enough of the melancholy, already. who do i think i am, the Gallaghers?
anyway, check out the new CRAFT and GOODNESS blog over at blogspot. still bettyonabox…
over yonder… http://yoyolovespeaches.blogspot.com/
sure, nothing’s there yet, really. but just wait!
| Sat, 28 Feb | Sun, 1 Mar | Mon, 2 Mar | Tue, 3 Mar | |
| Severe Significant impairment Not able to work | ||||
| Moderate Significant impairment Able to work | ||||
| Mild Without significant impairment | ||||
| NORMAL | * | |||
| Mild Without significant impairment | * | * | ||
| Moderate Significant impairment Able to work | * | |||
| Severe Significant impairment Not able to work |
Have to admit it’s getting better. Read 2 sections of homework. Concentrated on not interrupting. Had to diffuse a heated conversation during a work WIP meeting. Did it by not giving it energy and referring back to the task at hand.
Felt very buoyant this morning. Got me a little worried that it would be a manic day but it turned out well. All-in-all, a good day.
Sounds almost like a 1984 compilation album.
Except that it’s not. I’ve going to a shrink for a few years now. He reckons I’m nearly bi-polar. I don’t know if he’s right or not. I just know that what I think is normal is a tad off-kilter with what it probably should be.
How self-indulgent. How ME. I mean, people with kids get off scott-free when it comes to this sort of things, don’t they. They just get on with things. Wish I could do the same. For the last few months I’ve been on Lexapro. Bad, bad, for me. Had to request something else. That something else came in the form of a recommendation for Lithium. Umm… sorry but didn’t Kurt Cobain tell us not to go there? So I’m back on the old Effexor. Maximum dose. We’ll see.
My therapist (as opposed to the shrink) has asked me to start charting my moods. So here it is for the last two days - the aim is closer to the green centre. Seriously, this does seem very self-indulgent.
| Sat, 28 Feb | Sun, 1 Mar | |
| Severe Significant impairment Not able to work | ||
| Moderate Significant impairment Able to work | ||
| Mild Without significant impairment | ||
| NORMAL | ||
| Mild Without significant impairment | * | |
| Moderate Significant impairment Able to work | * | |
| Severe Significant impairment Not able to work |
JJ’s away at the moment, very far away. And for 6 weeks. So far, so long, so miss him…
So, along with work, study, seeing friends and walking the pooches, it’s given me a bit of time to think. Ordinarily, thinking isn’t always a pleasant experience for me, because the mind goes into overdrive and all sorts of funny little voices take over the airwaves (literally). But this time, the thinking seems to have taken on a very different form altogether. It’s not all pleasurable, but it’s mostly satisfying. I’ve worked on the finances, having formed a few ideas that JJ has also agreed with, but there are other bits that I’m still working out. For example:
I was listening to a podcast, an interview with a couple of life coaches, and one of them said that one of the areas she wanted to manage was her mornings. She likes to “wake up slowly”. Now who the hell wouldn’t want to do that? But how do you do that when you’re working a full time, demanding desk job?
And then, I realised, as I’m sure we all do at some point, that I spend more time in the company of people who I could give a rat’s ass about – my colleagues – working on things that I could give and equally meagre rat’s ass about – my desk-based work – so that I can make money to pay my bills. Sure, I also make money so that I can enjoy a lovely lifestyle, go on holidays, buy nice things, have nice dinners and all that, BUT SERIOUSLY what’s the point of all that if I can’t spend a lot more time with those people that I give a big fat cow’s ass about?
How would I choose to spend my days? Well the reality is that I do enjoy working, being challenged, solving problems and whatever. But at what cost?
So this is my mid-life crisis point. I seriously think that it comes a hell of a lot earlier for those of us who don’t have children. From what I gather, once children are in the picture, you know your purpose. But when you don’t have any, you start to question your purpose. Is it to work 50 hours a week so you can spend 2 days cleaning, doing the groceries, washing laundry and the like so that you’re ready to do the weekday thing all over again?
So anyway, I’ve started studying life coaching. And it’s altogether satisfying. I’m stunned.
And then I came to a realisation yesterday that for well over half of my life, I’ve wanted to be skinny. I mean, I’ve starved, vomited and obsessed my way toward that goal. And I’ve achieved at various stages and with varying degrees of success and failure. I mean, what a load of rubbish. So I’m not modelesque and will never look as good in Marc Jacobs as Winona. But who the hell wants to live that level of maintenance? I’m a woman with curves. An Italian woman with soft curves. Not FAT. Not in any sort of danger of becoming ill because of my weight. I mean, I’m a size 12 (Aussie size 12, US size 8), so where’s the problem? It’s this really relief, albeit an incredulous one, that just months before my 40th, I think I’ve finally realised that food is not the enemy. It’s delicious. I’m not a glutton. I don’t LOVE to exercise (although I like to walk). I’m pretty normal, to be honest. I have softness and I constantly hide it away as though it’s completely hideous and abnormal. We women are so lucky to have these gorgeously formed, soft bodies, no harsh edges, just soft and squidgy. How lucky are we! But we try to exercise this beauty away, to starve it away, or diet it away, for what? So we can wear pants? I’m over it. No more dieting, no more obsessing, no more dressing to hide my curves. Don’t get me wrong, I’m vain so will always want to look pretty. But as for wearing pants, it’s pretty much over, and hiding my softness? OVER.
I’d rather look like this (and be confident in myself):
And not like this:
So what now?
So it’s going to be 43 degrees today. Even more impressive is that in Farenheit it’s 109.4
This is followed by yesterday’s top of 44.5 Celsius or 112.1 Fahrenheit
And that was followed by Wednesday’s top of 43 Celsius or 110.12 Fahrenheit
Or Tuesday’s top of 36.4 Celsius or 97.5 Fahrenheit
And to be nicely followed by tomorrow’s delightful 35 Celsius or 95 - thank GOD!!!
So what do us Aussies do on such days considering that we have the biggest hole in the ozone layer right above our pates? Well I’m pretty happy at work in the air con. But here’s what other Aussies are up to.
Well perhaps not 10 exactly. No, not New Year’s resolutions but, anyway…
Although as I write this I’ve already made a new resolution, while walking home from the station today. I decided that there are two things I can do. Only two. Because I like to think in black or white. I’m like that. So I decided that I could either stop whinging about it (whatever “it” is today) and do something about it, or let it go. So that’s it.
In the meantime, here are a few of my PROBLEMS - bold, all caps.
So what are the things that I DO want?
That’s all for now.
From The Age: http://www.theage.com.au/opinion/its-time-to-enlarge-our-closed-family-circles-20090104-79t2.html
It’s time to enlarge our closed family circles
Brigid Delaney
January 5, 2009 - 1:20AM
FORGET wide brown land, forget the drought — when I returned to Australia after a two-year absence, the country resembled a fecund cabbage patch.
Australia was having its biggest baby boom since 1992 and many of my close friends were doing their bit for population growth.
Suddenly my life was filled with new people — new little people: Jacks and Matildas, Rorys and Charlies and Olivias.
I’ve got enough friends, thank you very much, I thought, but like it or not I was going to have some more.
A generational shift occurred when my back was turned and suddenly I had become a family friend.
It’s a big responsibility — but I wondered, what does it entail these days? How would I do it? What’s the role now anyway — and does it even exist?
Parenting manuals, websites and chatrooms tell you until your ears bleed how to be a good parent, but all are silent on how to be a good family friend. “Family friend” is a phrase almost absent from any public discussions about
family.
It is used sotto voce when discussing abuse, as in he was “once a trusted family friend” or a “family friend” is wheeled out to make statements to the media after a tragedy when the immediate family is too distraught to talk.
But other than that, the family friend has somehow slipped away from public discussions about family life.
The notion of family has contracted — suspicion lurks in the public swimming pools and in the parks.
In England, The Guardian reported recently that a grandmother was questioned by police for playing in semi-secluded woodland with her grandchildren. Several joggers had reported seeing something “suspicious” — that is, someone playing with children who did not look like the mother. In these days of fear and loathing, of stranger danger, you are either a parent or you’re not. There is no middle ground. But I would like to think there is something in between — someone who cares for the child in a parental way, who the parent trusts — an older friend to the child, a long-time friend of the parents — that is, a family friend.
When I was growing up, besides my parents and grandparents, family friends were the most important adults in my life.
Not only did they look after us, they played a major role in keeping my parents sane — companions on the odd night out away from home and a friendly ear when they felt overwhelmed by four small children.
When I was older and away at university, it was family friends that moved me into college, and it was in their houses I stayed when I felt homesick. They were an extension of my parents but now, as an adult, they have become my friends.
Recently, some family friends (university buddies of my parents) met me for dinner in London. It had been many years since I had seen them, yet there was a special warmth in the room that evening. They knew me before I even knew myself, maybe felt me kicking in utero; they knew my parents when they were first married and younger than I ever believed them to be. They babysat me and my brothers when we were little, and we went on family holidays together. They had, over the decades, nurtured me. Now as adults we were sitting down and having a meal. Maybe that’s what family friends give you in the end — history, and a feeling of being known in a deep and abiding way that new faces, brief encounters and fresh friendships can’t provide. Family friends have been privy to my tantrums and tears and changed my nappies — which is not something I can say, thankfully, for my own friends.
Back in Melbourne, I hold the Jacks and Matildas — all the new babies — the way my parents’ friends once held me. I also see us 30 years ahead — in a restaurant together, talking, marvelling at knowing them before they knew themselves.
My New York pressie - that’s Daniel Trocchio at work in the Saved Tattoo studio in Williamsburg, Brooklyn
And now for some action.
JJ and I, being gthe fine connoseurs of ART, yes, ALL-CAPS, recently acquired a piece by Al Stark. Check him out doing his biz.
.
So who’da thought it about sunny Sunshine?
There I was on Saturday night, weeding the front yard, watering the newly planted flora and all when I hear this “whhoooo whoooop whoo whoop”. No, not an owl on acid, but a hotted up car with craaazy wheels doing a zip zip zip up the hill, and within seconds, a cop car with its siren a-blazing. “Sheesh,” I thought, “there goes the neighbourhood”. And I yelled out to the puppies to run inside quickly because I really wouldn’t like to live with the irony that the dogs never got injured when we lived on a busy road only to get run over on the quietest street in our ‘burb. Anyway, so then there’s this bang. The kind of band when steel (or fibreglass) hits something solid. J’Red comes running out of the house next door going “what was that? Was there a smash?” And I duly told him of the whhoooo whoooop whoo whoop and the cop car and yelling at the dogs to get inside, while still yelling at the dogs to get inside and watering the newly planted flora.
So, being the ever-vigilant copper that he is, J’Red gets into his car and races off in search of mystery and histrionics. I go back to watering, because the plants couldn’t care less about the mayhem and I wants my flowers to live!
But then, holy crap, I see a guy running off a few meters away from our driveway, followed by JJ holding a pair of serving tongs. He’s yelling out at the guy, “that’s him!” I say, “no, that’s a cop, he’s got a CB!” JJ says, “no it’s not, that’s him!” I say, “no, it’s a cop, he’s got a CB!” And then JJ goes running after the guy, wielding his tongs (they were really longs ones), yells at T’Red to call J’Red, and runs off around the corner. Meanwhile the street’s a-buzz with activity. Naturally, I tell everyone to “go inside! Go inside!”.
And I go back to watering the flora.
A few minutes later, JJ returns, tongs raised, and says, “that was the guy the cops were chasing in the car.” And I say, “no it wasn’t, it was a cop, he had a CB.” And JJ says, ‘oh yeah, check out the side fence.” And I head down the driveway and see this:
It seems I may have been wrong about the guy being a cop. But he did have a CB.
And the breathalisers? Well I found a few in the driveway after the real cops left.
Last weekend, Jazzy Jeff and I took the neighbour’s kids to an auction. That’s right, an auction. So you might be thinking, Betty and JJ are off their nut if they think that taking a six and eight year old to an auction is going to pique their ADDD-riddled attention. Well think again. We’re not the greatest ever childless couple for no reason. Seriously, the barren celebs might think they’re doing it for the kids simply by buying them out of their poverty and giving them, oh, whatever they want and all, but JJ and I are to the suburbs what Nicole Kidman was to motherhood (pre-Sunday Rose). So, to live up to our Number 1 slot, we took them to a
PINBALL and ARCADE GAME AUCTION
In Campbellfield, butwhatever, right? I mean, there were around a hundred pinball machines and arcade games for sale. And you could play any of them FREE. It’s like when I worked at Timezone on Bourke Street and had the master key and after work I’d go upstairs and play the Dr Who or Adaams Family pinball And no, no amount of Law of Attraction wishing and hoping could bring the price of an Adams Family pinball within a sniff of my budget ($500 - it sold for around 4 grand, whatever) but JJ did get this:
Cool, innit!
The idea for next year is to get seriously active. No, not by running around the fields of Matthews Hill, but by making all manner or stuff that has no useful purpose. We started a very adhoc stitch and bitch this year and the plan is to keep up the momentum. Maybe get involved with the Melbourne Craft Cartel? There’s such a huge indie craft community on the web but is there anything local? Is it time to start something? Or maybe I’ll just keep it cruisy, send out some invites and see what comes of it.
So here’s the plan for the coming year - starting now:
LA Insight #1
Take a boy and a girl and dump them in the middle of what is often referred to as “boy town” and what do you get? A boy and a girl suffering from sleeping-tablet induced jet lag and in desperate need of some non-airline food. So off we went up a huge freaking hill the size of Mount Hotham (seriously - have I mentioned how I hate to climb?) and in the distance, past Johnny Depp’s Viper Room and past the Chateau Marmont, where Jim Belushi died met a rather undignified end, and there it was. The promised land. No, not Taco Bell, but Pinchas Taqueria - the best damned taco stand this side of of Tijuana.
LA Insight #2
The three guys sitting next to us in the fancy kebabery on Santa Monica Blvd are probably in the movies (they are), as is the cute French dude in the cafe (he was writing a play). Everyone in Hollywood is a movie star and they have the tan, white teeth and great body to go with their aspirations. Driving through Beverly Hills is like being dropped into an episode of All that aside, I now know that Seinfeld was NOT filmed in New York and that Dr Phil and his wife are NOT getting a divorce.
I feel like I’m on a TV show, seriously.
I’ve been reading Naomi Klein’s No Logo and, frankly, all that talk about multinationals, workers below the poverty line and abuse of corporate power gave me a hankering for a lukewarm piece of fish slapped with thick white pickly sauce huddled between two sugary buns.
That’s right, this pescatarian went to Maccas for a filet-of-fish or, as Jazzy Jeff scoffs, a “fillay” of fish. Those pesky Americans know all the fancy foreign words.
Oh, and I had some fries with that.
Anyway, this pescatarian hasn’t stepped foot inside a Maccas or a Hungry Jacks or any of the fancier fast food restaurantslike Nandos for nigh on two decades. True, there was a time when my feisty metabolism allowed a McFeast here and there, not to mention some fries with that, when I hopped off the bus from Bundoora on my way home from uni, in my 2nd heyday. But that was only during that short lapse - from 1991 to 1995. Up until the hot dog with bacon incident, I’d been a card carrying member of the vegetarian cult since anorexsix- that’s 1986 - the year that my friend Annette and I decided to see who could out starve and out spew each other on our way towards the tightest dresses ever seen at the end of year formal. We both lost 20 kilos in 3 months, which could explain fairly average HSC grades.
But back to the hot dog with bacon. I was at the Chevron with Frank and the others and I might have been a smattering on the wrong side of sober when I announced: “I wanna hoddog wif baco-”
It lasted a while, this carnivorous descent, up until I arrived at mecca - that would be the biggest prawn I ever did see, sitting at a street stall in Malaysia - not literally. But I went cold turkey after that.
Not literally.
Luckily I lapsed again just before the China trip because I was faced with this mother.
It was pretty much downhill from there. Once you’ve eaten a live crustacean, raw, you don’t have such a hard time with rainbow trout or even McDonald’s hake. But I do stop at anything with feet, or hands. Although, given that my fillay didn’t taste anything like my mum’s blue grenadier, I have doubts about its actual ingredients, much like commercial dog food and Macca’s fudge sundaes, so I might have to give it a miss in future. And I may skip the fries as well.
[Do] advertisers have any legitimate right to invade every nook and cranny of our mental and physical environment? (Naomi Klein, No Logo)
Here’s a word of warning: I’m not as articulate as Naomi Klein. But I know that I’ve got an opinion. In fact, I’m very opinionated, just ask anyone I’ve ever known, just ask poor JJ. Seriously. And I get it from my dad, who has an opinion about EVERYTHING, including things he knows nothing about. Anyway, I’ll try not to do that too much because there’s a lot I know nothing about.
But this is different.
In my heart and mind (if not in action), I’m a culture jammer. I’m a Gen-Xer, after all, and it’s our duty to mistrust and, therefore, busting ads since the early 90s branded us as the “disaffected generation”, the “unemployed generation”, the “depressed generation” (yes, we were depressed long before emo kids discovered black eyeliner), the “politically apathetic generation”, the ”don’t give a crap” generation.
Well I flipping care. I hate ads. I would rather channel surf for 10 minutes than face another ad. There’s the assumption that people are so stupid that we don’t know what we want to buy so we have to be told by an ad. It’s like cold callers who try to convince you that you need a new [insert consumable here]. Let’s face it, if I want it or need it, I’ll find it and get it. No amount of convincing me is going to get me to buy it so stop calling me during America’s Next Top Model.
But that’s not what this post is about.
I get really incensed whenever I see this billboard.
And, trust me, it’s everywhere - it’s on each side of every freeway and every main road in Melbourne, including the main street that welcomes you to my suburb. My suburb! The one where people are too busy working 16 hour shifts in soup shops or dealing with four kids under ten, or dealing ice, to be wanting any kind of sex, let alone the longer lasting variety (unless they’re smoking ice).
But that’s not the point of this post either. I’m just tired of seeing every piece of air space or wall as an ad. When did I give permission for this assault on my line of vision? Who decided that it was OK to rent this space? Just like owning the first however many centimeters of the land below my house, I want to take back possession of my immediate air space. It’s mine. I want it back.
But that’s not the point of this post either. As I said earlier, in my heart (if not my hip pocket) I’m actually anti-corporate and these things make me laugh:
So what I want to know is the following:
But I’m not sue that’s the point of this post either. So what is the point?
1. Do my friends think I’m annoying and preachy?
And, more importantly:
2. Does my bum look big in these jeans?
JJ and I are about to buy a new house. I can’t bring myself to say where. However, I must admit that it’s the kind of suburb that I used to scorn (still do actually), and scoff at its inhabitants (and when I see 30 year old mum dressed in the same Bratz outfit as teen daughter, I still scoff). I’m judgemental, but with reason, I think.
So this new house needs work. This is good because I have never lived in a perfect house. This is also good because I fear that a perfect house would need to be Enjo’d more than once a fortnight. I’m not only judgemental, I’m also a little lazy when it comes to cleaning. The pooches seem to have approved of the new house. Nennah and the kid have also approved.
And JJ is delighted to have a Games Room. That’s capital G, capital R. It really is a bona fide GR. And despite not having made an offer on the house yet (I’m playing cool as an icy pole, saying things such as: “Oh yeah, it’s okay, I s’pose. I mean, we will have to get rid of the asbestos in the shed.” That sort of thing), JJ has already planned the takeover with plans for a pool table and a doctor Who pinball machine all laid out.
Despite the asbestos.
Oh, and the snakes. Look, I’m not saying that this suburb is in the sticks. In fact, it’s 15km from the GPO (the old one) and has a delightful park beneath these great looking, graffitied silos (no longer in use and I think they were for flour or something). But therein lies the problem. Along the (dried up) creek of said delightful park, there are a series of signs with cute little illustrations on them. Something like this:
Umm… Yes… In spring, the odd tiger snake or two, after a few months of burning off all that summery goodness, they’re ready for a juicy treat. But they’re not only at the park That’s right. One of our new neighbours has informed us that they also like to slither down the street from the park. I’m sure that Yoyo and Peaches will be delighted. My aunt’s got Jack Russells who actually do protect her country home from snakes (although she tends to lose at least one dog a year - luckily the leftover pups have no problem procreating with their mother, father, sister, brother, grandpop, aunt… you get the idea). Anyway, I wish one would slither over to our place right now and wriggle up our clogged shower pipe. You’d think that my hair was made of Steelo or something. Seriously, jeff shoved draino down there 4 times and we got one of those snakes from Bunnings and everything, but nothing worked! Nothing.
I got lost in Hong Kong recently. I had a map but I’m not very good at reading maps. Hence, this not uncommon scene whenever Jazzy Jeff and I go travelling:
I don’t like to ask for directions. It makes me very very anxious. It could be that when we were in Egypt in 1997, the tourist police always gave us the wrong directions unless we offered some Baksheesh. Or it could be that my mother brought me up to be very wary of people, nay, to simply not trust ANYONE except for her and my dad. However, as the years have passed, I’ve grown less and less trusting of everyone, especially mum and dad (but that is another story that I will no doubt share some time). I just HATE asking locals for directions. It’s a very un-ladylike condition - it’s what women do. But in our case, it’s Jazzy Jeff who will stop ANY hunched-over, wizened old timer who is more likely to be able to do handstands than speak our lingo. And then I get frustrated. Then he gets frustrated at me for getting frustrated and for becoming frustrating. And sometimes it ends with me walking away. When the time comes for me to look at a map, we have to stop. Completely stop, and not assume a direction. Like if we’re in the driveway, if JJ reverses while I’m checking the Melway it drives me crazy.
So, alone, and lost, in Honkers I took the left road, the right road, the high and low roads without passing one single landmark. But I found the coolest carry bag and JJ called me out of the blue so everything was ok. Did I get out my map? Nup. Did I make it back to the hotel? Yep. In time? Nup, but nobody seemed to mind.
I got lost walking to Nazareth once and just hoped to see some palm leaves along the rocky road, which I didn’t. But the town looked like an oasis in the distance. It didn’t look so oasis-like from up close. But I felt like Jesus must have as the group I was with (Jazzy Jeff was back at the Kibbutz sleeping) were greeted warmly by a milkbar-owning Arab family who treated us to lemon wafers with our bottles of Fanta and 7-Up. The moral of that story? Jesus wore leather sandals and long gowns for a reason - walking through Israel’s potholed terrain dressed in a rather short dress and thongs is something worth reconsidering if by chance I end up in that situation.
I like arrows. There aren’t enough of them. Arrows help you decide which way to go so you’re guaranteed to see everything. Which brings me back to my point about the Melbourne Aquarium. There are no arrows. But there is a map, so I’m double screwed.
Ok, so maybe I’m turning a lot more than thirty on Monday but my mother and my father can still strike more fear into me than a nun with a ruler.
It’s just the outline right now. And yes, it’s around a quarter sleeve. I think I’m now officially a tattooed lady. I might have to buy some half sleeve t-shirts…
So around two weeks ago, well before PMS had set in, Little Miss Tani asked me if I wanted to go and see Bad Company. No, not the 1970s British blues-rock group fronted by Paul “The Voice” Rodgers whose official website contains nothing more than a warning to all and sundry that should you want to pass yourself off as THE band, their lawyers will come a tap-tap-tapping at your door. If you’re interested in that Bad Company, you’re welcome to leave here RIGHT NOW and go here.
But if you’re sticking around, you might want to head here while you’re reading.
So Little Miss not-quite-thirty asked me and Jazzy Jeff if we’d be interested in checking out Bad Company. Well the name alone sent me back, way back to that night eight years ago this month when I went down to Billboards with a couple of Kiwis and after several protracted trips to the Ladies with Nat, I bounced the night away, a la Lionel Ritchie on crack. This was followed by a long drive to the country for a Communion, a Confirmation or a Baptism (Jazzy Jeff, who stayed in bed – sensibly – and did not come out with me and the Kiwis, was driving) and an even longer drive back which ended in a near death car accident on the Hume Highway just on the outskirts of Melbourne, and a night at the Northern Hospital in Epping with a piece of plastic molding in my leg and glass shards in my hands. Ah, those were fun times.
And naturally, when Little Miss Tani asked us along to this little piece of drum and bass nostalgia, how could I say no? Of course, as the day drew nigh, I started to behave like many of my almost-on-way-the-wrong-side-of-thirty contemporaries.
Betty: Jazzy Jeff?
Jazzy Jeff: Yes, Betty?
Betty: You know, I’ve been to more than a few drum and bass nights in my day.
Jazzy Jeff: That’s true, Betty. And I don’t need to remind you that I used to run a booming drum and bass night in the city (read: a few of our mates used to show up) – Carbon 14.
(So successful was it that a Google search did not reveal one reference – but they had a wicked flyer)
Betty: Yes, Jazzy, I remember those heady days. But anyhoo, you do realise that the main DJ won’t go on stage until around 2, right?
Jazzy Jeff: (Guffawing over the Age and a decaf latte) Oh Betty, don’t be silly, it isn’t a daytime gig.
Betty: That’s 2am, JJ! 2AM! How the hell and I going to stay up until 2am? It’s not like the good old days. We have a freaking mortgage.
Jazzy Jeff: Well, now, that IS serious. I guess we’ll have to do the only thing we can.
So like many of our almost-on-way-the-wrong-side-of-thirty contemporaries, we took an afternoon nap, downed a bucketload of Red Bull and V and came home at the rather respectable hour of 3.30am complaining of tinnitus and aching knee joints.
But oh what a lovely time we had!
