps. You could see nothing but my face and hands.
Less is more after twenty five, ladies, less is more.
So it struck me how great everyone looked in the photos of the wedding. How all the men and women looked so confident and attractive and comfortable in their skins and how all their smiles were so relaxed and happy. Not a stiletto mule in sight, so no grimaces of pain, see.
There's a lot to be said for an uncertain climate!! And a lifetime of partying in a field.
And then I immediately felt better about getting older. Because all the people I will be getting old with are so cool.
And as Himself said this morning as we peeled our eyes open to survey the events of the night before, we may be getting old but we are the coolest old farts in Halifax according to Alex and Tristan.
Hmmm, he didn't look too cool when he was getting thrown out of Cheers pub at one am this morning.
His crime?
He asked where the bathroom was.
Apparently, if you don't know where the bathroom is then you shouldn't be there in the first place. They are lucky I wasn't with him when it happened. Although, I got thrown out of there once before for refusing to let them put my ID card in a scanning device unless they told me where the data went.
The bouncers of course don't have a clue where the data goes, or why data going somewhere would be a bad idea in a country that pretends to be free, so they barred me for life for having a bad attitude.
Anyways, Himself is barred now as well for wanting to have a pee in the bathroom. The official reason is that he was intoxicated.
Ehm, yes.. we paid six dollars to get in to a place that serves alcohol, and patiently allowed our bags and persons to be searched by a gimp, and then paid over-priced prices for drinks so yes... he was slightly intoxicated.
We weren't off our heads on drugs like everyone else in the place appeared to be but.
Anyways, we headed down to Gingers with Hotspurr to have a drink in a bar that 'spects you to get liquered up'....
... yes dear...
As we were leaving, Tristan and Alex came running out. Well, Tristan was trying to stand up and run at the same time. They were outraged at the treatment Himself had endured, so Himself suggested they all go back in and take on the bouncers. He's such a provocateur sometimes.
They were horrified!!
Young fellas... they had spent the entire evening telling me about this guy and that guy they were going to smash his head in yadda yadda. But a trio of bouncers with scanning devices? Nosireebob.
So Himself pretended to leave in a huff.
We were relieved really. Gingers is so much more enjoyable than a heaving throb of twenty something pheromes. Even if it doesn't have a seventies dinosaur guitar band doing Duran Duran covers in the back bar.
Hungry like the wolf.... time for breakfast... we are supposed to be having a barbeque today, but Mr. Sun has not appeared yet.
Ah yes, of course.. Portumna will never be the same, I'm sure.
So I looked through all the pictures. And then I looked through them all again. All those familiar faces. Familiar faces that are gradually changing.
Mixed feelings...
Two years away from all those faces. Yet I still feel very strongly connected. Even though all the experiences are second hand for me now. Still, they are part of every day thanks to the wonders of technology.
Christ we're all starting to look a teensy bit middle-aged but!
In a perverse way I was glad to see it, as I had spent part of the morning panicking about getting old, it coming up on my thirty seventh birthday (what kind of an effing birthday is thirty seven!! Other than depressing!). Plus we had spent the previous evening in the company of Himself's work colleagues, who are all about twelve years old and MARRIED. Well, actually some of them are already divorced, which is even scarier.
We were celebrating my second anniversary in Canada. Well, what was really going on was that after almost six months of responsible living and parenting and with a night off due to Kitty staying with a friend, Himself announced we were going to go out and get liquored up. So I created a hook to hang the liquor on, not being able to face a night out without a reason anymore.
So I scored six tickets to the Nova Scotia Liquor Corporation Annual Summer Drinks party and off we went. Queenie, Himself, Alex and Tristan, and Eric and Gillian.
The NSLC parties are amazing concepts. Three hours of free samples of everything they sell in their stores. With food and a band. It's like a big wedding. They have three a year - summer, a new wines fling in the spring, and a winter whiskey party.
I went to the whiskey one in my first year here. I remember watching everyone standing around sipping slowly and chatting and thinking that if they had these parties in Ireland, there would be a triage unit set up in the middle of the room.
A very sedate affair.
The Summer Beach party is a whole different kettle of fish.
And I realised finally that I am getting middle-aged.
There was so much skin on view. Oceans and oceans of pale skin, bad fake tan jobs, leathery wizened tan jobs. Mostly with long, bleached, straightened, sprayed fake blond hair.
Alex and Tristan spent the first half an hour running around in pointless alcohol and women free circles, shouting 'girls', 'liquor', 'ohmygod thankyou Queenie', until Himself pointed out that there was liquor to be had. Himself had worked his way up the wine stalls and was introducing himself to the Captain (Captain Morgan's rum - staple drink of Cape Breton) at that point.
I was stupified with shock. As well as the flesh and the hair, there were arses everywhere. Acres of arses. Whole prairie-widths full of them, poured into leggings atop stiletto mules.
I saw Paris Hilton from behind. It was definitely her. A little see through baby doll dress and long legs (mahogany) slipped into little pink slipper mules. A dog under her arm. Long silvery blonde hair. Then she turned round.
Fifty. At least fifty. Life lines etched into her mahogany face like runes on a granite pillar.
Whatthefuck?
All the men looked the same; khakis or shorts with a polo shirt and sandals or flip flops. Standard Canadian summer wear no matter what you're doing. Or what age you are.
All the women looked the same too; leggings or skinny jeans with a little strappy top and wobbly mules. Standard Canadian party wear no matter what age you are.
Except it does of course.
Why does wearing clothes designed for a twenty year old not work when you're an ageing woman and work just fine when you're an ageing male?
Because the frigging women's clothes are so ludicrous in the first place.
Queenie was wearing her jeans and her green long-sleeved top that she's had for seven years and her black zip up biker jacket that she's had for six and her flat pumps. You could see nothing but my face and hands.
Less is more after twenty five, ladies, less is more.
So it struck me how great everyone looked in the photos of the wedding. How all the men and women looked so confident and attractive and comfortable in their skins and how all their smiles were so relaxed and happy. Not a stiletto mule in sight, so no grimaces of pain, see.
There's a lot to be said for an uncertain climate!! And a lifetime of partying in a field.
And then I immediately felt better about getting older. Because all the people I will be getting old with are so cool.
And as Himself said this morning as we peeled our eyes open to survey the events of the night before, we may be getting old but we are the coolest old farts in Halifax according to Alex and Tristan.
Hmmm, he didn't look too cool when he was getting thrown out of Cheers pub at one am this morning.
His crime?
He asked where the bathroom was.
Apparently, if you don't know where the bathroom is then you shouldn't be there in the first place. They are lucky I wasn't with him when it happened. Although, I got thrown out of there once before for refusing to let them put my ID card in a scanning device unless they told me where the data went.
The bouncers of course don't have a clue where the data goes, or why data going somewhere would be a bad idea in a country that pretends to be free, so they barred me for life for having a bad attitude.
Anyways, Himself is barred now as well for wanting to have a pee in the bathroom. The official reason is that he was intoxicated.
Ehm, yes.. we paid six dollars to get in to a place that serves alcohol, and patiently allowed our bags and persons to be searched by a gimp, and then paid over-priced prices for drinks so yes... he was slightly intoxicated.
We weren't off our heads on drugs like everyone else in the place appeared to be but.
Anyways, we headed down to Gingers with Hotspurr to have a drink in a bar that 'spects you to get liquered up'....
... yes dear...
As we were leaving, Tristan and Alex came running out. Well, Tristan was trying to stand up and run at the same time. They were outraged at the treatment Himself had endured, so Himself suggested they all go back in and take on the bouncers. He's such a provocateur sometimes.
They were horrified!!
Young fellas... they had spent the entire evening telling me about this guy and that guy they were going to smash his head in yadda yadda. But a trio of bouncers with scanning devices? Nosireebob.
So Himself pretended to leave in a huff.
We were relieved really. Gingers is so much more enjoyable than a heaving throb of twenty something pheromes. Even if it doesn't have a seventies dinosaur guitar band doing Duran Duran covers in the back bar.
Hungry like the wolf.... time for breakfast... we are supposed to be having a barbeque today, but Mr. Sun has not appeared yet.
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