A Tuesday in Suburbia

I was invited to Brian’s birthday party.

I didn’t even know Brian. And, I’d only know Tom, the guy that invited me, for a matter of minutes before I received the invite. And when strangers invite you to birthday celebrations, a red flag goes up with the alert message announcing loud and clear: this guy doesn’t have any friends; STEER CLEAR.

That said, I didn’t plan on making the party.

It’s hard to work with two little pups wrestling at your feet—one of the very few downsides to working from home (if you can even call the ability to take a break and go for a walk at anytime a downside.) So with a quick swoop of the sunglasses and latch of the leashes, Bella, Pippa and I were off to the big hill behind our house, where all three of us could release some pent-up energy amongst the birds, grass and sunny skies.

Along the way, we passed a park where people were waving in our direction. Brian’s birthday party. I had forgotten, and now it looked like we were coming to the party. I thought about it, but decided we couldn’t just walk past the fiesta. We’re new to the area, and while I don’t plan on sticking around long, I don’t want to soil the family’s rep up here.

We entered the park. Even Bella and Pippa were hesitant. (Who can blame them for preferring the open Aptos beaches to a fenced patch of grass?)

Anyway, the party was set up nicely with balloon bouquets, sweet treats, bottles of wine, finger sandwiches and more. Friends brought gifts. Cameras flashed and birthday greetings sing-songed around the park.

Tom approached to say hello and distinguished the birthday boy from the rest of the crowd for me. I probably could have figured out that the guy wearing the special scarf was the man of the hour if it weren’t for Brian’s friend Matt, who was the only one wearing a party hat. I believe Matt is what Monica Geller calls a “thunder stealer.”

I wished Brian a happy birthday as he came closer. But he was very much wrapped up in the birthday excitement. I understood. His friends had started a wrestling match in the middle of the park. I had to give 'em credit: they were all pretty laid back, silly and good looking, but I was still wary of the possibility of friendship.

You see, Brian is a dog—a thirty-pound beagle with long ears and a deep howl that he employs when he’s not getting enough attention. His party was at the local dog park, and I was invited by my dear friend Tom, a seventy-something year old man who wants to welcome me to the dog park community.

Oh, the thrills of suburbia.

Beauties and the Brains

I have a confession. I cheated. Well, actually we cheated. But I’m the one with the guilty conscious. Ok, here’s the story:

Wednesday evenings feature two great happenings in the Broadway neighborhood of Sydney. The first is Australian-rules football practice in the park by our apartment. The second is trivia night at the Australian Youth Hotel (hotel means bar here.) Jorie (my roommate and best friend since the first day of our freshman year in Boston) and I discovered both indiscriminately on our first night in Sydney.

After an evening stroll through the park sprinkled with Australian footie players, we stumbled upon a happenin’ little pub where five or six tables of mostly Australians were engaged in a game of trivia quizzing them as much on American history and culture as on Australian history and culture. But because jetlag told us it was bedtime at ten, we agreed to play the following week. Because we play to win.

Come Tuesday, a group of boys in our study abroad program approached us to inform us that the Lansdowne Hotel does trivia on Tuesdays. The boys already had a team name—The Sunburned Americans. We, the self-named Beauties and the Brains, which consists of Jorie, five of our friends and me, accepted the challenge. So, we go. We play. We win third and beat the boys. Prizes include $25 in Lansdowne mula and an Ashton Kutcher-style trucker hat.

Provoked by our winnings, Beauties and the Brains trek to trivia at the original bar the next night. We’re convinced that we’ll be able to make a living out of trivia bar hopping. Too embarrassed to play again, the boys aren’t there. But guess what? The questions are the same questions from the Lansdowne the night before. We know every answer, including questions about Australian cricket players, New Zealand films from the 1960s, and random facts about the earth’s highest and lowest points. But we’ve still got some competition—mainly the McClosky’s. Hence, we’re in third as we enter the jeopardy round. True to our philosophy of playing to win, we bet all our points. Palms sweaty and hearts racing, the final question is asked and it’s a new question: what country is 22 times longer than it is wide? Now let me stray for a moment and say that in the last five months I have become obsessed with a little place called Chile. I bought Frommer’s guide to Chile before I bought a book on Australia. I revamped my Spanish studies last semester, and I dream of moving to Chile next January after I graduate from school. So, back to the story, I know this answer. I have to muffle my mouth with my hands to keep from screaming the answer out for everyone to hear. We win the game—the whole thing, including a fifty-dollar gift certificate to the bar. Take that McClosky’s! Sweden is not that long!

So it’s funny at this point—the looks on the faces of the Australian men who thought a group of American girls knew more about cricket than they did. We leave laughing, check in hand.

Here’s where I hope you’ll forgive us: we did it again the next week. Another fifty dollars to the bar. More applause from the moderator. More dirty looks from Australians. Now I have a guilty conscious, so I’m out. I can hear my little sister Taylor telling me to keep going—“Kate, who cares!? You win free drinks!” My best friend Allie would agree. Big sister Brooke would laugh and ask, “but is it really fun if you already know the answers?”

I broke the news to them the next day; I told Beauties and the Brains that I can’t do it again. The lies haunt me at night.