It's Claire as mud

*A pre-read warning: this post is going to be littered with many 90’s pop-techno references, which might be obscure if you showed more taste than me in the time style forgot and listened to Triple J.

If you didn’t already know, because you might be blind or deaf, I am a giant dork.  And it has been confirmed by the fact I recently parted way with more than $65 to watch four semi-popular 90’s music groups tread the boards at a suburban function centre and tavern.  Let me preface this by saying, just because my friend Melly came with me, doesn’t mean she’s a dork.  She’s a very cool person just keeping her daggy pal company.

Who would have guessed that dancing around a popular formal venue on the northern outskirts of Brisbane to the dulcet Euro-dance tones of Dr Alban (actually a dentist, who knew?!), 2Unlimited, the Real McCoy and Technotronic could be such a learning experience?  I certainly didn’t, but I came away quite enlightened.

So here is what I learned at the Mega 90s night at the Eatons Hill Hotel (and enjoy the links to some 90s tunes for your listening pleasure):

No limits: Diversifying your skills will make you indispensable 

There’s no limits to the places you can wear a silver breastplate

So apparently, 90s reunion tours require an MC/ hype man to get the crowd amped up… as if the fact the majority of the people there weren’t so excited to have night away from their children, they needed assistance.

I’d never seen anything quite like this fellow.  The jauntily askew baseball cap on the man in his 40s wasn’t the weirdest thing, or the fact he had a saxaphone slung over his shoulder like a backpack… it was more that he was stomping across the stage and shouting along with the words of the pre-show 90s music the DJ was pumping out.  When he loudly instructed the DJ to drop the beat, Melly  dryly said ‘Thank God he’s here, I’m not sure he would have known what to do otherwise.’  When he was tired of singing along, it was apparently time for a stroll down Baker Street, and the sax came out to accompany Herbie’s ‘Right type of mood‘ and every other song the DJ played.  Okay.

Well, I guess if I ever had to hire an MC, I would want one that was more than just a hype man.  I would take the the one that could make things saxy.

Another night: 90s nights are like school dances with booze

Walking into the grand ballroom (I don’t know about grand, it was fine), with Melodie MC’s ‘Dum da dum‘ blaring, I had such a vivid flashback to a Terrace dance I attended when I was 14 that I could almost smell the Elizabeth Arden ‘Sunflower’… but this time there was alcohol being served (legally) and I wasn’t groped nearly as much.  In fact, not at all.  Awww.

This beat is Technotronic and this is a bum-bag

Pump up the jam: Honkies love techno

Man, crackers like some Euro-dance.  So much bad Mum and Dad dancing.

Get up (Before the night is over): The ecstasy trade is still alive and kicking in suburban Brisbane

It seems disco biscuits are the dinner of choice for folks – probably parents – attending a 90s reunion tour.   Melly and I could not understand how people who probably had at least 10 years on us were still jumping up and down more than a 13 year old girl trying to catch a glimpse over a tall fence surrounding a Beiber concert after three hours of pounding synths and drum machines.  That was until the extreme sweating,  human pogo-ing and communal cuddling suddenly made sense… all these middle-aged, suburban parents had dropped eccies.  I’ve lived a sheltered life and not done it myself, but I went to enough Fortitude Valley clubs and bars in the late 90s and early naughties to recognise the signs.  So here’s a tip friendly neighbourhood drug dealers, if you haven’t thought of it yet, you should be hitting the hotels and taverns on the outskirts of town on flashback nights.  People are keen to relive the heady days of the Family, when Y2K was a thing.

Runaway: 47 year old women are still keen for a scrag fight

Yipes, I didn’t realise that non-allocated ticketed events could potentially cause a turf war, but it seems I was wrong.

Our she-Hulk wasn’t quite this attractive or well-dressed

After returning from a quick bathroom break, Melly and I were making our way back to the spot we were standing before, but we found another near the sound booth where we could lean, because, you know, I’m a whiny, tired, lazy, old lady.

Finding a bit of barricade to claim, a frizzy, blonde banshee descended upon us declaring we needed to move immediately, so when her friend returned she could stand there again.

She didn’t seem all that enthused or responsive when I explained to her this was not an event that had allocated tickets and we were allowed to stand wherever we wanted and people were continually moving throughout the venue all night.

But watching the she-Hulk beginning to seethe, we walked away.  After a particularly bad week, I had no fight left in me.  And besides, being this far on the northside of Brisbane, she could have been from Redcliffe and I definitely would not have won that fight.

Sing Hallelujah: 90s techno groups and performers are my career heroes

There’s no snarkiness here, this is a just an observation by which I was pleasantly surprised.  While their heyday might be over, the members of these bands all looked like they were having the time of their lives.  The groups that had their original line ups, consisted of people in their late 40s and 50s and they looked fabulous, probably because they were really happy, making other people happy and enjoying what they were doing.   Good for them!

I stupidly made the decision about 18 months ago to head back to university. Not only has it caused me to seriously question my intelligence – I certainly didn’t find it this difficult the first time around, it has also has me spending a great deal of time thinking about botox and how to disguise a rapidly expanding grey streak in my hair.

Really, I don’t like to spend any more time than necessary on my appearance, but spending several days a week under fluorescent clinic and lab lighting with 19 year olds is making me feel like Jenna from 30 Rock lamenting having to audition for the role of a mother in Gossip Girl.  Yep, I’m old enough to be the mother of some of them… if I was a bit more like Spike from Degrassi Junior High.  Sigh… none of them would get that last reference.

You’re such a broomhead, Spike.

Now I don’t have children of my own, but that doesn’t mean there are slots open for people to step into that role.  I say this because there is someone at uni who seems strangely keen on me and it’s not the first time.

Last year, a young gent I was paired up with in a weekly lab would message me on Facebook at all hours asking for advice following a relationship breakup.  He was very sweet, a long way from home and helping me with a subject I hadn’t done in about the amount of time he’d been on earth, so I was happy to listen and sympathized with young love gone awry.  That was until he said he really enjoyed talking to me because I reminded him of his mother.  Yeah thanks.

It’s only the second week back of the semester and I have apparently adopted another lost puppy.  I was describing this situation to my own mother who declared that this person has decided that I’m their uni mum.

Patches (not the puppy’s real name), who does actually have a real mother, seems to think I have a better idea of what is actually going on just because I’m close to double their age.  And because of this, I seem to be on the receiving end of a barrage of questions I haven’t experienced since working with journalists or my last job interview.  Listen here, Patches, you’re really backing the wrong horse.  I’ve got no idea what’s going on most of the time.  I almost fainted in a lecture yesterday when I found out I had to learn 105 anatomy flashcards by heart.  I actually drove past a construction site the other day and thought, ‘maybe I could be a ‘stop/go’ person’, despite being what I’d describe as ‘really not an outdoorsy type’ and ‘chronically allergic to manual labour’.  I quit a perfectly good job and embarked on a career change in my shallow mid-thirties (I’m in my mid to deep mid-thirties now).  Yes, I’m obviously someone who’s got all the answers.

Sorry, Patches.

Patches, while standing disturbingly close to me – as they proceeded to do for most of the 10 hour day – asked me what I had for lunch, followed up with asking what I had on my Vita-Weets, and then if I had anything to drink with my Vegemite and avocado smothered crackers.  Worried that I’d have to recall what I had for lunch yesterday, what last year’s tax return was and when my next pap smear is due, I ran away and hid in the toilet.  I know I really shouldn’t compare myself to real mothers, because I know my girlfriends with little ones usually have to do that in front of an audience and I actually got a few minutes of peace.

So what’s the etiquette for breaking up with your adopted without consent uni puppy when you have to spend the next almost three years with them?  That’s right.  There isn’t any.  Time for me to pull up my big girl undies and be grateful that I have an adopted puppy at all.  Woo hoo.