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.
Monday, 28 November 2011
Wednesday, 23 November 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, 22 November 2011
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.
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.
Monday, 21 November 2011
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...
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.
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:
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...
Sunday, 20 November 2011
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.
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.
Nathan- It all started with a healthy amount of Self Medication...
I wasn't worried about missing alcohol at all this weekend. Yes, despite my using my Hall Pass midweek, the resultant emo introspection provided enough reasons to not fall back off the proverbial wagon. I was also working a one off Saturday nightshift, and nothing destroys your weekend (and your will to drink) like cutting your weekend in half with an overnighter at the office.
What I didn't bargain for was getting a healthy dose of perspective served with a dollop of insight into my relationship with booze.
I went to bed early on Friday night, woke up early on Saturday morning, and spent much of the early part of the day pottering around not knowing what to do with myself (I settled on a really long run. And a swim. And a couple of walks). A few barbecued snags with my flatmate and his fancy piece followed, and then I conked out for the required Pre Nightshift Nap (read: raping your circadian rhythm so as to stay awake all night).
Being an old pro, after a meagre three hour nap I woke up and, knowing better, got straight out of bed instead of trying to fall back asleep and stressing myself tired. I was priming myself for the shift ahead- I didn't want to talk to anyone or think about anything- other than to focus on getting my energy up. I went to the office a bit early. My favourite HR Consultant was supposed to be joining me as well and I was looking forward to it. She chickened out though after not getting enough sleep, and I'll be reminding her of this next time she becomes irate with nigthshift absenteeism.
I settled in- the first few hours were ok. By 4am it was awful. I don't know how I did it for so many years. Actually I do- Alcohol. I made it through the night ok (thanks to 11 trips to the Nespresso Machine, and almost as many cigarettes) and then that feeling. That dysphoric Dawn buzz that I had buried in the darkest pits of my memory. The sun slowly creeping up, throwing your brain into a frenzy and giving you a feeling I can only describe as vertigo, mild disassociation and depressing emptiness rolled into one- the cigarette balcony is a very dangerous place to be at that time and whatever you do- don't look down as that makes it worse.
Standard medical advice is this: avoid light at all costs. Finish your shift, put on a pair of dark sunglasses, avoid direct sunlight, get home to a cool (17 degrees is optimal for sleeping) blacked out room. Have a glass of water. Try to sleep. Fail miserably.
Here's why. We're dirunal animals and millions of years of evolution has hardwired a certain rhythm into our brains. We are not meant to stay awake all night. On an aside, being up before five am is just as rough on your body as staying awake all night, but I digress. Some people can cope with it better than others and some people actually do quite well with it- I'm not one of those people- alcohol coped for me.
In a nutshell, throughout the course of the night your brain is busy pumping itself full of melatonin and other sleep related goodies- your body temperature drops slightly and your metabolism slows to facilitate sleep. Artifical light throws this off slightly, but not completely (the result is that you just feel permanently quesy and off-kilter- you get used to it. Eating a copper rich diet helps with this slightly but say goodbye to your waistline because the best source of copper going is dark chocolate). You drink too much coffee- bringing yourself to the brink of caffeine psychosis. You drink water to keep hydrated out of necessity, and generally tend to crave carbohydrate rich foods (which actually make you more tired, not to mention fat). But you cope- just.
Then the sun comes up and your brain scrambles to life, not entirely sure what to do with itself. An adrenaline rush and slight dopamine surge follows the sunrise triggering a moderate fight or flight response- your stomach knots up, you get jittery. Lightheaded. A feeling of detached numbness follows. The circulation in your fingers starts to go, slightly. Look away from the sun- put on sunglasses. Walk in the shade. Get home and blackout your bedroom in the hope that not too much damage has been done and that you'll still be able to sleep- but I guarantee you, you won't.
Unless you get drunk. The difference between going to the Tea Gardens from 7am until noon and getting wasted, then going to bed, as opposed to just going straight home to bed? 8-9 hours of sleep (pub) as opposed to 3-4 hours (sobriety). Alcohol and Breakfast Clubs, in addition to being the source of many very fond (albeit blurry) memories, were a necessary coping mechanism. We weren't on rotating shifts- it was all nightshift, all the time. Too tired to socialise with outsiders on weekends, Friday mornings became the highpoint of our social week. I got fat. The thought of a normal balanced life seemed impossible because it was- I woke up, went straight to work, then got pissed, then went straight to bed. It was the only thing that worked for me.
Until a year ago anyway, when I managed to make myself severely ill (resulting in almost a month in bed thanks to a relapse of mononucleoisis- as a result of being so run down), after a slew of blood tests and after drawing numerous blanks the only likely conclusion they could draw in addition to the mono, was borderline ME (Chronic Fatigue syndrome). Which basically means they didn't know why the hell I got so sick so let's tick that 'miscellaneous' box. Unfortunately I was also told that I could do nightshifts for another few months, but that I was on the verge of doing irreperable harm to myself both physically and mentally- if I hadn't already crossed that threshold. And that getting wasted in the morning was probably still better than getting myself hooked on prescription tranquilisers (little did the Doc know I always kept a reserve supply of those too for really hot, sunny days when I desperately needed sleep and booze just didn't cut it).
In the end, I did nights for another 6 months, then after a 5 week holiday, I moved to my current day job. I now look four years younger, my energy is back, I'm down to my prenightshift weight (11 kgs gone) and my life is very balanced and rather contented. Christ I'm actually happy. Who knew.
But this morning, wow. I got home. Had a cup of tea on the balcony, hiding in the one remaining shady corner. I was irritable. Panicky. It was too god damn bright. I was angry at everything knowing that I would be robbed of a decent sleep. I couldn't think straight. I was feeling desperate. Part of me wanted to cry for the sake of it. I have a busy week ahead of me- I can't afford shift lag. I needed a drink- a few beers would sort this out. Christ this is why I started drinking so heavily.
So I blew the dust off of my nightshift emergency sleep jar, grabbed a Seroquil, and knocked myself out. I only slept for 6 hours before the sun woke me (and that is very, very strong stuff. Think of it as a turbo charged valium- a quarter of a tablet will gaurantee an 11 hour sleep overnight regardless of what time you set your alarm for) and woke up feeling spacey, as though I had wasted the day. But atleast I wasn't hungover.
And I'll sleep well tonight.
And I won't need alcohol to do it.
Eureka.
What I didn't bargain for was getting a healthy dose of perspective served with a dollop of insight into my relationship with booze.
I went to bed early on Friday night, woke up early on Saturday morning, and spent much of the early part of the day pottering around not knowing what to do with myself (I settled on a really long run. And a swim. And a couple of walks). A few barbecued snags with my flatmate and his fancy piece followed, and then I conked out for the required Pre Nightshift Nap (read: raping your circadian rhythm so as to stay awake all night).
Being an old pro, after a meagre three hour nap I woke up and, knowing better, got straight out of bed instead of trying to fall back asleep and stressing myself tired. I was priming myself for the shift ahead- I didn't want to talk to anyone or think about anything- other than to focus on getting my energy up. I went to the office a bit early. My favourite HR Consultant was supposed to be joining me as well and I was looking forward to it. She chickened out though after not getting enough sleep, and I'll be reminding her of this next time she becomes irate with nigthshift absenteeism.
I settled in- the first few hours were ok. By 4am it was awful. I don't know how I did it for so many years. Actually I do- Alcohol. I made it through the night ok (thanks to 11 trips to the Nespresso Machine, and almost as many cigarettes) and then that feeling. That dysphoric Dawn buzz that I had buried in the darkest pits of my memory. The sun slowly creeping up, throwing your brain into a frenzy and giving you a feeling I can only describe as vertigo, mild disassociation and depressing emptiness rolled into one- the cigarette balcony is a very dangerous place to be at that time and whatever you do- don't look down as that makes it worse.
Standard medical advice is this: avoid light at all costs. Finish your shift, put on a pair of dark sunglasses, avoid direct sunlight, get home to a cool (17 degrees is optimal for sleeping) blacked out room. Have a glass of water. Try to sleep. Fail miserably.
Here's why. We're dirunal animals and millions of years of evolution has hardwired a certain rhythm into our brains. We are not meant to stay awake all night. On an aside, being up before five am is just as rough on your body as staying awake all night, but I digress. Some people can cope with it better than others and some people actually do quite well with it- I'm not one of those people- alcohol coped for me.
In a nutshell, throughout the course of the night your brain is busy pumping itself full of melatonin and other sleep related goodies- your body temperature drops slightly and your metabolism slows to facilitate sleep. Artifical light throws this off slightly, but not completely (the result is that you just feel permanently quesy and off-kilter- you get used to it. Eating a copper rich diet helps with this slightly but say goodbye to your waistline because the best source of copper going is dark chocolate). You drink too much coffee- bringing yourself to the brink of caffeine psychosis. You drink water to keep hydrated out of necessity, and generally tend to crave carbohydrate rich foods (which actually make you more tired, not to mention fat). But you cope- just.
Then the sun comes up and your brain scrambles to life, not entirely sure what to do with itself. An adrenaline rush and slight dopamine surge follows the sunrise triggering a moderate fight or flight response- your stomach knots up, you get jittery. Lightheaded. A feeling of detached numbness follows. The circulation in your fingers starts to go, slightly. Look away from the sun- put on sunglasses. Walk in the shade. Get home and blackout your bedroom in the hope that not too much damage has been done and that you'll still be able to sleep- but I guarantee you, you won't.
Unless you get drunk. The difference between going to the Tea Gardens from 7am until noon and getting wasted, then going to bed, as opposed to just going straight home to bed? 8-9 hours of sleep (pub) as opposed to 3-4 hours (sobriety). Alcohol and Breakfast Clubs, in addition to being the source of many very fond (albeit blurry) memories, were a necessary coping mechanism. We weren't on rotating shifts- it was all nightshift, all the time. Too tired to socialise with outsiders on weekends, Friday mornings became the highpoint of our social week. I got fat. The thought of a normal balanced life seemed impossible because it was- I woke up, went straight to work, then got pissed, then went straight to bed. It was the only thing that worked for me.
Until a year ago anyway, when I managed to make myself severely ill (resulting in almost a month in bed thanks to a relapse of mononucleoisis- as a result of being so run down), after a slew of blood tests and after drawing numerous blanks the only likely conclusion they could draw in addition to the mono, was borderline ME (Chronic Fatigue syndrome). Which basically means they didn't know why the hell I got so sick so let's tick that 'miscellaneous' box. Unfortunately I was also told that I could do nightshifts for another few months, but that I was on the verge of doing irreperable harm to myself both physically and mentally- if I hadn't already crossed that threshold. And that getting wasted in the morning was probably still better than getting myself hooked on prescription tranquilisers (little did the Doc know I always kept a reserve supply of those too for really hot, sunny days when I desperately needed sleep and booze just didn't cut it).
In the end, I did nights for another 6 months, then after a 5 week holiday, I moved to my current day job. I now look four years younger, my energy is back, I'm down to my prenightshift weight (11 kgs gone) and my life is very balanced and rather contented. Christ I'm actually happy. Who knew.
But this morning, wow. I got home. Had a cup of tea on the balcony, hiding in the one remaining shady corner. I was irritable. Panicky. It was too god damn bright. I was angry at everything knowing that I would be robbed of a decent sleep. I couldn't think straight. I was feeling desperate. Part of me wanted to cry for the sake of it. I have a busy week ahead of me- I can't afford shift lag. I needed a drink- a few beers would sort this out. Christ this is why I started drinking so heavily.
So I blew the dust off of my nightshift emergency sleep jar, grabbed a Seroquil, and knocked myself out. I only slept for 6 hours before the sun woke me (and that is very, very strong stuff. Think of it as a turbo charged valium- a quarter of a tablet will gaurantee an 11 hour sleep overnight regardless of what time you set your alarm for) and woke up feeling spacey, as though I had wasted the day. But atleast I wasn't hungover.
And I'll sleep well tonight.
And I won't need alcohol to do it.
Eureka.
Thursday, 17 November 2011
Lucky: Airing my dirty laundry.
Reaching the weekend again, I see it stretching before me, devoid of alcohol and partying.
And for once I don't mind.
Today my new washing machine was delivered to my house,and sucessfully installed. So I see myself doing nothing but washing, trying to get everything our nasty little cat has soiled over the last few weeks. I'm talking pillows, blankets, quilt covers....everything. It's been a point of contention between myself and the monster for a while now, the laundry piling up. No clean clothes or underwear. Luckily my wardrobe is extensive enough that I was able to run the whole gamut without recycling anything, but I was running very low. In fact, had the washing machine not appeared today or any time soon, I would have had to turn up to work wearing a ball gown and odd (albeit clean) socks.
So with the appearance of the washing machine, I see one more step being taken towards the hum drum of domesticity. A sydney housewife, trying to juggle housework, family, relationship, work and the occasional battle of the bulge. I even have the martini glass, but for now it's staying empty.
I just bought a 1.75L bottle of gin from a work colleague for the bargain price of $50. I couldn't resist, it was such an offer, especially as it came with a free pack of cigarettes. Normally I'd be cracking that gin baby as soon as I got home, but today instead I think I'll be cracking a fresh box of Dynamo open and seperating the whites from the colours.
It's not as depressing as I thought. I'monly already half way through NOvember and my resolve has wavered often but never broken.
And as soon as it hits 1st December, well, I'll have a 1.75 L bottle of gin to celebrate.
And for once I don't mind.
Today my new washing machine was delivered to my house,and sucessfully installed. So I see myself doing nothing but washing, trying to get everything our nasty little cat has soiled over the last few weeks. I'm talking pillows, blankets, quilt covers....everything. It's been a point of contention between myself and the monster for a while now, the laundry piling up. No clean clothes or underwear. Luckily my wardrobe is extensive enough that I was able to run the whole gamut without recycling anything, but I was running very low. In fact, had the washing machine not appeared today or any time soon, I would have had to turn up to work wearing a ball gown and odd (albeit clean) socks.
So with the appearance of the washing machine, I see one more step being taken towards the hum drum of domesticity. A sydney housewife, trying to juggle housework, family, relationship, work and the occasional battle of the bulge. I even have the martini glass, but for now it's staying empty.
I just bought a 1.75L bottle of gin from a work colleague for the bargain price of $50. I couldn't resist, it was such an offer, especially as it came with a free pack of cigarettes. Normally I'd be cracking that gin baby as soon as I got home, but today instead I think I'll be cracking a fresh box of Dynamo open and seperating the whites from the colours.
It's not as depressing as I thought. I'm
And as soon as it hits 1st December, well, I'll have a 1.75 L bottle of gin to celebrate.
Midnight in the Call Centre of Good and Evil
It’s nearing the end of a rather long day. I’m tired, drowsy, a bit bored, and making far too many trips to the Cigarette Balcony for my own good. I enjoy working late- I find that my productivity increases as the day goes on, and staying well into the night usually equates to getting a lot more done without the usual distractions.
I work in a fairly unique environment. A 24/7 office filled with one of the most diverse cross sections of society I’ve ever encountered- a billion nationalities, a billion walks of life- we have PhDs, pilots, journalists, starving writers, students, alcoholics (ahem), married people, single people, divorced people, and far too many gay people. Speak three languages and semi computer literate? We want you.
At 9pm this evening the Vampire shift slowly staggered in. The slight whiff of residual alcohol from this morning’s Tea Garden’s session gingerly wafted through the office as they lurched towards the Nespresso machine before making themselves comfortable for the night. The nightshift is actually our peak time (being that most of our clients are in Europe and Canada). I dont see them often any more but it’s comforting to know that I have a job to go to each morning because of the crack team of 50 odd Zombies working tirelessly through the night repeating ‘Have you disabled your firewalls and restarted the Client?’ in a dozen languages. Watched over by the ever vigilant supervisor charged with steering the sinking ship towards the Dawn, silently monitoring random data replication points in the furthest corners of the Globe, waiting to spring into action should the slightest hint of red hit their monitors. For the rest of the time they’re rolling their eyes at stupid questions and telling the crew to fuck themselves. Both Lucky and I had that job at one point- which partially explains both our bitterness and the bizarre gravitational attraction we feel towards the Tea Gardens each morning.
Working late on a Thursday night means another thing- the Carnival atmosphere in the office because for them it’s the end of the week, which means an epic Breakfast Club session at the pub from 7am tomorrow that will go on well into the afternoon. Trust me- those guys can drink. It’s the only way to sleep during the day during the summer- 6 or 7 beers = 8 hours of sleep. No beer = 3-4 hours if you’re lucky. Of course our Nightshift tends to take things to the extreme- you haven’t lived until you’ve been cut off at 8pm at the Tea Gardens and the Manager’s justification is ‘You’ve been here for 13 hours- I’m doing you a favour.’
It’s funny. Seeing old friends plan their morning hijinx. Remembering the days when I was their despotic leader. The glory days of finishing work at 7am, exchanging pleasantries with Gail (the dowdy morning barmaid) as she pours the first round of the weekend. And then bitching with your colleagues for the next 7 hours while telling them how much you love them. Then yelling at each other. Then running crying to the bathroom. Then hugging and making up. That’s the type of drinking I miss most. Those Vampires who (whether they liked it or not, or wanted to or not) stuck by me through some very difficult times.
I actually was a smug Married once. Hard to believe, I know. I arrived in Sydney under tumultuous circumstances. My ex and I decided to come here together, before eventually going to London. Of course we broke up at our Leaving Party just before flying out and I enjoyed a wonderful 15 hour flight with him sat 10 rows behind me. I had Ativan, he didnt, so I think it was probably worse for him than it was for me.
I was offered a job through a friend- nightshift (blech!) for an online gaming company (ok- interesting). I figured it would be ok for a a month or two so at least I had an income, while I looked for another job. Thanks to two very special Girls I was able to settle in Sydney very quickly (and easily) and I'll be forever indebted to them. I built a routine- working nights wasn't ideal, and it took a bit of getting used to, but my boss (Lucky) quickly introduced me to Gail (the barmaid) and the rest was history. I became comfortable. The ex and I decided to make an attempt to reconcile- it happens to the best of us, I know. The result was six months of him constantly reminding me that I wasn't good enough, that I got through life by luck alone (not entirely untrue), and that I was essentially more fucked up than Adolf Hitler, Nero, and Miley Cyrus combined. Six months of that can destroy anyone's sense of self worth- even someone as gloriously defiant as I.
I left Sydney and ended up in Melbourne via Perth and a couple of very long train journeys. It was time to focus on me. What do I want to get out of the next few months in Australia, before I move on with my life. I needed to find a way of 'fixing' all of my 'problems'. I could make myself better. I would find work, build a new life. Actualise my talents somehow. Change myself.
Of course I eventually found out that during the preceeding six months he had been dating half of Sydney. Oh yes- he had a go with everyone. Out Guys, In Guys, fat guys, thin guys, positive guys, negative guys, oh, and a personal trainer. All of which was my fault, of course. What had been an amicable split rapidly decended into hate- especially as he was the victim in all of this apparently. I had never felt so completely worthless. I was lost in Melbourne with no job and no money, being looked after by an old friend (I wouldn't have survived it if it wasn't for her and her endless support and generosity). Five months of living the backpacker life ensued (see- hard drinking). I found an urban family of loveable alcoholic misfits in Melbourne. Another family of trashbags in Darwin. For some reason despite being at such a low point I was always surrounded by genuinely good people and a shitload of alcohol- I'm still keep in touch with all of them.
I found myself back in Sydney and the universe threw me another bone. I landed with 70 bucks at 630am one crisp, Monday morning in September. I went to the Tea Gardens to meet up with a former work colleague who offered me a place to stay for a few days while I sorted something out. I ordered a beer, and sat down surrounded by all my tatty luggage like some kind of alcoholic gypsy. The barman came up and asked for a cigarette- I was running low, but of course I said yes. We talked. He was excited about his month long holiday to Thailand in three days time, but stressed to all shit because his housesitter had bailed on him and he couldn't find anyone to look after his place with such short notice...
Yes- sometimes life chucks you a complete freebie when you expect it least and need it most. I started back at work that night, and had a place to stay for a month while I saved enough money for a place of my own. Met John (my current flatmate), reestablished myself in the nightshift family, and spent the next two years working with people who genuinely cared about me and essentially became my life. The company kept me in Australia but the nightshift made it home. I became happy, content, and (gasp) stable because of the people I was surrounded by. It's difficult doing permanent nightshift but they made it enjoyable- we all looked forward to going to work no matter how hung over we were from the previous morning- we'd cope with Midnight Maccas runs and more beer the following morning. Leaving them was hard- I had to for the good of my health, and I do still see them, but it's not quite the same.
Getting wasted with good mates- could I ever really give that up?
I actually was a smug Married once. Hard to believe, I know. I arrived in Sydney under tumultuous circumstances. My ex and I decided to come here together, before eventually going to London. Of course we broke up at our Leaving Party just before flying out and I enjoyed a wonderful 15 hour flight with him sat 10 rows behind me. I had Ativan, he didnt, so I think it was probably worse for him than it was for me.
I was offered a job through a friend- nightshift (blech!) for an online gaming company (ok- interesting). I figured it would be ok for a a month or two so at least I had an income, while I looked for another job. Thanks to two very special Girls I was able to settle in Sydney very quickly (and easily) and I'll be forever indebted to them. I built a routine- working nights wasn't ideal, and it took a bit of getting used to, but my boss (Lucky) quickly introduced me to Gail (the barmaid) and the rest was history. I became comfortable. The ex and I decided to make an attempt to reconcile- it happens to the best of us, I know. The result was six months of him constantly reminding me that I wasn't good enough, that I got through life by luck alone (not entirely untrue), and that I was essentially more fucked up than Adolf Hitler, Nero, and Miley Cyrus combined. Six months of that can destroy anyone's sense of self worth- even someone as gloriously defiant as I.
I left Sydney and ended up in Melbourne via Perth and a couple of very long train journeys. It was time to focus on me. What do I want to get out of the next few months in Australia, before I move on with my life. I needed to find a way of 'fixing' all of my 'problems'. I could make myself better. I would find work, build a new life. Actualise my talents somehow. Change myself.
Of course I eventually found out that during the preceeding six months he had been dating half of Sydney. Oh yes- he had a go with everyone. Out Guys, In Guys, fat guys, thin guys, positive guys, negative guys, oh, and a personal trainer. All of which was my fault, of course. What had been an amicable split rapidly decended into hate- especially as he was the victim in all of this apparently. I had never felt so completely worthless. I was lost in Melbourne with no job and no money, being looked after by an old friend (I wouldn't have survived it if it wasn't for her and her endless support and generosity). Five months of living the backpacker life ensued (see- hard drinking). I found an urban family of loveable alcoholic misfits in Melbourne. Another family of trashbags in Darwin. For some reason despite being at such a low point I was always surrounded by genuinely good people and a shitload of alcohol- I'm still keep in touch with all of them.
I found myself back in Sydney and the universe threw me another bone. I landed with 70 bucks at 630am one crisp, Monday morning in September. I went to the Tea Gardens to meet up with a former work colleague who offered me a place to stay for a few days while I sorted something out. I ordered a beer, and sat down surrounded by all my tatty luggage like some kind of alcoholic gypsy. The barman came up and asked for a cigarette- I was running low, but of course I said yes. We talked. He was excited about his month long holiday to Thailand in three days time, but stressed to all shit because his housesitter had bailed on him and he couldn't find anyone to look after his place with such short notice...
Yes- sometimes life chucks you a complete freebie when you expect it least and need it most. I started back at work that night, and had a place to stay for a month while I saved enough money for a place of my own. Met John (my current flatmate), reestablished myself in the nightshift family, and spent the next two years working with people who genuinely cared about me and essentially became my life. The company kept me in Australia but the nightshift made it home. I became happy, content, and (gasp) stable because of the people I was surrounded by. It's difficult doing permanent nightshift but they made it enjoyable- we all looked forward to going to work no matter how hung over we were from the previous morning- we'd cope with Midnight Maccas runs and more beer the following morning. Leaving them was hard- I had to for the good of my health, and I do still see them, but it's not quite the same.
Getting wasted with good mates- could I ever really give that up?
Wednesday, 16 November 2011
Lucky: Being this judgemental is thirsty work....
It is with pursed lips and a scowl that I read Nathan's latest entry.
It's also with total understanding, and admiration that he made it past the halfway point in the first place.
Yesterday was pretty screwed. (Let's just say that my previous opinion of the NSW Legal System, which was already lower than pond scum, has now been downgraded to lower than belly button lint, or the pain of an ingrown toenail.) Stepping into Downing Centre, I snarled at the monster "Thank you for bringing me to the sinkhole of humanity. When we leave, please be so kind as to fetch me some formeldehyde and steel wool?".
I really needed a drink. One - to handle the stress of the day. Two - to express the relief of the ordeal being over. Three - uh...because it's me, you fool.
Instead I spent the remaining hours of my wasted day asian grocery shopping and taking a trip down memory lane. I planned to make a really kick ass dinner (which I did, natch) and settle down to enjoy what could only be positive from this point on. The rest of the evening was spent in a haze of love, optimism, laughs, television, cuddles, and cat hair. It sounds Vom-worthy, I know, but I enjoyed it immensely.
One small dark cloud on the horizon - The Monster, whom I love dearly, is infuriatingly intelligent in all things scientific, electronic, war mongerific etc, but even more infuriatingly absentminded in common life. He is someone who can tell you about wobbly plateaus in space meaning we are one step closer to time travel, but will forget to close the fridge after using the milk. He can install anything with plugs, cables, and frightening flicky switches, but will boil the kettle without filling it first, causing to make an alarming hissing noise.
So when I awoke during night, having gone to bed first, to my consternation the backdoor, and security grill was wide open and the lights in the house were still on, advertising to burglars and busybodies alike our wares for offer. This stressed me no end, (I mean we live in fucking Kings Cross, for christs sake) and I went back to the slumbering monster and mentioned that maybe next time he lock up before bed. Of course, I was completely right. *growls*
An arguement ensued, to my amazement. We managed to sort it out in due time and seal the peace with a cuddle but again I shook my head at the forgetfulness of the Monster.
It had reminded me of fights that we used to have when maybe either myself, or both of us had had a few too many, and would get shouty. Instead now, we had to resolve things calmly, rationally, and with the intent of making each other happy.
So now, he couldn't accuse me anymore of being too drunk to be sensible. I was behaving like an adult.
So there.
It's also with total understanding, and admiration that he made it past the halfway point in the first place.
Yesterday was pretty screwed. (Let's just say that my previous opinion of the NSW Legal System, which was already lower than pond scum, has now been downgraded to lower than belly button lint, or the pain of an ingrown toenail.) Stepping into Downing Centre, I snarled at the monster "Thank you for bringing me to the sinkhole of humanity. When we leave, please be so kind as to fetch me some formeldehyde and steel wool?".
I really needed a drink. One - to handle the stress of the day. Two - to express the relief of the ordeal being over. Three - uh...because it's me, you fool.
Instead I spent the remaining hours of my wasted day asian grocery shopping and taking a trip down memory lane. I planned to make a really kick ass dinner (which I did, natch) and settle down to enjoy what could only be positive from this point on. The rest of the evening was spent in a haze of love, optimism, laughs, television, cuddles, and cat hair. It sounds Vom-worthy, I know, but I enjoyed it immensely.
One small dark cloud on the horizon - The Monster, whom I love dearly, is infuriatingly intelligent in all things scientific, electronic, war mongerific etc, but even more infuriatingly absentminded in common life. He is someone who can tell you about wobbly plateaus in space meaning we are one step closer to time travel, but will forget to close the fridge after using the milk. He can install anything with plugs, cables, and frightening flicky switches, but will boil the kettle without filling it first, causing to make an alarming hissing noise.
So when I awoke during night, having gone to bed first, to my consternation the backdoor, and security grill was wide open and the lights in the house were still on, advertising to burglars and busybodies alike our wares for offer. This stressed me no end, (I mean we live in fucking Kings Cross, for christs sake) and I went back to the slumbering monster and mentioned that maybe next time he lock up before bed. Of course, I was completely right. *growls*
An arguement ensued, to my amazement. We managed to sort it out in due time and seal the peace with a cuddle but again I shook my head at the forgetfulness of the Monster.
It had reminded me of fights that we used to have when maybe either myself, or both of us had had a few too many, and would get shouty. Instead now, we had to resolve things calmly, rationally, and with the intent of making each other happy.
So now, he couldn't accuse me anymore of being too drunk to be sensible. I was behaving like an adult.
So there.
Nathan- In Case of Emergency, Break Glass
Sometimes we all need a good kick in the backside. My NOvember compatriot provided that yesterday, when upon hearing of me cancelling the Date, pointed out that I was acting like the one thing I loath above all else (a bitchy Sydney Queen). So I reversed my position and reinstated the date. She then pointed out that gives the impression that I originally cancelled on him to make last minute plans with someone better who then cancelled on me and I went crawling back to what was now a backup, a la bitchy Sydney Queen. You just can't win with Sydneysiders.
It helped that The Date was rather persistant, and that I was wearing an 800 dollar ensemble that I didn't want to go to waste either. So I popped down to BJ Station and in minutes found myself rocketing down Ockie Street on the 333 towards one of Slurry Hills' more popular Gastropubs.
By this point I already had it in my head that I was going to use my Hall Pass. I spent the afternoon moping about like Eeyore on Temazepam to begin with, and after finally re-agreeing to aforementioned date, he took the lead and selected the venue. It was nice. The wagon slowly creaked, then tipped slightly, then smashed up against the wall.
I only had four Shmiddies. I'll give you another lesson in nonsensical Australian English (now there's an oxymoron if there ever was one). In New South Wales, beer is rarely served in pints outside of Irish bars. I'm not sure the origin of this, but it has a practical aspect. You can't drink pints fast enough here without them getting too warm. I'm not sure if that's by design or not, but whatever works. The standard serve of draught beer comes in a 3/4 pint glass called a 'Schooner'. No idea on the origin of that either, but after a few of them you do tend to sail off into the sunset on the winds of unabashed pleasure. The half measure of a schooner is called a 'Middie'. Again, no idea why and I've never actually seen someone choose to drink one (outside of sneaking a quickie on a ten minute break from the office).
Being a beer snob and favouring imported European Beer over the locally brewed Panther Piss, I'm relegated to a third type of glass, called a 'Shmiddie' which is somewhere between a Schooner and a Middie, and costs more than the two put together. In other words, it's a pretty conservative serving- four of those would maybe equate to two pints.
The date went well none the less. He was charming, educated, cheeky, funny, drives a convertible (which was broken down at the Meth Mall at the bottom of Crown Street) and generally good conversation. I enjoyed the emergency beers- until after the first one. When your body becomes resensitised to booze (and trust me, it doesn't taste long) the effects of alcohol become quite pronounced. You can feel changes to your circulation. You notice your speech slowly deteriorating from 'Razor Wit' to 'Sloppy' to 'Blackbeard'. You feel numb, light headed, awkward. And kindof embarassed. I didn't really like it. Then I thought of how great my skin looks. How I can live on very little money. How nice it feels to wake up at 7am and feel refreshed. So I did the unthinkable, and switched to coca cola.
In the end, things wrapped up at 1030. He hinted at inviting me back to his place for something to eat (read: a casual liaison) and I politely declined, leaving him with a relatively wholesome and chaste good night kiss (up against a skip in the laneway behind the pub. Hey- a shit leopard can't change its shit leopard spots after all). I then scurried back to the judgement free bubble of Pyrmong. I did agree to a second date anyway, despite one slight flaw. He may have spent most of his life in London, but he has a bit of an East Midlands accent. I'm terrible with spotting accents when I'm drunk hence why I didn't notice until last night. If you don't believe me, I once spent spent 15 minutes talking to a Dubliner in Arq before I realised that he wasnt Australian. And he's not a posh D4 type- I can still barely understand him half the time.
I'm not sure what it is with accents that makes them either attractive or not. Standard English is hot. Cockney english is hotter. South African (hey, I have a musical ear) is hot. So is Berlin german- four years of Frau Thatcher's hard work in instilling Hochdeutsch in me was rapily undone in the clubs of Berlin to the point where I now sound like a Turkish Gangster crossed with a chinese shopkeeper. But I love that accent. But Midlands? Eeeeek- not a fan. It's not as bad as a West Country accent, and probably no where near as annoying as my muddled intercontinental shitmix. But hey, a date's a date, right?
This morning I woke up feeling rather bleak, which matches the weather perfectly.
Yes- perfect weather for a bit of balcony introspection. The realisation is this- after NOvember is, I think I'll be happy to keep my booze consumption to a couple of beers every week or two.
I have a long day ahead of me. I'm not going into the office until1, but I have to adminster a Teach to the nightshift so I won't get out of there until 1 in the morning. It will give me plenty of time to think about what I've done, that's for sure.
I'm glad I went out last night solely for that resulting epiphany.
Thanks Luck- your a true Pal:)
It helped that The Date was rather persistant, and that I was wearing an 800 dollar ensemble that I didn't want to go to waste either. So I popped down to BJ Station and in minutes found myself rocketing down Ockie Street on the 333 towards one of Slurry Hills' more popular Gastropubs.
By this point I already had it in my head that I was going to use my Hall Pass. I spent the afternoon moping about like Eeyore on Temazepam to begin with, and after finally re-agreeing to aforementioned date, he took the lead and selected the venue. It was nice. The wagon slowly creaked, then tipped slightly, then smashed up against the wall.
I only had four Shmiddies. I'll give you another lesson in nonsensical Australian English (now there's an oxymoron if there ever was one). In New South Wales, beer is rarely served in pints outside of Irish bars. I'm not sure the origin of this, but it has a practical aspect. You can't drink pints fast enough here without them getting too warm. I'm not sure if that's by design or not, but whatever works. The standard serve of draught beer comes in a 3/4 pint glass called a 'Schooner'. No idea on the origin of that either, but after a few of them you do tend to sail off into the sunset on the winds of unabashed pleasure. The half measure of a schooner is called a 'Middie'. Again, no idea why and I've never actually seen someone choose to drink one (outside of sneaking a quickie on a ten minute break from the office).
Being a beer snob and favouring imported European Beer over the locally brewed Panther Piss, I'm relegated to a third type of glass, called a 'Shmiddie' which is somewhere between a Schooner and a Middie, and costs more than the two put together. In other words, it's a pretty conservative serving- four of those would maybe equate to two pints.
The date went well none the less. He was charming, educated, cheeky, funny, drives a convertible (which was broken down at the Meth Mall at the bottom of Crown Street) and generally good conversation. I enjoyed the emergency beers- until after the first one. When your body becomes resensitised to booze (and trust me, it doesn't taste long) the effects of alcohol become quite pronounced. You can feel changes to your circulation. You notice your speech slowly deteriorating from 'Razor Wit' to 'Sloppy' to 'Blackbeard'. You feel numb, light headed, awkward. And kindof embarassed. I didn't really like it. Then I thought of how great my skin looks. How I can live on very little money. How nice it feels to wake up at 7am and feel refreshed. So I did the unthinkable, and switched to coca cola.
In the end, things wrapped up at 1030. He hinted at inviting me back to his place for something to eat (read: a casual liaison) and I politely declined, leaving him with a relatively wholesome and chaste good night kiss (up against a skip in the laneway behind the pub. Hey- a shit leopard can't change its shit leopard spots after all). I then scurried back to the judgement free bubble of Pyrmong. I did agree to a second date anyway, despite one slight flaw. He may have spent most of his life in London, but he has a bit of an East Midlands accent. I'm terrible with spotting accents when I'm drunk hence why I didn't notice until last night. If you don't believe me, I once spent spent 15 minutes talking to a Dubliner in Arq before I realised that he wasnt Australian. And he's not a posh D4 type- I can still barely understand him half the time.
I'm not sure what it is with accents that makes them either attractive or not. Standard English is hot. Cockney english is hotter. South African (hey, I have a musical ear) is hot. So is Berlin german- four years of Frau Thatcher's hard work in instilling Hochdeutsch in me was rapily undone in the clubs of Berlin to the point where I now sound like a Turkish Gangster crossed with a chinese shopkeeper. But I love that accent. But Midlands? Eeeeek- not a fan. It's not as bad as a West Country accent, and probably no where near as annoying as my muddled intercontinental shitmix. But hey, a date's a date, right?
This morning I woke up feeling rather bleak, which matches the weather perfectly.
Pretty Grim, isn't it?
I have a long day ahead of me. I'm not going into the office until1, but I have to adminster a Teach to the nightshift so I won't get out of there until 1 in the morning. It will give me plenty of time to think about what I've done, that's for sure.
I'm glad I went out last night solely for that resulting epiphany.
Thanks Luck- your a true Pal:)
Tuesday, 15 November 2011
Nathan- All Dressed Up and Nowhere to Go
I got out of bed this morning fairly optimistic that today would be a somewhat enjoyable day. The clouds hung still barely overhead and a light rain misted over my balcony as I enjoyed the forbidden fruit of a sneaky cigarette (washed down with four coffees). My cat curled up on my lap irate at having been woken but happy that it was nearly his breakfast time.
From that contented peak, the day deteriorated.
The main event for today was to attempt a sober date. Now I don’t generally date anyway (just not my style) but I figured it would give me a week’s worth of blogging fodder because, as is always the way with your’s truly, things would undoubtedly go horribly awry with comedic consequences and everyone would be left with yet another good Nathan story.
The problem is, there’s just nothing to do on a rainy weekday evening in Sydney that doesn’t include alcohol. ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. I asked a married colleague who has young children, her response was that she simply has no life. I asked another colleague in an LTR (who doesn’t really drink) what she does for dates- apparently they go to pubs and her partner gets wasted while she sips on something more civilised.
If this were London, Berlin, or even Melbourne, I wouldn’t have this problem. I don’t eat at Chain Restaurants, I only enjoy going to the cinema by myself (it’s hardly a social activity anyway), and Sydney is best enjoyed under fierce sunshine. And it’s raining. So I tried trusty old Time Out, which is full of fascinating tips and things to do for every city in the world- other than Sydney apparently. I looked for something quirky- the best I could find was a piece of Japanese Performance art where the artists install themselves and control their heart beats with yogic breathing and various unspecified medical apparatus. The Japanese are renowned for taking everything to the next level, but I think that sort of installation would be bordering on plain weird. Now if they were screening a good Snuff Film I’d be game.
Good old shock and awe standbys such as bungy jumping don’t exist (I don’t see why you can bungy off the Auckland Harbour Bridge but not the Sydney Harbour Bridge- other than the fact that New South Wales is owned by Insurance Corporations). Sailing or anything harbour related- out. All my favourite cocktail bars, pubs with terraces, boozers with views, live music venues, bordellos, all out during NOvember.
The worst is the realisation that I’m actually rather shy when sober. As in, not terribly interesting. I asked my German co-workers for advice this morning and, with typical German pointedness, advised that I need to conceal my cat ownership, rabid political views, geekiness, and arrogance should I want any date to go well- if I actually have to make conversation instead of drinking my way through it.
Well what the hell else is there to talk about then? The period of, erm, culture, art, and personal development that I enjoyed in Berlin when I was 23? Do people outside of the Hauptstadt even know what a Crisco Party is?
I also have charitable MOvember commitments as well. On the brink of MOvember disqualification due to hiding the offending Mo in a camouflage of beardfuzz, I was required to shave so I popped up to the local Italian barber for a good ol’ fashioned cut-throat. The result? A cross between Tom of Finland and a Village Person.
Obviously I did the only respectable thing I could at this juncture and cancelled my date.
We’re allowed one cheat each in NOvember- only to be used in times of extreme crisis and it can only be used once. It’s an emergency stop gap in case of extreme bereavement, breakup (in Luckys case), STD Diagnosis (in my case), or a good old fashioned self esteem crisis.
I haven’t decided yet, but my hand is slowly reaching for the panic button.
Monday, 14 November 2011
And now for something completely Different.
Today, in the midst of a spurt of intense productivity, my boss and I discussed the Blog. She thinks it makes an enjoyable read. She also thinks I sound like a premenopausal woman writing from the confines of a padded cell who's not entirely sure how she got there. So to mix things up a bit, instead of bitching about booze, cigarettes, and Men (November 15th. Alcohol Units- 0. Cigarettes, 4) I'm going to bitch about politics, political apathy, and the evils of Global Capitalism until at least paragraph 7, when the juicy man dirt makes its obligatory appearance.
I made the mistake of reading the Vancouver Sun today. Specifically, the open comments section- which is for all intensive purposes a white trash incarnation of Speakers Corner soley for those who feel the need to share their two cents without any real appreciation of the vital role Free Speech plays in a democratic society.
I was born in Vancouver. If you've never been, I'll give a quick description. Picture the sparkling inverted iceicles of overpriced condominiums shimmering in a deep green overfished sea, flanked by sweeping evergreen mountains (for the 4 days a year when it's actually sunny enough to see them). The monolithic towers of the city's rapidly declining financial district spackle the ruthlessly efficient gridiron of excessively wide streets like crumbling monuments to an optimistic yet long forgotten era. A complete lack of streetwalling leaves the city lacking any concrete sense of place. Generic four laned boulevards are lined with generic franchise shops frequented by career baristas and the cheaply attired provincial financial elite alike. All of this is just a stones throw from the historic Downtown East Side where a cozy cluster of late Victorian brick tenements line the streets in and amongst tired, creaking oak trees, shielding the disenfranchised underclass from the cold indifferent eyes of the Suburban masses.
50 women ('Hookers' in local parlance) were murdered in this neighbourhood by one depraved pig farmer and no one really cared. It's the poorest neighbourhood in Canada and no one really cares. It also performs a number of vital functions; housing the mentally ill who were turfed onto the streets due to cutbacks in Mental Health. Harbouring vulnerable women who were turfed onto the streets due to the closure of women's shelters. Providing sanctuary to aboriginal youth who choose the streets over alcohol flooded 'reserves'. And a shitload of heroin. Oh, and arguably the highest concentration of HIV Infections in North America. But no one really cares. Just look at those breathtaking mountain views- and pretend it doesn't exist.
I'll explain why I hate the City so much. Here's the Vancouver that everyone knows and most love:
It's puuuurdy, isn't it? That is the fantasy that's burnt into the heads of most Vancouverites. Here's the reality:
Sunday afternoon shopping in a lively, thriving marketplace.
A real sense of community spirit.
A great place to kick back, relax and take the edge off.
The City of Glass where single mothers earning 10 dollars an hour can obviously afford the 300 000 plus required for 1 bedroom starter flat in the city.
The problem with Vancouver is this. Despite all its claims to being a leftist, all embracing earth-mama city (Yes, Greenpeace was founded there but that's more down to the particularly strong strain of local marijuana than a political culture of healthy activism) it is in fact a big country town slapped onto Canada's western edge like an ill considered afterthought.
But Gay Marriage! Safe Injection sites! Harm Reduction! Civil rights even Australians only dream of!
Here's an insight into Canadian culture. Contrary to popular belief, Canadians are generally conservative. However, unlike Americans, Canadians are also deferrent to authority and accepting of the status quo. After Luxembourg it's probably the most politically uninspiring country on the planet. The ruling politcal elite (to whom the dwindling middle class and monstrous working poor defer) however, are quite liberal, though that has changed somewhat in recent years with western Conservatives taking power. Thankfully those conservatives still find themselves hampered by a left leaning Civil Service and left leaning Judiciary (again, thankfully). Another surprising theme is that Canadians both loath and resent bureaucracy due to a libertarian bent where everyone is special- generally too small minded to realise that civil institutions are an essential vanguard of political stability. Gay marriage was a product of the courts, not the houses of parliament. The safe injection site (which is tasked with ultra leftist mandates such successfully reducing HIV transmission and fatal overdoses, and providing access to health and social services for those who have fallen through the net) was saved by the courts, not the politicians (who wanted it closed on moral grounds).
I could go on.
The problem Vancouver is having at the moment is one of deep shame and deeper denial. Three prongs- warring gangs making very public execution style hits in crowded streets in the name of controlling the city's very lucrative drug trade. Middleclass suburban youth running riot and trashing the city after the local hockey team lost the Final. But far worse- these pesky reminders of the poor who have dared strayed from their economic prison in the DTES and are now encamped on the front lawn of the Art Gallery in full view of the respectable public. City council is up in arms (Unsanitary Conditions! Violence! *gasp* Drug use!). The small business elite are calling for the police to be sent in. These sorts of things just can not be tolerated in Vancouver.
Bourgeois Smug-Ville.
And herein lies the moral of the story. Everyone is happy to go on thinking they live in 'The Best Place On Earth' (yes, that is the provincial motto- arrogantly emblazoned on license plates and the sides of subway carriages). While their kids experiment with hard drugs in underfunded public schools to eventually earn the provincial minimum wage (8.50 per hour) on a permanent part time basis (read- no benefits). Yet the business community complains that increasing the minimum wage to a modest 10 dollars an hour will hurt business owners who exploit cheap local labour with the same gusto normally reserved for Indian Outsourcing. Nooo- no real imbalance of wealth here.
Jobs are created (and why I hate the term 'job creation') to give a few scraps to the masses to keep them busy, hopefully too occupied with scraping a meagre living as to never challenge anything. You'll never make enough to live adequately well on, but hey- you've got a job, so you don't need benefits! And if you don't have a job, suburban white youth in baseball caps who lack both a tertiary education and even a minute understanding of Economics will happily tell you to get one. Underpriviledge aboriginal single mother who fled an abusive father who was simply continuing the cycle of abuse instilled in him from a Residential School? Her fault! Yes- Australia doesn't have the monopoly on stolen generations. We had a stolen generation too- the only difference being that our stolen kids got laid a lot more. But she's obviously responsible for her predicament! Drug addicts? Oh- they should be drug tested in order to receive welfare benefits. Let them starve if they don't. And these comments are celebrated.
Protesting the mistreatment of Falun Dafa practitioners? Get a job! Begging for handouts? Get a job! Complaining that Global Capitalism is unethical (when its very survival is dependant on an disparant distribution of wealth)? Get a job!
You can make your life better through hard work. Yes- work will liberate you. Now where have we heard that before...
Don't get me wrong- there are a lot of inspiring people in the City who do an immense amount of good work, but they're dwarved by the suburban majority who continue to slog away and accept everything as it is while adversely judging those who dare speak out against what is rapidly becoming an american Meritocratic society. That's how I was raised- this is the way things are, this is how you're expected to live, this is the system we live in, and you're wrong to think you can do things differently. You need to learn a trade, find a job, get a mortgage, and pump out 2.4 children.
Fuck you.
So I voted with my feet and never looked back. I have good friends there, I have family there, but it's not home for the sole reason that I feel a complete disconnect from a city so up it's own arse it can't see past its own hype. For all intensive purposes it is the City of Denial. A city not at ease with itself so it chooses to gloss over its shortcomings with page after page of Economist Liveability reports and Mercer Liveability indeces. Yet it always fidgets uncomfortably when forced to acknowledge its dark side- should it stray out from under its 16 square block rock.
When great changes occur in history, when great principles are involved, as a rule the majority are wrong. (Eugene Debs, Cleveland, 11 September 1918, prior to being imprisoned for sedition).
Thinking back to the battle of Cable Street in East London 75 years ago. A minority (Jewish) trying to prevent fascist sympathisers from marching through their neighbourhood. The protest was unpopular (How dare they protest Fascism in the 30s- prewar Britain was a lot more apathetic about the plight of the Jews than it cares to admit- to the point of deporting refugees back to Europe) but the dowdy community prevailed, despite the police siege and resulting brutality (on the Jews, not the fascist), but history judged them in the right.
And people wonder why I turn to drink. I never think about this shit when plastered.
Maybe I'm more of a Vancouverite than I care to admit.
I made the mistake of reading the Vancouver Sun today. Specifically, the open comments section- which is for all intensive purposes a white trash incarnation of Speakers Corner soley for those who feel the need to share their two cents without any real appreciation of the vital role Free Speech plays in a democratic society.
I was born in Vancouver. If you've never been, I'll give a quick description. Picture the sparkling inverted iceicles of overpriced condominiums shimmering in a deep green overfished sea, flanked by sweeping evergreen mountains (for the 4 days a year when it's actually sunny enough to see them). The monolithic towers of the city's rapidly declining financial district spackle the ruthlessly efficient gridiron of excessively wide streets like crumbling monuments to an optimistic yet long forgotten era. A complete lack of streetwalling leaves the city lacking any concrete sense of place. Generic four laned boulevards are lined with generic franchise shops frequented by career baristas and the cheaply attired provincial financial elite alike. All of this is just a stones throw from the historic Downtown East Side where a cozy cluster of late Victorian brick tenements line the streets in and amongst tired, creaking oak trees, shielding the disenfranchised underclass from the cold indifferent eyes of the Suburban masses.
50 women ('Hookers' in local parlance) were murdered in this neighbourhood by one depraved pig farmer and no one really cared. It's the poorest neighbourhood in Canada and no one really cares. It also performs a number of vital functions; housing the mentally ill who were turfed onto the streets due to cutbacks in Mental Health. Harbouring vulnerable women who were turfed onto the streets due to the closure of women's shelters. Providing sanctuary to aboriginal youth who choose the streets over alcohol flooded 'reserves'. And a shitload of heroin. Oh, and arguably the highest concentration of HIV Infections in North America. But no one really cares. Just look at those breathtaking mountain views- and pretend it doesn't exist.
I'll explain why I hate the City so much. Here's the Vancouver that everyone knows and most love:
It's puuuurdy, isn't it? That is the fantasy that's burnt into the heads of most Vancouverites. Here's the reality:
Sunday afternoon shopping in a lively, thriving marketplace.
A real sense of community spirit.
A great place to kick back, relax and take the edge off.
The City of Glass where single mothers earning 10 dollars an hour can obviously afford the 300 000 plus required for 1 bedroom starter flat in the city.
The problem with Vancouver is this. Despite all its claims to being a leftist, all embracing earth-mama city (Yes, Greenpeace was founded there but that's more down to the particularly strong strain of local marijuana than a political culture of healthy activism) it is in fact a big country town slapped onto Canada's western edge like an ill considered afterthought.
But Gay Marriage! Safe Injection sites! Harm Reduction! Civil rights even Australians only dream of!
Here's an insight into Canadian culture. Contrary to popular belief, Canadians are generally conservative. However, unlike Americans, Canadians are also deferrent to authority and accepting of the status quo. After Luxembourg it's probably the most politically uninspiring country on the planet. The ruling politcal elite (to whom the dwindling middle class and monstrous working poor defer) however, are quite liberal, though that has changed somewhat in recent years with western Conservatives taking power. Thankfully those conservatives still find themselves hampered by a left leaning Civil Service and left leaning Judiciary (again, thankfully). Another surprising theme is that Canadians both loath and resent bureaucracy due to a libertarian bent where everyone is special- generally too small minded to realise that civil institutions are an essential vanguard of political stability. Gay marriage was a product of the courts, not the houses of parliament. The safe injection site (which is tasked with ultra leftist mandates such successfully reducing HIV transmission and fatal overdoses, and providing access to health and social services for those who have fallen through the net) was saved by the courts, not the politicians (who wanted it closed on moral grounds).
I could go on.
The problem Vancouver is having at the moment is one of deep shame and deeper denial. Three prongs- warring gangs making very public execution style hits in crowded streets in the name of controlling the city's very lucrative drug trade. Middleclass suburban youth running riot and trashing the city after the local hockey team lost the Final. But far worse- these pesky reminders of the poor who have dared strayed from their economic prison in the DTES and are now encamped on the front lawn of the Art Gallery in full view of the respectable public. City council is up in arms (Unsanitary Conditions! Violence! *gasp* Drug use!). The small business elite are calling for the police to be sent in. These sorts of things just can not be tolerated in Vancouver.
Bourgeois Smug-Ville.
And herein lies the moral of the story. Everyone is happy to go on thinking they live in 'The Best Place On Earth' (yes, that is the provincial motto- arrogantly emblazoned on license plates and the sides of subway carriages). While their kids experiment with hard drugs in underfunded public schools to eventually earn the provincial minimum wage (8.50 per hour) on a permanent part time basis (read- no benefits). Yet the business community complains that increasing the minimum wage to a modest 10 dollars an hour will hurt business owners who exploit cheap local labour with the same gusto normally reserved for Indian Outsourcing. Nooo- no real imbalance of wealth here.
Jobs are created (and why I hate the term 'job creation') to give a few scraps to the masses to keep them busy, hopefully too occupied with scraping a meagre living as to never challenge anything. You'll never make enough to live adequately well on, but hey- you've got a job, so you don't need benefits! And if you don't have a job, suburban white youth in baseball caps who lack both a tertiary education and even a minute understanding of Economics will happily tell you to get one. Underpriviledge aboriginal single mother who fled an abusive father who was simply continuing the cycle of abuse instilled in him from a Residential School? Her fault! Yes- Australia doesn't have the monopoly on stolen generations. We had a stolen generation too- the only difference being that our stolen kids got laid a lot more. But she's obviously responsible for her predicament! Drug addicts? Oh- they should be drug tested in order to receive welfare benefits. Let them starve if they don't. And these comments are celebrated.
Protesting the mistreatment of Falun Dafa practitioners? Get a job! Begging for handouts? Get a job! Complaining that Global Capitalism is unethical (when its very survival is dependant on an disparant distribution of wealth)? Get a job!
You can make your life better through hard work. Yes- work will liberate you. Now where have we heard that before...
Don't get me wrong- there are a lot of inspiring people in the City who do an immense amount of good work, but they're dwarved by the suburban majority who continue to slog away and accept everything as it is while adversely judging those who dare speak out against what is rapidly becoming an american Meritocratic society. That's how I was raised- this is the way things are, this is how you're expected to live, this is the system we live in, and you're wrong to think you can do things differently. You need to learn a trade, find a job, get a mortgage, and pump out 2.4 children.
Fuck you.
So I voted with my feet and never looked back. I have good friends there, I have family there, but it's not home for the sole reason that I feel a complete disconnect from a city so up it's own arse it can't see past its own hype. For all intensive purposes it is the City of Denial. A city not at ease with itself so it chooses to gloss over its shortcomings with page after page of Economist Liveability reports and Mercer Liveability indeces. Yet it always fidgets uncomfortably when forced to acknowledge its dark side- should it stray out from under its 16 square block rock.
When great changes occur in history, when great principles are involved, as a rule the majority are wrong. (Eugene Debs, Cleveland, 11 September 1918, prior to being imprisoned for sedition).
Thinking back to the battle of Cable Street in East London 75 years ago. A minority (Jewish) trying to prevent fascist sympathisers from marching through their neighbourhood. The protest was unpopular (How dare they protest Fascism in the 30s- prewar Britain was a lot more apathetic about the plight of the Jews than it cares to admit- to the point of deporting refugees back to Europe) but the dowdy community prevailed, despite the police siege and resulting brutality (on the Jews, not the fascist), but history judged them in the right.
And people wonder why I turn to drink. I never think about this shit when plastered.
Maybe I'm more of a Vancouverite than I care to admit.
Lucky: Little green eyed monsters run amuck.
The Monster has put me in quite a predicament. I'm not going to explain it here, because I believe some things should remain between two people, but needless to say, I'm under quite a lot of stress these days.
It will culminate tomorrow in a fantastic show of do or die. I'm vehemently hoping it's a Do, rather than a Die situation, but we shall see.
Nathan has already kindly offered to break NOvember with me should shit hit the fan, but I'm wondering if his offer is truly altruistic.....
I'm so frustrated I want to neck an entire bottle of gin, and then dive into a pool and just scream. Scream until the water nearly enters my lungs, but at least it muffles the animal-like sound I'd surely make.
Then, I'd be ok. I'd calmly get out of the pool, kiss the Monster on the forehead and then lie down for a day, feeling the wondrous properties of juniper coursing through my veins.
But of course, I can't do that. I have to handle this like an adult. I have to keep my voice down. I have to stay calm and hope that whatever reserves of strength and poise I haven't burnt away with drinking come to rescue me.
One would almost think this is surely the best time to have a drink. Soothe the hurt and humiliation with the velvet touch of Veuve. But I can't. Because I'm better than that. This is my life, and I'm not going to hide behind a curtain of fog and denial, in the form of a cocktail. I'mma handle my bidness.
We make mistakes. We all make mistakes, and if you think that you don't - well that's your first mistake right there, honey. And this stress that's being caused from this mistake will NOT GET THE BETTER OF ME.
To err is human. To forgive is divine. But to not buy when it's your round just makes you a cunt.
It will culminate tomorrow in a fantastic show of do or die. I'm vehemently hoping it's a Do, rather than a Die situation, but we shall see.
Nathan has already kindly offered to break NOvember with me should shit hit the fan, but I'm wondering if his offer is truly altruistic.....
I'm so frustrated I want to neck an entire bottle of gin, and then dive into a pool and just scream. Scream until the water nearly enters my lungs, but at least it muffles the animal-like sound I'd surely make.
Then, I'd be ok. I'd calmly get out of the pool, kiss the Monster on the forehead and then lie down for a day, feeling the wondrous properties of juniper coursing through my veins.
But of course, I can't do that. I have to handle this like an adult. I have to keep my voice down. I have to stay calm and hope that whatever reserves of strength and poise I haven't burnt away with drinking come to rescue me.
One would almost think this is surely the best time to have a drink. Soothe the hurt and humiliation with the velvet touch of Veuve. But I can't. Because I'm better than that. This is my life, and I'm not going to hide behind a curtain of fog and denial, in the form of a cocktail. I'mma handle my bidness.
We make mistakes. We all make mistakes, and if you think that you don't - well that's your first mistake right there, honey. And this stress that's being caused from this mistake will NOT GET THE BETTER OF ME.
To err is human. To forgive is divine. But to not buy when it's your round just makes you a cunt.
Lucky: One more for the road...
So I was given a bucketload of grief for not writing in the blog recently. It's not that nothing has happened, and I had nothing to write about, it's more that I have not had the time. Life happens when you're too busy blogging and raging at hapless call centre amoeba.
But here i find myself, clad in nightwear, full of a wholesome dinner I managed to whip up, seemingly effortlessly (that is if you don't count nearly tripping over the cat face first onto a hotplate, brandishing a knife helplessly while my freshly chopped carrots roll onto the floor, and a near burning of the entire dish because I was too busy playing Words With Friends and obsessing over how Fiji is not a acceptable word.)
So, dear reader, it has been a few days since my last blog entry. And boy do I have some experiences to share.
Last time I had written, it was a Friday morning, and the workday and weekend loomed large with possibilities. Until I remembered that it was our monthly work barbeque (read: Monthly Drink As Much As You Can until the stocked bar runs out, make small talk over the burnt sausages, and then gather the stragglers onwards to the nearest licensed premises for something 'just a touch' stronger.)
As far as I can remember, my NOvember sidekick and I have always used this bbq to curl up in a corner, chainsmoke and drink beer with ferocity akin to fat people and cupcakes. Hoarding beers like they could be taken away from us at any given moment.
This time, we sat morosely at my desk, picking at charcoaled snags and trying to fill the empty void by making jokes about how all a girl really needs is a sausage. It was a great big unspoken alcoholic elephant in the room. We needed beer. We needed beer to be with the crowd outside. Hell, we needed beer to be with ourselves.
We lasted about 25 minutes before one of us made a break for it. Scooping up my bag, sunnies and leftover sausage in one easy motion I bid farewell to my brave compatriate who was going to brave the alcoholic elements to get another sausage. I ran for the lifts and tried not to look at the happy and chattering corwd, each with some form of alcoholic drink in their hand. They made drinking seem fun. Was I looking at them through beer envy goggles? Probably. But that's neither here nor there.
Reaching the sanctuary of my house, I preceded to envelop myself in humdrum activities to wile away the hours. Chased the kittens around the house. Ordered groceries online. Made a mediocre dinner. Chatted with the Monster. Went to bed before midnight. Dreamt dreamless dreams.
When I awoke Saturday morning, I stretched and luxuriated in....what was it? Space? Clarity? Then I realised....I'm not hungover.
One of the first Saturdays in a very long time where I wasnt curled over with Imbiber's remorse, brushing kebab crumbs off my skirt. One of the first Saturday's where my wrist wasn't covered with wristbands and smeared inky blobs which take a bottle of bleach and a power sander to remove.
One of the first Saturdays where it didnt feel like there were dwarves mining for uranium in my frontal lobe. I felt fantastic.
THIS is what NOvember is about. Making the most of yourself, and your days, and your aspirations, and your capabilities. Instead of shrouding your potential with the smell of beer and 74 cigarettes, start off your day feeling the best you can. (Of course I could then go into the depressing fact that if the morning is the best you feel, then the day is nothing but a disappointment from there, but then I digress. It would also make me feel like shit. Well done, Lucky. Well played. Bitch. )
So on Saturday, I skipped about town, browsing for furniture, buying linen and manchester, having a wholesome lunch (at KFC, shhhhhhhh) and generally being what my NOvember partner in crime called "ridiculously domesticated". Life was good.
Until it came time to go to a friends Early Xmas Drinks gathering. *thunderbolts*
I dressed for this with all the enthusiasm of a fattie getting on the scales at her weekly Weight Watchers meeting. Until I rang the host, who said to get my ass there and eat all the cake. Cheered up immensely and wove my way down to the party. About 90% of Sydneys Twink scene was contained in one room, and, true to form, the strongest thing anyone was drinking was a noice Moscato from Marlborough, NZ. I reassured myself that if I was to break November it wouldnt be for something that was light on the palate with hints of peach and oak, pairing well with a salmon or pasta.
Here is a hint: If you want to get through a party where everyone is getting progressively gigglier with each sip of bubbles, darling, then do what I did: Park yourself in front of the nibbles tables, make people come and talk to you, and proceed to eat everything in sight. Scowl ferociously if any one dares to look your way, and growl softly if someone has the audacity to sample the food. This, interspersed with conversation about who in the room you would sleep with, and you find yourself almost having fun.
Being the social butterfly that I am, I was due at another party, a friends 35th. These drinks were either a celebration, or a commiseration - either way I was going. So off I left and wondered to the next venue, bolstered with the success of the previous party. Until I entered the venue and was greeted with, "Hi Lucky! Want a glass of champagne?"
I've never had really good will power from the get go. I have a highly addictive personality, interwoven with low self esteem, symptoms of manic depression, delusions of grandeur and a nice little narcissistic cherry on top. (Is it any wonder I drink? God, I'm surprised I'm not on the crackpipe. )
So for the next two hours, I watched as my friends downed shot after shot, and emptied flute after flute of champagne. I sought solace in my trusty orange juice, and drank everytime I felt awkward. Needless to say, the juice was gone in a few minutes.
Reading back, I realised that I'm making it sound as it I don;t enjoy my friends company, and I have to be drunk to have fun with them. I refute this completely - I will always enjoy the company of my friends, especially if it's on an even playing field. When the scales of Sobriety vs Inebriation begin tipping at a rapid pace, thats when I keenly begin to feel social retardation. Drunken retardation is a different story.
I stayed at the party for 2 hours or so, and then snuck out under the guise of tiredness. Walking home just before midnight, my senses were assaulted with the smell of alcohol and just pure drunkeness. I live in Kings Cross, and there about midnight is when every Cinderella worth their Blahnik rip offs turns into a pumpkin. Drunkeness is UGLY.
Especially when you're smugly sober and havent smeared your eye makeup.
I was home by 12, and in bed not long after. I slept a sleep so deep that not even the Monsters alarms and movements about the room woke me. In fact I didnt wake up until he shook me awake and kissed me goodbye before leaving for work. I had the whole day to myself. I felt great. I leapt out of bed and began planning the day. It was only 9.30am! I had so much time! What the hell was I going to do with myself?
(Please keep in mind I'm well aware of the fact that most work days (MOST) I wake up sans hangover. But the looming rain cloud of work means that I don't really have a day to myself, and can't do what I'd like. So really, its just like waking up with a hangover. Only I didnt have the fun of being blotto the night before.)
So for the second day in a row, I leapt out of bed, mind brimming over with the possibilities of what I could accomplish.
I could get used to this.
But here i find myself, clad in nightwear, full of a wholesome dinner I managed to whip up, seemingly effortlessly (that is if you don't count nearly tripping over the cat face first onto a hotplate, brandishing a knife helplessly while my freshly chopped carrots roll onto the floor, and a near burning of the entire dish because I was too busy playing Words With Friends and obsessing over how Fiji is not a acceptable word.)
So, dear reader, it has been a few days since my last blog entry. And boy do I have some experiences to share.
Last time I had written, it was a Friday morning, and the workday and weekend loomed large with possibilities. Until I remembered that it was our monthly work barbeque (read: Monthly Drink As Much As You Can until the stocked bar runs out, make small talk over the burnt sausages, and then gather the stragglers onwards to the nearest licensed premises for something 'just a touch' stronger.)
As far as I can remember, my NOvember sidekick and I have always used this bbq to curl up in a corner, chainsmoke and drink beer with ferocity akin to fat people and cupcakes. Hoarding beers like they could be taken away from us at any given moment.
This time, we sat morosely at my desk, picking at charcoaled snags and trying to fill the empty void by making jokes about how all a girl really needs is a sausage. It was a great big unspoken alcoholic elephant in the room. We needed beer. We needed beer to be with the crowd outside. Hell, we needed beer to be with ourselves.
We lasted about 25 minutes before one of us made a break for it. Scooping up my bag, sunnies and leftover sausage in one easy motion I bid farewell to my brave compatriate who was going to brave the alcoholic elements to get another sausage. I ran for the lifts and tried not to look at the happy and chattering corwd, each with some form of alcoholic drink in their hand. They made drinking seem fun. Was I looking at them through beer envy goggles? Probably. But that's neither here nor there.
Reaching the sanctuary of my house, I preceded to envelop myself in humdrum activities to wile away the hours. Chased the kittens around the house. Ordered groceries online. Made a mediocre dinner. Chatted with the Monster. Went to bed before midnight. Dreamt dreamless dreams.
When I awoke Saturday morning, I stretched and luxuriated in....what was it? Space? Clarity? Then I realised....I'm not hungover.
One of the first Saturdays in a very long time where I wasnt curled over with Imbiber's remorse, brushing kebab crumbs off my skirt. One of the first Saturday's where my wrist wasn't covered with wristbands and smeared inky blobs which take a bottle of bleach and a power sander to remove.
One of the first Saturdays where it didnt feel like there were dwarves mining for uranium in my frontal lobe. I felt fantastic.
THIS is what NOvember is about. Making the most of yourself, and your days, and your aspirations, and your capabilities. Instead of shrouding your potential with the smell of beer and 74 cigarettes, start off your day feeling the best you can. (Of course I could then go into the depressing fact that if the morning is the best you feel, then the day is nothing but a disappointment from there, but then I digress. It would also make me feel like shit. Well done, Lucky. Well played. Bitch. )
So on Saturday, I skipped about town, browsing for furniture, buying linen and manchester, having a wholesome lunch (at KFC, shhhhhhhh) and generally being what my NOvember partner in crime called "ridiculously domesticated". Life was good.
Until it came time to go to a friends Early Xmas Drinks gathering. *thunderbolts*
I dressed for this with all the enthusiasm of a fattie getting on the scales at her weekly Weight Watchers meeting. Until I rang the host, who said to get my ass there and eat all the cake. Cheered up immensely and wove my way down to the party. About 90% of Sydneys Twink scene was contained in one room, and, true to form, the strongest thing anyone was drinking was a noice Moscato from Marlborough, NZ. I reassured myself that if I was to break November it wouldnt be for something that was light on the palate with hints of peach and oak, pairing well with a salmon or pasta.
Here is a hint: If you want to get through a party where everyone is getting progressively gigglier with each sip of bubbles, darling, then do what I did: Park yourself in front of the nibbles tables, make people come and talk to you, and proceed to eat everything in sight. Scowl ferociously if any one dares to look your way, and growl softly if someone has the audacity to sample the food. This, interspersed with conversation about who in the room you would sleep with, and you find yourself almost having fun.
Being the social butterfly that I am, I was due at another party, a friends 35th. These drinks were either a celebration, or a commiseration - either way I was going. So off I left and wondered to the next venue, bolstered with the success of the previous party. Until I entered the venue and was greeted with, "Hi Lucky! Want a glass of champagne?"
I've never had really good will power from the get go. I have a highly addictive personality, interwoven with low self esteem, symptoms of manic depression, delusions of grandeur and a nice little narcissistic cherry on top. (Is it any wonder I drink? God, I'm surprised I'm not on the crackpipe. )
So for the next two hours, I watched as my friends downed shot after shot, and emptied flute after flute of champagne. I sought solace in my trusty orange juice, and drank everytime I felt awkward. Needless to say, the juice was gone in a few minutes.
Reading back, I realised that I'm making it sound as it I don;t enjoy my friends company, and I have to be drunk to have fun with them. I refute this completely - I will always enjoy the company of my friends, especially if it's on an even playing field. When the scales of Sobriety vs Inebriation begin tipping at a rapid pace, thats when I keenly begin to feel social retardation. Drunken retardation is a different story.
I stayed at the party for 2 hours or so, and then snuck out under the guise of tiredness. Walking home just before midnight, my senses were assaulted with the smell of alcohol and just pure drunkeness. I live in Kings Cross, and there about midnight is when every Cinderella worth their Blahnik rip offs turns into a pumpkin. Drunkeness is UGLY.
Especially when you're smugly sober and havent smeared your eye makeup.
I was home by 12, and in bed not long after. I slept a sleep so deep that not even the Monsters alarms and movements about the room woke me. In fact I didnt wake up until he shook me awake and kissed me goodbye before leaving for work. I had the whole day to myself. I felt great. I leapt out of bed and began planning the day. It was only 9.30am! I had so much time! What the hell was I going to do with myself?
(Please keep in mind I'm well aware of the fact that most work days (MOST) I wake up sans hangover. But the looming rain cloud of work means that I don't really have a day to myself, and can't do what I'd like. So really, its just like waking up with a hangover. Only I didnt have the fun of being blotto the night before.)
So for the second day in a row, I leapt out of bed, mind brimming over with the possibilities of what I could accomplish.
I could get used to this.
Sunday, 13 November 2011
Nathan- A Tree Grows In Pyrmont
My second weekend of NOvember has gone well. I went into work for a few hours today, perhaps not in the best mood (see- Nicotine withdrawal and not wanting to deal with people bitching about the state of the office kitchen). It was productive. I then made a slight detour on my run home and stopped by Lucky's place- and for the first time in the years we've known each other we socialised outside of work, sans alcool. We didn't really know what to do with ourselves at first- instead of drunkenly exchanging witicisms (we're both incredily intelligent individuals which tends to normally manifest as drunken, albeit hilarious, one-liners and other related wise cracks) and actually talked about life, feel-ings, and of course, not drinking. And binged on ice cream- and maybe a couple of cigarettes (ok- minor slip up I admit). But it was really nice to sit outside and enjoy each other's company without being wasted- even if we devoted a good portion of the conversation to alcohol.
After spending two full weekends at home (hiding from alcohol related temptation) my public appear to be growing concerned. You'd think that one of the advantages of being a compulsive facebooker would be that my entire social circle are continuously kept abreast of my goings-on (such as not drinking) however that's not entirely true. First, not as many people perv on my profile as I like to think *runs crying to the bathroom*. Second, I only friend actual friends (and the occaisional random who requests me even though I've never met them before, because I suffer from the complete inability to say 'no' to anyone, and have met a couple of really good mates through facebook in the past). But generally speaking I don't 'friend' club mates or casual liaisons. Especially the latter.
Now Sydney Men being what they are, and the fact that no one's seen me out for two weeks, the texts have started flying in. How dare I deprive them of attention. Five over the course of the weekend, to be exact, all following the similar format- eg 'Oh haaaaaaaai. Haven't heard from you in a while. What are you doing?' Which roughly translates as 'Hey, had a rough weekend and looking for some company and maybe a shag while we're at it.' I politely fobbed off all but one of them, advised that I wasn't drinking, and in cases of multiple texting, gave the impression that I was busy at the gym and doing other health related activities. When in fact I was sat on my balcony in the throes of nicotine withdrawal talking to my cat, along the lines of "Yes Chuck, someone's coming down and trying to get into Daddy's pants, but we're not going to give it up, are we? No we're not!" *pat pat pat* *scratch behind ears*
I may be known as something of a sure thing (especially when alcohol is involved) but that's more because I've always had a very liberal attitude towards sex. If you're single, there's nothing wrong with being promiscuous- as long as no one transmits any diseases or otherwise hurts anyone, it's all good, clean, wholesome fun. But take alcohol out of the equation, and it loses it's appeal. You suddenly find yourself developing standards (most likely arising from the need to actually talk to them sober first), and realise how clueless most of them are, and time after time I find myself giving the Disinterested Nathan Face succumbing to the clammy vicegrip of chastity. No, I haven't gotten any since NOvember started.
Not that I'm known for sweeping generalisations, but the conclusion I've drawn- Sydney Scene Queens are generally intolerable, apathetic airheads. Being Post Gay (From a Political standpoint) I find it infuriating that these overpreened bogans need to run around screaming about their gayness to the point where that is all their personality consists of. They can't do anything that is not 'gay'. Which is just so, well, Gay. At all. Ever. They have little dreams of going on little gay holidays (Oh how quaint), refer to Arq with the fashionable reverence normally reserved for places like London's Fire or Berlin's Berg-Hain, debate the finer points of Grindr ad nauseum, and spend all their time in the company of fellow pinksters to further reinforce this like a pack of sympathetic wolves (albeit with great skin). Most infuriating, none have any clue about the Nation's political goings-on unless of course it's related to the Gay Marriage Debate in which case they all become rabid over-enfranchised activists. To be honest, I think energy policy is actually more pressing internally and if we really want to gay it up, the treatment of gay people in despotic kafir shitholes such as Uganda, Malawi and Zimbabwe externally but that's neither here nor there. (On an aside- I pride myself as being non racist, however, having lived on the continent I will unapoligetically use the term 'Kafir' to describe any African who commits human rights abuses. As well as Julius Malema who represents the up and coming generation of tin pot dictators.
There are of course exceptions to every rule, and Sydney men are no different. I just need to find more of the exception and less of the rule. For example, one of my favourite gay couples ever are Sydneysiders. Cute enough to not be irritating they're also intelligent, well travelled, easy to talk to, politically literate, and drama free (as a couple. Though they are known to occaisionally create mischeif with others, it adds to their appeal). I know a few single people as well who are as bitter as I am (funny they're all expat Londoners). And more than a few Aussies who can hold down a conversation and a career and still find the time to get wasted with me and have a good bitch. Well, obviously not during NOvember. I miss you guys too.
So to that end, and another unintended consequence of NOvember, I have decided to abstain from Bar Trash. Completely. Had I realised this at 18 instead of 29 and 3/4s, the last 12 years of my life would have turned out far differently. To this end I've even agreed to cross the Rubicon of Sober Dating *thunderbolts*. Yes, I accepted an invite (he worked for it, to be fair) to go out this week on an alcohol free excursion with someone who is slightly older *gasp* , who doesn't have a substance abuse problem *hushed awe* or serious daddy issues, and doesn't think the world is out to get them *violin screeches*. I don't even plan to put out *more thunderbolts* and probably won't even ask for a second date unless I really enjoy myself *shocked disbelief*.
Holy Fuck I'm growing up.
Better late than never, I suppose.
After spending two full weekends at home (hiding from alcohol related temptation) my public appear to be growing concerned. You'd think that one of the advantages of being a compulsive facebooker would be that my entire social circle are continuously kept abreast of my goings-on (such as not drinking) however that's not entirely true. First, not as many people perv on my profile as I like to think *runs crying to the bathroom*. Second, I only friend actual friends (and the occaisional random who requests me even though I've never met them before, because I suffer from the complete inability to say 'no' to anyone, and have met a couple of really good mates through facebook in the past). But generally speaking I don't 'friend' club mates or casual liaisons. Especially the latter.
Now Sydney Men being what they are, and the fact that no one's seen me out for two weeks, the texts have started flying in. How dare I deprive them of attention. Five over the course of the weekend, to be exact, all following the similar format- eg 'Oh haaaaaaaai. Haven't heard from you in a while. What are you doing?' Which roughly translates as 'Hey, had a rough weekend and looking for some company and maybe a shag while we're at it.' I politely fobbed off all but one of them, advised that I wasn't drinking, and in cases of multiple texting, gave the impression that I was busy at the gym and doing other health related activities. When in fact I was sat on my balcony in the throes of nicotine withdrawal talking to my cat, along the lines of "Yes Chuck, someone's coming down and trying to get into Daddy's pants, but we're not going to give it up, are we? No we're not!" *pat pat pat* *scratch behind ears*
I may be known as something of a sure thing (especially when alcohol is involved) but that's more because I've always had a very liberal attitude towards sex. If you're single, there's nothing wrong with being promiscuous- as long as no one transmits any diseases or otherwise hurts anyone, it's all good, clean, wholesome fun. But take alcohol out of the equation, and it loses it's appeal. You suddenly find yourself developing standards (most likely arising from the need to actually talk to them sober first), and realise how clueless most of them are, and time after time I find myself giving the Disinterested Nathan Face succumbing to the clammy vicegrip of chastity. No, I haven't gotten any since NOvember started.
Not that I'm known for sweeping generalisations, but the conclusion I've drawn- Sydney Scene Queens are generally intolerable, apathetic airheads. Being Post Gay (From a Political standpoint) I find it infuriating that these overpreened bogans need to run around screaming about their gayness to the point where that is all their personality consists of. They can't do anything that is not 'gay'. Which is just so, well, Gay. At all. Ever. They have little dreams of going on little gay holidays (Oh how quaint), refer to Arq with the fashionable reverence normally reserved for places like London's Fire or Berlin's Berg-Hain, debate the finer points of Grindr ad nauseum, and spend all their time in the company of fellow pinksters to further reinforce this like a pack of sympathetic wolves (albeit with great skin). Most infuriating, none have any clue about the Nation's political goings-on unless of course it's related to the Gay Marriage Debate in which case they all become rabid over-enfranchised activists. To be honest, I think energy policy is actually more pressing internally and if we really want to gay it up, the treatment of gay people in despotic kafir shitholes such as Uganda, Malawi and Zimbabwe externally but that's neither here nor there. (On an aside- I pride myself as being non racist, however, having lived on the continent I will unapoligetically use the term 'Kafir' to describe any African who commits human rights abuses. As well as Julius Malema who represents the up and coming generation of tin pot dictators.
There are of course exceptions to every rule, and Sydney men are no different. I just need to find more of the exception and less of the rule. For example, one of my favourite gay couples ever are Sydneysiders. Cute enough to not be irritating they're also intelligent, well travelled, easy to talk to, politically literate, and drama free (as a couple. Though they are known to occaisionally create mischeif with others, it adds to their appeal). I know a few single people as well who are as bitter as I am (funny they're all expat Londoners). And more than a few Aussies who can hold down a conversation and a career and still find the time to get wasted with me and have a good bitch. Well, obviously not during NOvember. I miss you guys too.
So to that end, and another unintended consequence of NOvember, I have decided to abstain from Bar Trash. Completely. Had I realised this at 18 instead of 29 and 3/4s, the last 12 years of my life would have turned out far differently. To this end I've even agreed to cross the Rubicon of Sober Dating *thunderbolts*. Yes, I accepted an invite (he worked for it, to be fair) to go out this week on an alcohol free excursion with someone who is slightly older *gasp* , who doesn't have a substance abuse problem *hushed awe* or serious daddy issues, and doesn't think the world is out to get them *violin screeches*. I don't even plan to put out *more thunderbolts* and probably won't even ask for a second date unless I really enjoy myself *shocked disbelief*.
Holy Fuck I'm growing up.
Better late than never, I suppose.
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