A Retrospectus

It's with a throbbing, pounding head and startled stomach that I write my penultimate NOvember entry. As promised, we'll both have a proper post-mortem blog after our annual Company Christmas Booze Cruise where we play everyone's favourite game (Nathan and Lucky drinking themselves around Sydney Harbour and trying not to win the annual Colossal Titty Award).

We broke NOvember at 612pm on the 30th. It was a long, dull day at the office, and I needed a drink. An unintended consequence of NOvember was sheer loneliness and isolation. I realised a few things over the past week- some earth shattering, some less so, but I've been so preoccupied with Life, the Universe, and Everything that I haven't found time to write about it until now.

The first realisation was that I'm quite lonely. I keep busy- having full on commitments in terms of work, my course, fitness, and a hyperactive social life. Removing myself from the people I surround myself with left me on the brink of depression. I'm fortunate- I have the best friends anyone could ever ask for- cutting myself off from them in the name of NOvember was not a wise choice and probably did my mental state more harm than good. Though it's also nice to realise how much I really love and depend on those around me.

I gingerly stepped back into social bliss this weekend. First, Friday. I had a terrible day. I had just written an exam when I received a message from back home with the subject heading 'from mom' *thunderbolts*. My Mother (well, technically step mother but more on that later) has a knack for breaking bad news one of two ways. Over the phone, it will start with the sentence 'Just so you know' ... followed by gratuitous details of time, place, and cause of death (always in that order).

The other way is to send an email with the blood curdling 'From Mom' subject heading. You'd expect 'From Mom' would be one of those cutesy chain mails with a motivational quote and a few drawings of flowers that premenopausal women tend to send  (in fear of 20 years of bad luck should they fail to forward the cursed message).

 Being told that my father was in hospital with a 'mild' subarachnoid brain haemhorrage via email was not the high point of my day. How can  a brain haemhorrage ever be mild anyway? I suppose if you don't kick it straight away you're ahead of the game and it can be considered 'mild'. Worse was that it had happened nearly a week ago and as per usual I was the last person to be told. I mean hey, it's only my father, right? Im 15 000 kms away from my favourite person on the planet stuck in a blacked out ward under strict subarachnoid protocol and there's absolutely nothing I can do- I certainly didn't need to know about it sooner?

I was vulnerable- I felt as though my skin had been ripped off and I was locked out in a thunderstorm. I had never considered that anything would ever happen to my father. I would never be fully orphaned- why would I think about that? He's always been there- the one permanent fixture in my life. Quietly disapproving of a lot of what I do, but wholeheartedly supporting me nonetheless. Always. The realisation of his mortality gave a shock which will take a long time to heal from.

Once I had talked myself back in from the ledge I went to see one of my favourite couples who were ensconced in their usual friday evening ritual of drinking wine on their balcony. They're two of my closest friends and I hadn't seen them in nearly 6 weeks. I missed them- finding yourself in good company means you can actually deal with life's little curve balls. It also helps when alcohol is available. I needed to drink. And it did me a lot of good. Drinks flowed, my spirits soared, and the pain of the day faded slowly into memory.

Saturday morning I woke up to a gloriously sunny day- minus a severe hangover I was in better spirits. Dad's prognosis is excellent. He'll have to stop acting like he's 18, but he should come through this quickly and with no lasting issues. Better, I can drink again. I got out of bed and fumbled the can of elixir of life  instant coffee and dragged my self to the balcony. I felt like an abortion- but it was a beautiful day.

At 930 I received a text from another good friend of mine. It was written in LOLCat speak so I correctly presumed he had been out partying all night, but I naturally went over for a lunchtime beer. Of course by the time I got there he was fast asleep and I spent the day with his flatmate and her boyfriend- another couple I absolutely adore. Tagging onto the wedded bliss of others is something I do particularly well- especially when alcohol is involved. The vast majority of my good friends are coupled up- and I'm happy to play the role of Crazy Auntie Nathan who drops by from time to time with a bottle of wine and devil-may-care attitude. It was so relaxing though- coffee, quick trip to the outlet shops, followed by glorious beer in the even more glorious sunshine.

After a quick "Well, if Im not going out tonight Im going to bed" type domestic, I pottered off. It was beautiful- warm sunshine, cool air, and the slightest breeze that just tickled you in all the right places. An impromptu Grindr chat led to an impromptu regression to adolescence. I'm sorry, but on a day that nice, how can you not lie in the park and giggle-kiss a random muscle boy? It was as though the first shoots of spring were poking through the snowpack of my winter of discontentment. He was polite, good looking, and charming. I may as well enjoy myself.

Some morally questionable activities ensued on a stack of pallets in a quiet corner of the adjascent industrial estate but I remain unrepentant. After a month of not drinking and 4 weeks into a 6 week stint of Financial Austerity I fiercefully reserve the right to blow off steam in the manner of my choosing. Blow being the operative word there. My life has become too much of a no-fun zone. I am very sensible, but I do have a certain hedonistic bent that I need to indulge from time to time too.

Invigorated by my earlier exertions, I strolled home as the dying orange hues of dusk ambled  their way around the brick chimneys, partially lit billboards and flagging palm trees of South Sydney. Cars clipping past me on one side, trains lumbering and creaking by on the other. So many people, going so many places, me caught up in the stream as streetlights flickered to life while the pale, waning Moon yawned down upon the world it was rapidly tiring of.

Today led to another realisation. Without alcohol, I'm incredibly moody. My deamenor depends entirely upon two things- the weather and finances. I can handle one without the other, but when both stink I find myself longingly looking towards the kitchen, enticed by the effortlessly swift exit offered by the cool, non judging embrace of the oven. Were it not electric. I was always very moody as a child- I can see now why my parents kept me well and truly doped up from the age of six until I reached the age of medical consent. I always thought that was to hide me from the reality of having a Mother who saw a gun in her mouth as an attractive End of Life Option. It makes sense- when an eight  year old starts asking questions it's much easier to say 'Here, have a pill' than to roll your eyes and sigh that 'Mummy got absolutely shitfaced and blew her head off, in what can only be described as the ultimate in Poor Parenting. She did love you very much though. Oh, and her boyfriend flushed the note so you'll never, ever know why.' You would take the pills too.

I suppose the cycle of being medicated was simply transformed into a cycle of self medication. Maybe I'm just not wired to deal well with reality. I was dragged into this world kicking and screaming via 36 hours of labour and an emergency caesarian section. One way or another, my very existence would kill my mother.
Things started in earnest with a single gunshot- the Big Bang, scattering the various elements of my life to fall and settle where they may. The faint echo of which still reverberates through everything I do. Sometimes clapping louder than others, sometimes just a quiet thud in the background so insignificant that my ears barely twitch. But it's there, and always will be.

I was born under very, very bad stars. One astrologer actually refused to give me my birthchart and coldly told me find peace as he rushed to refund my money. Another did do my chart and said that I would live my life with no control, wafting from country to country on the back of circumstance and living mainly by my wits, unexpected good fortune and legions of good friends. Oh, and that I'd end up in Sydney of all places. But I'd never find balance. That was 12 years ago and it's held up to be pretty damn true so far. And I'm not complaining either.

All that aside, here's what NOvember has actually taught me.

A) I am a bitchy Sydney Queen- as much as I'm loath to admit it, and
B) I'm happy.

I may never have real contentment, or balance, or a mortgage with 2.4 children and a brawny husband. I may always be a bit extreme. I don't believe in the illusion of free will- an infinite number of circumstances over billions of years led to me being sat at my desk and writing this very essay. Does this make me a defeatist? Never. Do I enjoy my life? Of course I do- so many little things can make you so happy if you resign yourself to the fact that you occupy a particular place in the Universe and have very little control over what goes on around you.

Finally- I like alcohol. I don't need to be a teetotaller- I wouldn't be happy. But I can find balance. Drinks on weekends with good mates will always be a lifelong source of enjoyment for me. I can cut out drinking during the week as there's no need for it and I enjoy being sober too (in moderation).

That is what I'd like to be the lasting legacy of NOvember.

Finding a bit of balance where I can, and just enjoying the rest of whatever existence throws at me.

Lucky: A mini retrospect.

So NOvember has come and gone, in the calmest of manners.

Reaching the point which, a month ago, seemed so far away and unattainable, it whispered past with a gentle sigh, slipping away into the ether of Big Nights Out past.

It ended with a bit of an anticlimax. But maybe this shows that we've learnt something.
Nathan and I were supposed to have a quiet meal, but because he was working late, instead we scampered off to the TeaGardens the day before and had a few beers. Ignoring the taunts and comments about it still being NOvember, we plopped down to a fresh beer and toasted the marvel that was....well....us.

The beer tasted lovely. Cold and fresh, I sunk that down peacefully, looking around at the hordes of revellers in the TG. "Was it always this busy?" I asked my NOvember sidekick. Thats how long it felt I had been inside these hallowed (and slightly damp) halls.

After the second beer I began to feel woozy. I knew it was the weakened alcohol tolerance from the past month, but still - it alarmed me slightly that I was a 2 beer wonder. Especially after drinking the previous weekend, I would have thought I'd have been cured of this peculiar affliction by now. But alas, I also noticed Nathan getting a bit louder, cigarettes being lit at a faster frequency and discussions of another beer on the way.

After a misunderstanding about a third beer, I began to think about slowing down the beer consumption rate. I had to go home after all, and the Monster was cooking dinner for me. A trip to the bathroom confirmed that yep, I was wobbly legged.

How the mighty have fallen.

Nathan suggested staying for one more. I refused (something i've never done before!) and it took a bit of convincing Nathan that I should go. A phonecall from the Monster settled the score, and I arose unsteadily from my perch, wondering if I could bear the trials of City Rail.

Financial frugality demanded this, so I caught the train home, trying to shake the fog of the beers out of my head.  I finally started to feel a bit better after a brisk walk from the station, and then proceeded to walk into the house not really any worse for the wear.

Now, I don't mean to bore you with the mundane ins and outs of my day - I'm merely attempting to discern the experience and how it affected me. Reading back over the entry so far, I've noticed that it seems to be quite negative - I didnt like the way I felt when drunk, I didnt like being asked to drink, and I was tough enough to leave when I thought I had had enough.

A month ago I would never have exhibited this behaviour - in fact I can picture many other moments, whether with Nathan or others, where all it took to twist my arm into staying for another drink was...well...probably a touch on the shoulder. Someone made me dinner? So what! It'll stay warm in the oven. Late for an appointment? Never mind, I'll reschedule. Someone waiting for me? A text saying I'll be there soonish will sort that out.

So if the worst that happened on our NOvember celebratory drinks was that I was home 15 minutes later than expected - then we have done very very well.

Our next big challenge is going to be The Annual Xmas Annihilation, coming up in 7 days. How will I handle the unlimited alcohol, abundance of peer pressure and (I believe this to be the hardest thing of all), my behaviour at previous Xmas parties. During NOvember I had to adjust my way of thinking, in going out and being around alcohol, and along the way I managed to help a few people change their way of thinking about me as a good time girl/party starter/lush. At the Xmas party this is going to have to be done en masse.

Since NOvember ended, I've had half a glass of wine with dinner. It was a disgusting glass too - so maybe thats the trick? Only drink alcohol that tastes like battery acid, and I'm less inclined to throw it down my gob.

This weekend I'll let myself have a glass or two of wine - only if I feel like it. Remove the prohibition, and I'm less inclined to crave it.

Note that I havent really spoken about my feelings as yet. I'll wait until after the Xmas party to bring them up again - I'm not sure I could handle them sober ;)

Lucky: Control, Alt, Delete please.

Some of you may be wondering how my weekend was - after all the debate of the Hall Pass - did I use it?
Those of you who know me don't even need to ask that question.

Of COURSE I used it. I was sat in a room full of people dressed to the hilt, throwing back champagne with gay abandon, and I DRANK DAMMIT.

I didnt drink a lot, only a few glasses of Veuve (well, it was Veuve, dahling!) and partied for a few hours with a fun crowd. Home I went, feeling very good about the night.

Then, I felt it. The wobbling of the foundations. The slight slurring of the words. The maelstrom in my belly. Good lord, I was drunk.  

My long suffering boyfriend found me in the shower, trying to wash the drunkeness away. Trying to understand why I was crying with disappointment. Trying to take back the night, and figure out where I went wrong. Trying to pinpoint  how I went from mildly buzzed two minutes ago to a shivering, tearful wreck.

The monster said "Just throw up and you'll feel better. Here, have a glass of water and some panadol."

I gulped it down, greedy to begin recuperating. Happy to just forget the night, and welcome sobriety back with open arms. Then my stomach lurched again. "You'd better leave", I told the monster. Then proceeded to hurl up a weeks worth of past meals.

(After discussing this with Nathan earlier today, he suggested it was probably my stomach lining coming up, protesting any form of alcohol. This totally makes sense. The few drinks I drank on that night, stretched over 6 hours would normally not even be enough to make me tipsy, let alone weepy and sick.)

I crawled into bed, bedraggled and pathetic. With my mind racing, and my head still spinning, I slept a dreamless sleep.

The next morning I gingerly arose and ran straight back for the shower. I still felt dirty and ashamed at being hungover. More so, The Monster was going to have to handle my hangovers, which are legendary. He should hide all glass and delicate items, lest I storm the house looking for something to break and throw at his hapless, fast retreating figure.

It was not a good day for me. I was wretched with nausea, wracked with guilt. (I also pinpointed that I had eaten something off, so this explained the extreme abdominal upheaval.)

I'd lost control - after almost a month of restriction, discipline and will power, I'd gone and lost control.

In a way though, as all good lessons are forced to be learnt, I hope I did learn something from this.

*Always eat beforehand. Even if you do throw up, its better tp have something in there, than a convulsing empty stomach.
*Have a glass of water in between alcoholic drinks. So what if your friends jeer at you for having water - unless they want to come over the next day and hide me from sunlight, noises and any sort of movement (including breathing), they can shove it.
*Don't mix your drinks. Once you move to something else, stick with it.
*Pace yourself. The bar isnt going anywhere - and if it is, then you've probably had to much already.

Nathan and I are going out to dinner this Thursday, to quietly toast the fact that we stuck to our goal of one month booze free (some better than others, yes yes.....). We really have come a long way, even if we didnt last the entire month, we learnt so much about ourselves (some things we thought we had buried) and discovered that our inner strength doesnt have to have a foundation built of inebriation.

We still have a few more days to go, and then the big one is coming up - The 11th Annual ITS Xmas Party. Where we've been known to start drinking in the morning in preperation. Where we've snuck spirits onto the boat because we were worried we might not have enough. Where we give the platters of food a cursory glance on our way to the bar.

This year I think I'll make myself eat first before starting to drink. Limit myself to one or two drinks an hour, and have water every second or third drink. Common sense really.

Because you know what? Im not going to win any awards for being the fastest to get drunk. (Although I may win the Colossal Titty Award for being the most drunk, but thats neither here nor there.) Why risk writing myself off this time when at a slow and steady pace, I will be happy, somewhat in control.

It's a nice feeling, this control thing.

Nathan- Ma Vie en Rose

Yesterday was a rough day that started with inadequate sleep and ended with an unwelcome revelation. Namely, that Alcoholics go through the five stages of Grief when they give up booze. The blog parallels this to a tee. Which makes us problem alcoholics.

1)      Denial: This is easier than we thought!

2)      Anger:  I just want to go out and have no idea what to do with myself!

3)      Bargaining: I’m allowed a pass- what’s the harm in four shmiddies

4)      Depression: The stage we’re both at now.

5)      Acceptance: The stage we wish we were at now.

An old friend of mine pointed out that ever since I’ve gotten off the sauce, I’ve started hating everything. That’s not entirely true- I’ve generally always teetered on the brink of complete misanthropy, and one of the downsides to intelligence is being able to see through complete and utter bullshit. I’m generally known for always being there for everyone who needs help, but that usually entails administering Tough Love therapy which universally begins with the phrase ‘Cut the Crap’.

But I am wondering if maybe I’ve become a bit more outwardly gloomy than normal. In the name of reversing the last 50 years worth of advances in Mental Health, I’m trying an experiment today. Thinking my way out of depression by being positive. I tend to loath anyone who is suffering inwardly yet outwardly thinks that positive thinking alone will change the fact that they’ve gotten themselves into a horrible mess.  But let’s give it a go.

This morning being one of the rainiest, gloomiest mornings of the year so far, I took CityRail to work instead of walking.

New, Improved Positive Nathan:  Instead of dropping my shoulder, fixing a maniacal stare on my face and charging through the commuter scrum streaming through the toilet-tiled concourse of Town Hall Station, I smiled brightly at everyone in my path. It worked- the crowds effortlessly parted in front of me. I then found a seat in a cozy train carriage and sat beaming at the broad cross section of humanity I was ensnared amongst, all preparing for the day ahead in various manners to the rhythm of flashing lights and jumping cables rocketing past on tunnel walls. For all my complaints about it, it’s great to live in a city with such an extensive public transport system- its 16 lines carry around a million passengers a day, and about 80% of peak hour commuter traffic- a vital and environmentally friendly asset to the City.

Normal Nathan:  Oh my god the smiling thing actually worked. People get so uncomfortable with eye contact in public they really don’t know how to respond so they just clear the fuck out of your way. I’m definitely using this one more often. It was nice to be out of the rain but generally speaking I can run faster than the train anyway and 5 minute headways between trains in peak periods is absolutely third world. The problem with this complete mess is the system was designed back in the 1860s as an ill considered hybrid between the London Underground and Overground network, and the result was the worst of both. Tearing that shit up and replacing it with something like Hong Kong’s MTR is really the only way forward. It’s downright embarrassing. Happless tourists lulled into thinking that they're visiting a ‘World Class City’ climb the Harbour Bridge only to have their view fouled by graffiti covered double deckers picking their way amongst the catenary like partially poisoned centipedes in the spastic clutches of their mortality. 

Experiment complete. Mes 5 minutes en rose may have been a more befitting title for this post. The fact of the matter is, I am simply incapable of thinking positively. It's just not in my nature. Being the postergirl for Cynicism does have its advantages after all. You can save yourself a lot of suffering by viewing the Human Race as the fermenting cess pit in the sun that it is. Life is better when everything's out in the open.

I had a mediocre day at work. I was just so numb- staring blankly at my monitors in between trips to the vending machine. I don't know why I'm in such a comfort eating mood at the moment, but the more I ate, the drearier I became. It was hard enough on my boss (dealing with two concurrent male midlife crises). For those of you who don't know her, she is the reigning queen of Nutrition and all things healthy. I felt badly, watching her pupils widening like the pits of Hell as I devoured E-number after Preservative after Emulsifying agent in rapid succession with the blissful and effortless ease of a Hammerhead at a Children's Beach. All accompanied by the sound track of my moaning- with muted glee as each glob of partially masticated chocolate flowed down my throat, interspersed with the sighs of agony as my barren conciousness wretched in the anticipation of going home to bed alone, with my cat.

In the end she couldn't take anymore- 'Nathan- have you gone to the gym yet today? You seriously need to go'. I muttered incorherantly to myself. She sighed, putting her headphones on in a vain attempt to distract herself from her disgust at the vending machine induced diabetic shock I was subjecting myself to in a halfhearted attempt to fill the void of universal woe permeating my meagre existence.

I had a non eventful trip home. It was still raining, so I crammed myself into a train carriage that probably hadn't been cleaned since the Eastern Suburbs line opened back in the 70s, and stared blankly into space. I drew SOS messages in the condensation on the windows. I Fidgeted awkardly when an Asian woman brushed up against me with her hand, calloused and boney from decades of toiling over synthetic textiles under the dim flickering lights of a backstreet sweatshop in Wuhan, lingerering far longer than it should. I avoided eye contact as though it were herpes. I was beyond fragile, like a strand of silk lost in the wind, that could be ripped to shreds by one thoughtful look from a pair of friendly eyes, blasting apart the crumbling foundations of my soul.

I got home, gave a cursorary hello to my flatmate, and promptly went to bed. That was 630pm.

I'm obviously depressed.

I woke up at 1230. Before knocking myself out again I figured I'd contemplate the depths of my despair (never a good idea when depressed). 5 stages of grieving aside, I miss my social life. I'm too social- I need to be surrounded by people in much the same manner as a lost puppy. I've been single for three years- I compensate by going out every night. As misanthropic as I am I'm still a total people-person. I really, really do not do well on my own. Years ago when I moved to Berlin I made a classic novice German mistake- thinking 'Zwei Zimmer' meant a cozy studio type apartment (literally- 'two rooms') and inadvertantly ended up renting a palatial apartment with two bedrooms, two balconies and a dining room flanking a vast expanse of a lounge, with a bay windowed office overlooking the Kollwitzplatz. I had to get a flatmate in (at subsidised rent) just because the flat was too goddamned big for little old me alone.

I think I can handle occaisional drinking- some social contact once a week fueled by alcohol. Something to look forward to every weekend, and the rest, well, I'm slowly learning how to interact with others without booze. It's painful at best.

Now I can't sleep. Especially now that I've gone and made myself a cup of tea and found that my cockroach problem has exponentially increased (Oh the perils of living in a hot climate above a supermarket and two restaurants). I can't win- they crawl up through the drains, fly in through open windows, oh yes, it's a Six Legged Sydney Summer alright.

I can't kill insects- or any anything for that matter. Call me a big softie, but people like me need all the good karma we can get. I've been laughed at for fishing a fly out of my drink and dabbing its wings dry with a napkin. I approach stray dogs in public and call animal control. I freak out when people step on spiders. I feed wild birds, pet feral cats, and on more than a few occaisions have risked the Hanta Virus by freeing mice and rats from sticky traps with nothing more than a butter knife and a sheet of cling film. If you ever want to make me cry, show me a suffering animal.

But I HATE cockies. They're such vile, wretched creatures even if I do share an affinity with their hardiness and survival in the face of adversity. My loathing for them was slightly diminished after watching Wall-E (Yes I cried my eyes out when he couldn't remember Eve. Fucking deal with it) but they creep me out to no end. Normally when I'm pissed I swallow all my morals, grab the death black can of Mortein, close my eyes and reenact The Cockroach in the Striped Pyjamas with reckless, gassy abandon. But I can't do it sober. My stomach wretches watching them flip on to their backs and violently die; even if the little fuckers do piss, shit, and vomit all over my food in an insectoid take on a Japanese Scat Orgy. It doesn't help having two lame duck cats that will happily  toy with and ultimately devour any insect except cockroaches (to be fair, the Chairman is petrified of crawling insects after he was sprayed by a beetle and foamed at the mouth for an hour).

And until I find a cat safe roach bait (neither Coles nor Woolies carry one) I have to live with them. Even if it does occaisionally lead to socially awkward moments in front of company. In more extreme cases, startling my flatmate with a piercing shriek as I turn on the kitchen light, sending them scurrying for the safety of the shadows while I scurry up onto the nearest chair. Or more pedestrian exchanges, such as:

"Bitch please. If you think you can deposit your ootheca in the middle of the sink without me saying anything then you've got another thing coming!" *clicks fingers*

"Nathan, are you talking to the Cockroaches... again???"

And I wonder why I
a) Drink
and
b) Can't find a husband.

Lucky: Hall Pass

I can't stop thinking about it. It pervades my every waking thought. It lingers in my brain long before and long after the thought has been thought, the word has been spoken, the deed has been done. It's tinged with shades of excitement, blots of anticipation, hues of trepidation.

I get to use my hall pass this weekend.

It's my cousin's 30th birthday at Double Bay and I am going, with the intent of drinking. Ok, that sound wrong. I am going with the intent of celebrating.
But then it got me thinking even more - why do I need to drink to celebrate?
Can't I be happy and funny sipping an orange juice while everyone else feels the warm buzz of inebriation?

The answer, very simply, is NO. No. Why? Because I'm socially retarded and I flounder without the safety net of alcohol and the bravado it provides.
I am not skilled in the art of small talk. I loathe idle chit chat that stretches beyond the time it takes the lift to get from level 1 to level 8. I reserve the right to reserve my conversation for those who will appreciate it.

However, although I may not like to discuss the weather with you, after a few drinks, I'm your new best friend. The one you add on Facebook straight away. The one you have just one more with. Because I'm fabulous when I'm on the piss. I have many a witness that will attest to this, judging by the amount of phone numbers in my phone that only have one name, possibly suceeded by the words coke, teagardens, or penis.

So it is still up in the air or not whether I use this Hall Pass this weekend. For me to go to a party, knowing full well I can drink, and then choosing not to - well that really is a gigantic, earth shifting, man on the moon type step in the right direction.

Nathan has been getting quite morose lately, especially about the fact that we are going through the 5 stages of giving up something, and we are currently at the stage of depression. Its not so much that we miss that booze to the point of depression, it's the realisation that us going through these stages means there was a problem in the first place. Recovering alcoholics (read: teetotallers) before we both turn 30? Tick.

I've not been as morose as Nathan - possibly because all I can think about is my Hall Pass. Will I use it? I don't know yet.

Should I give it to Nathan? This way I can sit smugly atop my high horse knowing out there, I helped someone in need. 

Pass me a tissue, I'm getting nosebleeds.   

Nathan- Thoughts on Life After NOvember

I know that my past few posts have been devoted to some fairly excessive introspection- more for my benefit than anyone else's (and we all know how I love the sound of my own voice- spoken or otherwise)  but as we enter the final week of NOvember I find myself needing to look forward. What do I take from this? How do I perpetuate some form of lasting change in the attempt to find the one thing that eludes pisceans almost as much as freedom from addiction (that would be balance, if you're wondering).

Work was good today. Another weekend of not drinking meant that I was fully rested. I sat in a class all morning with my brain being numbed by Project Management techniques (for someone who's entire life fits into a series of Gannt Charts I find learning about it tiresome to say the least). I had my standard bitch about Life, the Universe, and Everything on HR's Sofa of Confession. And made far too many trips to the chocolate machine. But I was productive nonetheless.

I'm not missing booze anymore. My NOvember compatriot and I may have already started planning on how we'll enter December- the plan so far is a meal out accompanied with a civilised bottle of wine. The Road to Hell being paved with good intentions, the reality may be somewhat different. Most of you reading this will undoubtedly receive drunken phone calls and between the two of us we'll probably rip up Oxford Street to the point where Taylor Square starts resembling Tahrir Square. *Fills in Leave Form for the 1st of December*

All joking aside, I find myself planning my next two projects.

Project 1

Enjoy my first summer in Sydney as a normal, Daytime person. 2.5 years of nightshifts meant the only difference I noticed between summer and winter was whether or not the Tea Gardens' misting system was running or not. Sydney is Paradise when you're awake to enjoy it. The nightlife may be pedestrian and oh-so-provincial, but on a hot sunny day there is no place I'd rather be. Shiny towers nestle amongst the deepest most verdant shades of green prickling out of the blue waters of the harbour, the sea breeze tinged with the faintest hints of stale beer and congealed vomit. But there's so much to do during the day that you can't do anywhere else (let alone in December and January) that I intend to enjoy it whole hog.

The idea is this. Fuck finding a husband- I'll keep my boozing to one day a week (most likely on the Balcony of Ill Repute with my favourite winos). Every weekend I'll do one outdoor activity- shit I've never tried before. Like kitesurfing. Actually climbing the harbour bridge. Going cycling for the sake of going cycling and enjoying the overlandscaped cycleways that my taxes pay for. Exposing myself to hapless Japanese tourists in Hyde Park.  Oh yes- it will be my Summer of Love(ing myself).

Project 2

QUIT FUCKING SMOKING!!! AAAAAGH. For attempt number 794. Over the past few months I have noticed two themes in my struggle with Nicotine. First, booze is dead easy to give up in comparison. No- there is no comparison. Give up drinking and emo for a couple of days. Go two days without a cigarette and a body-count results (and that's just after bad QA at work). The second theme- I smoke half as much on days when I do sport, as opposed to days when I don't. It surprises a lot of people when they learn that, when not drinking myself into oblivion and smoking myself into an oncology ward while being the Moral Authority On Fucking Everything (a usual day in the life of Nathan), I'm actually very active. No, this arse does not maintain itself, thanks for asking. Due to my abhorrence for all things CityRail, I walk to work every day, and run home. Sometimes (albeit rarely) reverse. Regarder mon commute:

For those of you currently shovelling your driveways in Vancouver, here's the equivalent distance:

Basically downtown to my old dealer's house   to just near Oakridge. You should try it sometime- walking that is, no, the SkyTrain doesn't count.
In addition to that I'm generally pretty good with going to the gym 3 times a week including two boxing classes, more running, my weekly torture sessions at Circuit Training, I swim laps when I can- and those are the days that I don't miss ciggies quite as much, as opposed to days when I do nothing other than think about lighting up next. You would think that the only option would be to up my excercise so that, in addition to commuting, I increase my training from 4 days out of 7 to 6 days out of 7, right?

Exactly. There really is no other option and excercise is the ONLY thing thing that dulls my need for nicotine. I smoke alot- I'll need to compensate alot. But I need something to work towards. Generally I spit upon flakes who describe themselves as 'Goal Oriented' and believe that 'The Universe Owes Me Something' law of attraction bullshit, but I do need something to work towards. A trashbag yardstick of sorts. So in 12 months time I will be doing a mini triathlon. Emphasis on Mini- more IronBaby than IronMan. And I'll quit smoking for good in the process.

Yes- the perfect, lasting legacy to NOvember. The Great IronLung Challenge of 2012.

Here goes nothing...

Lucky: Baked out of my mind.

The weekend just passed for me for domesticity overload. Think Alice from United States of Tara....as opposed to Chicken. The last two days were completely steeped in domestic duties. Saturated. All that was missing was a pinnie and a rolling pin. I even had the pair of marigolds.
Friday night I was elated with the feel of the weekend stretching out ahead of me, booze (and hangover) free. I love the feel of a Friday afternoon. There is so much promise, so much anticipation in the air. You feel like you can do anything.
So maybe thats why I decided to make a cheesecake. Preperation went well, the cheesecake was bunged into the oven and left for what was meant to be 20 minutes. I went to the bedroom and lay down, planning to feed my latest addiction of Words with Friends, and almost immediately fell asleep.
40 minutes later, I woke up with a jolt, ran out to the oven and stared desolately at what was the remains of what was my heart in a cheesecake. "It'll be alright", I mumbled hopefully and tried to scratch off the burnt parts with a knife, my fingernails, anything.
I'll take this moment to tell you guys I am such an emotional cook. I already attach so much gravitas to the food I eat, that it should be no surprise that I cook with my heart and my emotions also. Its not uncommon to find me in tears over a cake that crumbles, or a stew that was left to simmer at too high a temperature. - Actually it is uncommon. I'm a great cook, borne of necessity and an acceptance of my mothers skills being rubbed off on me, even though I showed more interest in losing my virginity than in cooking when I was a younger. But the few times where my Nigella halo does slip, I turn into Gordon F**king Ramsay. And god help everyone who doesnt atleast take a bite and murmur "Mmmmmmm, yummy. Shame it got burnt. You are still Julia Childs reincarnated."
Apparently I am my own worst critic. But if you arent going to tear your self esteem to shreds when you fail (whether minimally OR miserably), how will you ever get better?

So seeing the charred remains of the cheesecake, my heart sank. I soldiered on, covering it with mango coulis and blueberries, but to no avail. The biscuit base fell apart. The cheese had shrunk to resemble a used condom. I had to admit defeat and I slunk into my room with slumped shoulders and a quiver in my bottom lip. The Monster tried to console me, and assured me he would eat them later, but I wasn't falling for that.
I could see my (previously unknown and only then just conveniently discovered) dreams of being a celebrity chef gurgling down the proverbial drain. I would never soar to the heights of culinary carnality, to be followed around with a film crew whilst revealing my secret to astounding bernaise sauce. I would never have an eponymous restaurant overlooking the twinkling lights of Hong Kong Island. Hell, I couldn't even master something to submit a bake sale at a primary school fundraiser. I was rubbish.

I went to bed that night morose and tired. Even the thought of snu snu made me turn away and curl up in the foetal position. *dodges slap from Nathan*

Saturday morning, I blitzed the overdue laundry, humming as I stuffed the washer full of sheets and the monster's smalls. I thought, "It's such a nice day, I really should make the most of it and hang the washing out on the line!". It didn't even occur to me that this was strange. Normally I would have thought "God that fucking sun is so bright/ where is my powerade/ I'm never drinking again/ shit it's 3pm already?!" 
The monster and I barely left the house, so ensconced in the humdrum of housework. With the music blasting and me dancing about the place, it really felt like home....Especially the kitten sleeping out in the garden adding a very Stepford feel to the day.

I felt the baking itch again, so I dusted off an old choc chip cookie recipe and proceeded to fill the house with the most amazing smells ever, while making cookie after cookie, in what I like to call cafe cookie style.

If you feel like shit (and I do almost on a daily basis - thats why I drink - HELLO?) then my rememdy is this - bake. Bake anything. Bread. Muffins. Cupcakes. Your waist line will quiver with equal measures of joy and fear, but your spirits will be lifted regardless. The smell alone should be bottled and sprayed just before a date. "Lucky, you smell positively....edible..."

My cookies were a hit with the Monster, and even giant cat. He nibbled some, and then sauntered away, displaying arsehole, to slump defiantly on some shopping bags and stare at me, accusingly. How dare I sit in his comfy chair? Human infidel. Anyway, I digress.

I spent the rest of the day, reading an old favourite Kathy Lette book. She is the queen of the pun. A Master of Punnilingus. I adore her brain, and razor sharp wit.

Sunday morning I woke up in a great mood. The Monster got ready for work, and then I walked up with him to buy some cat food for the moglets. We'd run out of dry food, and although the cats do enjoy casserole food, their poor little tummies can't digest all that slop, and it comes spurting out their freckle, inevitably on a pile of clean laundry, or our bed. Yep, disgusting little turds.
So it was off to the supermarket where I spent an enjoyable hour or so browsing the aisles and picking up little bits and pieces that I'd been forgetting for a while. Yes, I enjoy grocery shopping. How do I know I want something unless I see it? (Which is probably a reason in itself that I shouldnt be allowed to go shopping.)
Back home to continue the Housewife Howlitzer, interspersed with snoofles from very appreciative and needy kittens. Also I spent most of the day playing Words WithFriends. Yes, I am completely addicted to that game. Yes, I know it's lame. Really, I've just swapped one addiction for another.

On the Monsters return, I was the proud proprietor of a very clean house, with fresh laundry, freshly made bed and a happy disposition. So happy that I thought I might do the undoable and make a pie. A giant steak and mushroom pie, with spinach mash and peas. Third times a charm, right?

Let's just say now that I am still coasting on the success of this pie, and how awesome I am. It was delicious. I am superchef. My restaurant in Hong Kong beckons ever closer. I am the new Naked Chef.

Hear me roar.