Mad suburban rituals

When I was pregnant with Iggy I didn't have a baby shower, I never asked for one, expected one, or even thought of one, and then with Quinn the same - I've never been mad for suburban ritual, more a little unsettled by engagement parties, baby showers or hen's nights. I have witnessed groups of rabid womyn, pumped into frenzy by the bringing-whirring-tinging of pokie machines, hungry for one last moment of sexy flirting, hunt down an unsuspecting, seemingly unattached, young man and try to eat his heart, thus redefining the suburban madness, for all intents and purposes, as madness. The games played at hen's nights are orgies of alcohol, fueled by the sex-drives of the middle aged married, looking for some vicarious sex action, or at least some visual titillation, designed to keep the machine plodding along with their suburban lives and numb the pain of overextended finances!

Engagement parties are an extended gift-a-thon, dragging every last cent from friends and relatives, another excuse for our alcoholic society to abandon sobriety and heave, grunt and BBQ ourselves through an announcement that most of us have already heard over the telephone, or read on the invite, so you're engaged, getting married, now it seems all who know you are doomed to mark every step of the rest of your life on our calenders. The hemorrhoid removal operation (that would be post baby shower, that one) is never marked with a party, which is a shame because it could be a real ring-dinger; I think I would enjoy the intimacy of that disclosure! Today's baby shower is a catered affair; 30 plus-year-old women in soft cottons and sensible shoes, crowing with pleasure at the size, and smell, and color of EVERY one of Junior blahs greatest poos, author included, it's an addictive conversation, the amount of feces those small creatures produce is in fact awe inspiring enough to induce the creation of the 'toilet paper for a nappy' game; questionable judgement as far as 'party tricks' go but a delightful combination of fascinating and wrong - similar to watching someone fall down the stairs. And the booty, the incredible mass duplication of plastic faux educational toys for stimulating juniors brainy regions and designing mummies little genius. How many places can you hang bright and shiny, swirly, buzzy, multicolored creatures who look like nothing created on earth, except maybe a passing resemblance to a shamoo - which yes, I made up? Mats that spin, mats that talk, mats that do the washing; just when you thought the economy was in crisis, this is where the dollars are, forget the tween market! As I missed out, I've decided to throw a turning point party, I'm calling it the 'My boobs have fallen three inches lower since I finished breast-feeding' party - because if there ever was a landmark in my life that's it - I deserve gifts and congratulations, cause it's all downhill from here...