If there’s one thing I hate more than misplaced apostrophes, it’s theme parks.  I know there are fully-grown humans who reckon theme parks rock, but that is not something I can comprehend.

I am only speaking for myself here, but I do believe theme parks are a special kind of torture.

And I say this as I sit in my own torture chamber – Dreamworld, on the Gold Coast.  (Just as an aside – this is a marketing ploy. It’s so NOT on the Gold Coast. If it was at the Goldie, there would be seagulls tormenting me – not just pigeons and ibis. Seriously, the hits start the minute you walk in. Maybe you’ve heard about my “issue” with feathered creatures?)

Not a good sign

Anyway, in a moment of weakness I offered (honestly, I must have forgotten to take my medication that day) to take Joe, 11 to Dreamworld. This was due, in part, to the fact that I needed to come up with something that would tempt him a) out of bed, and b) away from the xbox (yes, I am that parent). Also, his school holidays started approximately a year and a half before his sister’s – one of the perks of paying a bizillion dollars a year in fees for his fancy schmancy school.

Anyway, despite the fact that he didn’t seem in the slightest bit bored after 5 days of total inactivity (again, yes, I am that mother), I asked if he’d like to go to Dreamworld. He had 2 weeks left on his “Summer of Fun” unlimited visits pass, and given that his unlimited visits amounted to 1 so far, I figured he may as well get his money’s worth. Wait – my money’s worth.

Anyway, let’s be clear. I offered to take him. My offer began and pretty much ended there. God love him – he didn’t for a minute think that I would be going on any of the rides. Obviously I use the term “rides” loosely. I would rather staple my eyelids to the back of my head than plunge to the ground in a small cage from a kilometre-high tower.

Thankfully, two of Joe’s friends also have “Summer of Fun” passes that expire in a couple of weeks, so Joe won’t be alone on the various pieces of terrifying theme park infrastructure.

We have also been joined by my lovely friend Emily and her other half, who are amongst that odd subsection of the adult community that enjoys theme parks. Emily is nursing a monumental hangover, and has so far put away a medium McChicken Meal and a hot dog (this comes on top of an emergency cheeseburger breakfast). You might think she’d be assuming the please-kill-me-now-lying-back-in-a-chair position. But you’d be wrong. She’s working her way through all the rides as though she’s been on a B12 bender. Still, she’s only 23 so she has those freakish, gen-Y powers of recuperation.

We decided to stop at McDonalds en route to avoid wasting valuable time once we were here on pesky tasks like eating lunch.  This meant that once we arrived, the boys took off as though they had little jet engines attached to their sneakers.  I took the opportunity to embarrass the crap out of them by calling out for them, by name, from some distance away, to tell them to put their hats on. Joe looked as though he had died a thousand deaths. Totally worth it.

My plan was to establish base camp at one of the café tables located outside the “Marketplace Food Hall”. (As an aside, I haven’t been in there, but I suspect there’s not a whole lot of organic swede being sold in there.)

Base Camp

Anyway, after a few minutes of stalking (for the love of God people, how long does it take to eat a churro?), I settled down at a table, unpacked my various devices (just the essentials – macbook, iphone, kindle) and the New Idea, and surveyed the scene.

Turns out I am so inappropriately dressed, I really have no business being here. I realise wearing pearls may have been overdressing slightly, but apparently I should be wearing any combination of the following:

• Cut-off, arse-freezing Daisy Dukes
• Flannie, obviously
• Jeggings. With a flannie
• Sequinned sneakers
• Hoodie (with hood up)
• T-shirt with witty slogan like “If found, please return to pub” with arrow pointing to wearer’s head.
• Turban (there are a LOT of Indian people here).

Despite my discomfort, I have made some effort to throw myself into the theme park experience. I ate a churro. Actually I ate 2. Because they are awesome.   I paid about $7.50 for a coke. See, totally embracing it.

Churros should be a food group

So, having spent the past 3 hours on what can only be described as anthropological research, here are my musings:

I have wondered what the collective is for a group of 15 year old girls in Daisy Dukes and teeny tiny shoulder bags (how do you even fit tampons in there girls?).

• I have wondered whether theme park management thinks that painting and decorating the dunny stalls to resemble wild west outhouses will make us believe we are really cowboys.

• I have wondered why people push 5 year olds in strollers.

• I have looked at people eating slushies bigger than their heads and wondered what flavour “blue” is.

• I have wondered whether the kids at the table next to me are old enough to truly understand the embarrassment that comes with having to eat the cheese sandwiches, sliced watermelon and yoghurt that their parents have packed.

But there is something I don’t need to wonder at all.  I don’t need to wonder if my son has had a good time.  Because his smile says yes, and that’s all that matters.

You know Pippa Middleton’s dress? I looked NOTHING like that when I was my sister’s bridesmaid.

Me on the right - not like Pippa

Having said that – and stay with me here – the lower half of my own wedding dress was not unlike Pippa Middleton’s frock. No, really. Except for the buttons. And the arse.

If you squint, it could be a bit like Pippa's...

But as my sister Kate pointed out, that’s where the similarity ends. Nice.

It’s a good segue though into the subject of this post, which is sisters – not just mine. OK, mainly mine.

I faffed around with this post last week, but having now emerged from the other side of the Wedding of the Century, I’m glad I waited – not least because of the excellent opening it gave me.

It made the subject of sisters both current and newsworthy, so although I had to scrap most of what I’d already written, I’m sure we can all agree that the timing is excellent.

So let’s start with my sisters. I know, derr.  And because I’m a newby blogger and have no clue whether it’s the done thing or not, I’m going to use their real names – Kate and Janey – on the basis that they both tweet using their real names (although Janey wasn’t christened Fun Size Janey).

At something. With wine.

I am the oldest,  followed by Kate, who is 16 months younger than me, and then Janey who is the youngest by a bit – 5 & a half years younger than Kate. We have a brother in between Kate and Janey, but brothers are a whole ‘nother blog post.

We are crazy close, my sisters and I. Not close in a Kardashian “I’ll do your Brazilian wax for you” kind of way (although sort of close in a Kardashian “junk-in-the-trunk” kind of way – all 3 of us having unfortunately inherited our father’s Eastern European, teletubbie shape, rather than our mother’s willowy anglo-saxon limbs).

We’re close in the way that if we don’t phone/text/tweet or see each other at least once a day, we’ll phone/text or tweet each other to make sure we were all a) still alive and b) still talking. Generally that conversation will go like this:

Me to Kate: “Hey it’s me. Where’s Janey?”

Kate: “Dunno. But she’s babysitting here tonight.”

Me: “Has she got the shits with me?”

Kate: “Nup, don’t think so.”

Me: “Cool. OK, I’ve got nothing else. Bye.”

When I think about it, we weren’t always as close as we are now. Janey was at boarding school when I was at university (and when I say “at university” I mean “at the Rec Club”). Then Kate and I spent a year in London. Then we came back to Brisbane, and I moved to Sydney a couple of years later. Kate lived in San Francisco and New Zealand. Then Janey lived in Dallas for a bit, before coming back to Brisbane. Then Kate moved to Sydney. Then I moved back to Brisbane. Then Kate moved back to Brisbane. Then Janey moved to Las Vegas. Then 3 years later Janey moved back to Brisbane.

I feel like a little nap after that.

Janey's 21st

So now we’re all in the same city, which makes our parents very happy, and makes borrowing stuff a whole lot easier.

But man, can we fight. Actually, if I’m being honest, I’m the one who inherited the slavic temper from Dad (arse and stabbiness – thanks Dad – it’s amazing I ever found a husband). But when we get into it, my sisters and I can fight for Australia. Our trademark move is the telephone hang-up. My best friend once told me that she can’t believe we hang up on each other – that she’d never get over it if someone hung up on her.

But for us, the hang-up is like a comma. No, a semi-colon. A necessary break in proceedings, but never the end. And there are tears. And then it is over. It is fair dinkum exhausting when we have a fight. But it is usually over within hours. We’re economical like that.

I have a hundred stories about stuff we’ve done together, stuff we’ve done to each other and stuff we’ve done for each other. I could bang on for ages about travelling to Africa together, or shopping like maniacs (ok that was just me) in Las Vegas. But that’d be a bit like making you sit through a slide-show or worse – a powerpoint presentation with dot points flying in from all over the place.

Taking Las Vegas. Like the Kardashians, but not.

Instead I’ll share with you what I think is the best part about having sisters. For me there are two things.

First, having allies inside the family bunker is priceless. Although we have great relationships with our Mum and Dad, at any given time one or both of our parents is giving one or all of us the screaming shits. This is how a conversation might go:

Me to Janey: “It’s me. Just a heads-up. Dad is on his way over with the gurney.”

Janey: “Crap. I’m still in bed. Nothing needs gurneying. God he’s mental.”

Me: “Count your blessings. He turned up here on his way back from the boat. Told us all it was time we were up. For fuck’s sake, it’s a public holiday.”

Janey: “Did he at least wash the cars?”

Me: “No, but he saw Joe’s school shoes outside the front door and sat him down to teach him the best polishing technique.”

The other thing for which I am eternally grateful about having sisters is the honesty inherent in the relationship. It is generally agreed amongst us that Janey is the most fashion-forward, Kate has the cleverest wit, and I…umm…am the most uptight. None of us tiptoes around when our opinions are sought (or not sought)  – particularly in our areas of “expertise”.

So a viewing of a new frock might go like this:

Me to Janey: “I looooove this dress. It’s so weird that I can wear maxi-frocks when I’m so short.”

Janey: “You can’t. Maxi-dresses have never looked good on you.”

Me: “Yes they do.”

Janey: “No, really they don’t. They make you look enormous.”

Me: “Shut up. I like them.”

Janey: “I’m just saying.”

The last word in sophisticated

Now, I just don’t think a friend, no matter how close, would say that to me –  not with such scant regard for my feelings – which might be the kind thing to do, but does nothing to improve my stylishness. Or lack thereof. My sister however, in the same way as she might say “I could really go a cheeseburger”, will say “Nuh, that looks awful”. And she will be doing it because she loves me. Also to avoid being embarrassed by me.

It’s impossible to avoid using the cliche that my sisters are my best friends, but it’s a term that doesn’t come close to being accurate. They are so much more. I’ve already said they are my allies, but they are also my strongest defenders, my most strident critics, my mentors, my co-conspirators and my shoulders to cry on.

If you have sisters, I hope you are as lucky as I am. If you don’t have sisters, I hope that there is someone in your life who are to you what Kate and Janey are to me – my touchstones.

Nothing like our family

So apparently we have a new family tradition. (Is that possible? A “new” tradition? Dunno.)  Anyway, without any of us really noticing, the “family dinner” has become a “thing”.

To clarify, this isn’t the 6.00pm funfest that is dinnertime at my place. And when I say funfest, I mean shit fight.

I’m talking about the extended family – my sister, her husband, their three kids, my youngest sister and my parents (herein referred to as The Parentals) – having dinner together, usually at The Parentals’ place, on a now-apparently-regular basis.

It’s not that we’ve never had dinner all together before, but up until a little while ago those dinners were held for specific reasons – usually birthdays.  On those occasions, one of us would ring the others going “Crap, it’s <insert name of family member>’s birthday on Thursday. Are we doing anything?”.

If it was one of the kids’ birthdays, the parent in question would usually volunteer to host the “Festival of <insert kid’s name>” and would nominate the preferred date, which wouldn’t work for anyone. After some negotiation, a date would be settled upon – usually at least a week after the birthday – hence the “Festival of…” reference, because the birthday has lasted so long even the kid is over it.

These birthday dinners are not particularly elaborate. Sausages and chips, maybe a crumbed chop if we’re being fancy, followed by cake (homemade if my sister Kate is the parent; bakery or Donut Den Donut Tower if I’m the parent), and it’s usually all over well before 7.  The Parentals (Grandparentals, in this case) will make an appearance for gift-giving purposes, but will conveniently have a reservation at the local Croatian restaurant so there’s no need to feed and water them.

This new version of the Family Dinner is a totally different beast.

Three Sisters. Not Stabby.

First, there’s not as much negotiation.  OK, there’s none. Mum will call and say something along the lines of “I was thinking we’d have dinner here with everyone on Sunday night.”  Obviously what she means is “You are all required to come to dinner on Sunday night.”

When this all started, we were deadset positive there would be a major agenda item rolled out at dinner.  My family – in particular my father – is big on making pronouncements, rather than making conversation. It’s kind of his way. At least with family.  My Dad is Croatian (yeah, the Croatian restaurant wasn’t a lucky fluke) and has some very Eastern European tendencies. There is no place other than the head of the table for him, and it is from here he makes his pronouncements.

So for the first few Dinners we kept waiting for the big moment, whatever it was.  But the big moment would turn out to be something like someone storming out, a kid throwing up, or Maisie eating a pea.  Never anything significant like “hey, your Mother and I are going to spend a year on a kibbutz”.

It eventually became clear that the purpose of the Family Dinner was to – gah! eat together as a family. The kids, of course, see their Grandparents’ house as being like a “gifting suite” (in manner of Academy Awards) – a magical place in which chips and chocolate appear as if out of thin air, and random toys/felt pens/colouring books find their way from Mama’s “special room” into their hands.

The kids take the Family Dinner very seriously

To be fair to The Parentals, we adults are not left empty handed at Family Dinners. As mentioned earlier, Dad hails from Eastern Europe, and as such considers alcohol a food group. Thank God. At least, my sisters thank God. I gave up alcohol 5 months and 19 days ago. I am not counting at all. The following tweetversation illustrates the important part played by plonk in Family Dinners:

Me: “So a family dinner 2night at the #mentalparentals with @funsizejaney & @katelhunter #takeadeepbreath”

Kate: “@nicmclachlan am so not in the mood. And I am not even off the sherbs #dontknowhowyoudoit @funsizejaney”

Me: “@katelhunter I go to my zen place #thatissuchcrap @funsizejaney”

Janey: “I’ve already been at the #mentalparentals once today”

Me: “Is there enough plonk for @katelhunter? #desperatetimes”

Janey: “Dad has stocked cellar, fridges and eskies #shouldbeok @katelhunter”

If you don’t speak tweet, this can all be summarised by “we’ll get through it as long as there’s wine”.

In Janey’s case, as long as there’s Bacardi. At the most recent Family Dinner, at an appropriate moment Janey said “Hey Dad, can I please have a Bacardi?”, to which Dad replied “Yes, sure”. Not unreasonably she expected her Bacardi to be forthcoming, but it became apparent that Dad had merely given her permission to have a Bacardi. She pondered this for a second and then said “I’ll just get it then shall I?”.  It was exactly like when you ring someone and their child answers the phone, and you say “can I speak to Mummy please?” and they say “yes” and then stay on the line because you didn’t actually ask them to GET Mummy.

The Family Dinner is always held at the the vast dining table that Mum and Dad bought in South Africa, made from old railroad sleepers.  It had to be hoisted into the house by a crane and is so heavy that if it suddenly fell through the floor while we were eating, none of us would be surprised.  The meal itself is usually either roast lamb or a family favourite called, enticingly, Swagman’s Roll, which is basically mince cooked in tomato sauce, wrapped up in puff pastry. Yes indeedy, we are the last word in gourmet. And there are always peas. They are always Surprise Peas – not as in “surprise! there are peas”, but the brand Surprise Peas. There are always dinner rolls, because if there weren’t, Maisie would go hungry.

Dinner starts with Grace, but only after an exchange like this has taken place:

Kate: “Are we ready for Grace?”

Mum: “No, your father’s not at the table. JOE! WE’RE READY!”

Dad: “Alright, I’m just opening the Red!”.

Maisie: “I don’t like lamb.”

Mum: “JOE, WE WANT TO SAY GRACE!”

Dad: “OK, I’m here. Who’s saying Grace?”

Kate: “Ben, how about you say Grace?”

Mum: “Joe, is there ice for the wine?”

Janey: “I’ll get some ice and the Diet Coke.”

Me: “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD COULD SOMEONE SAY GRACE”

Lamb Shank Love

The true stars of the Family Dinner, hands down, are my brother-in-law and my husband. Their ability to listen to my father’s stories is awe-inspiring. This is as opposed to my sisters and I who give ourselves eyeball cramps whenever Dad starts with “Speaking of….” because chances are we weren’t speaking of anything remotely close to what he’s about to launch into.

But the husbands – saints that they are, both with over 10 years of son-in-law experience under their belts – gratefully clutch their beers and totally look like they’re into whatever he’s banging on about. Even last weekend’s story about Mohammed the lift installer. There’s a conversation I bet they never thought they’d be part of.

And sweet Jesus it’s loud. Our ethnic heritage means our baseline is loud. But factor in at least one premenstrual sister, two 5 year old cousins fighting over who’s the better singer, twitter alerts from at least 2 iphones, and Dad yelling “THE DOG’S IN! ANNE, HOW DID THE DOG GET IN?!” and we could totally have our own reality tv show called “Shut The Fuck Up”.

I know my family isn’t Robinson Crusoe in the crazy family ritual department. Tell me about yours?