This weekend is a special one for the lady folk of Moranbah, with the annual Garden Party and Reject Party’s being held on Saturday.
There are of course, numerous Grand Final battles which will also be underway with all of our Football codes being well represented. But all eyes will be on the above partays. (Yes, that added A was intentional).
My middle sister and I will be attending this years Garden Party soiree, having won tickets through a review writing competition, hosted by our local Dentist.
As my lovely sister put it, this win makes us much like the country hicks who win a Boys Town mansion on the Gold Coast canals, lowering their tut-tutting neighbours property values by their very presence.
We did manage to snag tickets a few years ago though and found it was a lovely day out, so we are looking forward to tomorrow. Living out here it’s not very often that fun, dress up events take place, and this is what makes the partys such a big thing.
This years theme is Gatsby (awesome), and though people do dress in theme, our tickets were won far to late in the piece to allow proper internet search and delivery time, so we had to make do with what Moranbah and Mackay Myer had to offer.
With all the makings of a TV drama, the Garden Party really is a big deal out here. Tickets are capped, so fury reins supreme from those who line up, sometimes from 4am, and miss out. So the counter party, the Reject Party came about from hardworking, pissed off ladies who missed out on tickets (we’ve been to one of these too and it was fun!).
The outfits of both events are often closely monitored, by those that way inclined, and over the years I’ve heard all the criticisms and compliments there are to be had, about Garden and Reject Party clothes. Where you buy them from, how you wear them, what you pair them with, what they cost. Yikes. It can be a tad stressful. (Fashion, however, is not a priority in my life, I wore a check flannelette shirt around my waist until I was 18, so these comments are water off the proverbial emo ducks back.)
Anyway, below is how I see the night playing out. Where I see myself and middle sister in this scenario, is anyone’s guess. Lets just say it’s been a while between drinks.
All class and judgment goes out the door come dark, and everyone is best friends forever! The lady in the pearls and stilettos is dancing barefoot with her child’s school teacher, who’s drinking wine straight from the bottle.
The impatient husbands are waiting by their cars, some crankily shoving their better half into the back seat while she creams to her new friends “Party at my house, Whoooooo”.
“Shut up Mary, and get in”
“F&@k you Jeremy, you do this to me all the time.”
Then vomits in her hair.
Then all these women head to the local for a few quiet (Ha! quiet) post party drinks. The publicans and High Vis men in town, who regularly line the bars, don’t know whether to run, or pull out their iPhones and call their mates.
Finally the female to male ratio is even.
Much dancing, much laughing and lots of slow walks home, shoes in hand, will follow.
Deer and kangaroo enjoying their nightly feed on peoples lawns and traffic islands will glance up from time to time at the scene, reminisce of the Day of the Dead. And if they could, I bet they’d say to each other “Are those zombie ladies really pairing Myer dresses with target shoes?.”
“Bet they didn’t even buy their tickets”.