Tuesday, April 26, 2005
My wonderful weekend...
I have possibly just had the BEST weekend of my life…..let me re-live it….
First some background.
Paul is probably my best bloke friend in the whole entire universe. We met through mutual acquaintances about 5 years ago when I lived in Melbourne and so did he, briefly. I was all of 19 and living with my then boyfriend, Matt ("The First Arsehole"). He was 31 and new to Australia, having emigrated from London with his Aussie girlfriend, Lisa ("The Bitch"). As soon as we met, despite the massive age gap, there was just a real connection, as pox and soppy as that sounds. Then they moved back to Sydney, and Paulie and I kept in touch. I still have all the e-mails because he's just such a funny bloke that if I ever need a lift I just go back and read them and it makes me feel better. He's like my big brother in semi-long distance form. So, after 4 years of phone calls, texts, e-mails, tears, many relationship breakups, advice, laughter and all other good things, he finally gets his arse into gear and books his flight to Melbourne for what we coined "Fuck Up Your Liver" Boozefest 2005. Of course now he's 36, I'm 23 (and soooo much older & wiser)….so we simply picked up where we left off…..
Friday, 4.20pm - Tullamarine Airport. Arrive, sit down near baggage carousels, ask random woman sitting next to me if this is the arrivals area (feel very stupid and rural for not knowing). She says yes. Go outside and have smoke to calm my nerves.
4.25pm - Go outside for another smoke. Nerves still not calmed. 20 mins to go.
4.40pm - Have smoked half a packet. Nearly weeing my pants in excitement. Announcement over PA that Paulie's flight has been delayed for 5 mins. Have another smoke.
4.50pm - Everyone from the flight from Sydney comes downstairs. Woman sitting next to me greets her loved one. Paul is not there.
4.55pm - Paul still not there. Everyone from Sydney flight has picked up their luggage and gone. Stomach drops. Have not been at work for 2 days - has he sent me an e-mail saying he's not coming for some unknown reason and I haven't received it? Want to cry.
4.57pm - Call Paulie's mobile. It is switched off. Shit my pants and still want to cry.
5.00pm - Try mobile again. Rings twice, then big Northern English accent booms down the phone "Where the fuck's my big warm welcome then you bitch?!". Establish he is still upstairs as apparently only has carry-on luggage. Meet him at bottom of escalator doing little happy dance and receive the biggest bear hug of my life. Feel very very happy. Head out to car park to get into car, which I have parked on Level 11.
5.15pm - Have walked all over Level 11 and cannot find car. I feel like a complete bimbo, Paulie is laughing at me already.
5.20pm - Locate car on the 'other level 11' (Why there are 2 of them I have no idea), enter Friday afternoon city traffic into city. Drive like a demon to our apartment in Flinders Lane. Execute some beautiful "Italian Job" maneuvers in traffic to somehow compensate for embarrassment of previously not being able to find car.
6.00pm - Check in to the apartment I have booked. Discover that my booking has been fucked up, and that room is not a twin as expressly specified, but a double. Cannot rectify this at reception as apparently the room was definitely not booked as a twin. Maybe I was speaking Gaelic when I made the booking? Sheets are bought in to make up the sofa bed, although feel it may look REALLY dodgy from Paul's perspective. Cool driving efforts have been negated. Can do only one thing to make it all better.
6.01pm - Crack bottle of champagne No. 1.
8.45pm - We are both slightly pissed and head out for dinner. Walk up Flinders Lane and a restaurant called "Dimensions" catches our eye. It has lightbulbs (267 of them, according to the waiter in the wanker glasses) suspended from the ceiling at all different heights, and all dark wood tables and floors. Exquisite. Eat 3 beautiful courses and drink a bottle of gorgeous red before heading further up Flinders Lane.
11.45pm - Spot a club called 'Manchester Lane' and go in. It's perfect. A dark jazz club which descends from street level down into a big cavernous pit with a swing band. Feel beautiful and happy and spinny with many more glasses of champagne. Dance. Also feel great because at 6ft 5, Paul allows me to not be the one towering above everyone else. Also quickly remember that Paul has very little sense of rhythm so he contents himself with twirling me all over the dancefloor, bumping me into other innocent patrons. We laugh until we almost cry.
1.30am - Stumble out of Manchester Lane and find another little bar where we settle ourselves on a couch and listen to the band, another jazz one but without a vocalist. More champagne for me, more vodka and tonics for Paulie. Clearly extremely pissed. Lots of cuddling. Recall thinking how great it was to be with a bloke and not have the prospect of shagging looming over my head. Tell him I love him. He tells me he loves me too, but we both know it's more special than that.
3.00am - Get kicked out of pub. Go back to hotel after detour to KFC for much needed zinger burgers. Sleep together in same bed. Feel the most comfortable and relaxed in bed with a bloke than I have since I can ever remember.
9.30am - Wake up. Feel great. Try to go to bathroom and crash into door and fall on bathroom floor. Clearly still pissed. Paul comes and gets me and tells me to go back to bed.
10.30am - Wake up No. 2 and panic at prospect of 'wasting the day'. My mouth tastes as though someone has done a big crap in it. Push Paul out of bed.
11.30am - Find café around the corner from our apartment and have big fuck-off breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, mushrooms with orange juice and about 3 coffees. Feel slightly better.
12 midday - Board tram to St Kilda. Once we arrive we walk along the beach and out onto the jetty. The sun is shining and despite my raging hangover I feel deliriously happy. I can tell Paul is the same. Wax lyrical about our lives, Paul dispenses another round of his "I'm so old and worldly" advice, which predominantly consists of him telling me to get the fuck out of Shepparton and come and live in Sydney.
2pm - Walk up and down Acland St. Get some fresh juices and lay down on the grass in the sun just outside Luna Park. Whinge about how sick we are and who's fault that is.
3pm - Catch tram back into city and have nanna naps at our apartment.
5pm - Paul read the paper and I sit up on my window ledge to smoke and read my book. Complete silence for an hour and not a moment of uncomfortable-ness.
7pm - Robbie comes and picks us up and drives us out to Hawthorn to his sister's housewarming party. We camp ourselves out on the balcony and drink red wine, smoke lots of cigarettes and talk to semi-famous comedians and other very cool people. I feel a little inadequate but sit back and marvel at how Paulie handles himself in this situation of him not knowing a soul apart from me. Vyner, you're right, it's a really important trait and one I truly admire. When Paulie goes to get us more drinks from inside Rob asks if we're 'together' and is spun out when I confirm we are definitely not.
12 midnight - Drunk again, with the added bonus of red-wine-teeth. Catch cab back into the city and go to 'The Joint' for a nightcap.
1am - Back to the hotel and crash in bed.
9.30am - Awake to the smell of coffee, which Paul has kindly made for us. Tell him through my squinty puffy eyes that he is the best person to walk the earth at that very moment. Want to vomit.
10am - Check out, load up the car and then hit the streets to find some breakfast. Starting to feel very sad at the prospect of the weekend ending. I can't manage to finish my croissant but I do have 2 lattes which were sorely needed. Stroll up to Federation Square, where we find ourselves in the midst of some Buddhist celebrations. Tell Paul that right now if I died I would be reincarnated as a bottle of Merlot. Find eyewear shop and choose a pair of frames for him at his request, as he has lost his and wanted to wait until this weekend so I could pick some out for him. Feel about 100 feet tall.
12midday - Drive out to airport. Am getting sadder. We sing at the tops of our voices to the CD playing in my car. When we arrive I don't want to let him out of the vehicle. I don't want to lose that feeling of safety, contentedness and happiness that I have been blessed with for the last 2 days.
1pm - Sitting in PJ O'Briens at the airport. Paul has a beer which he says is by way of explanation of how much tougher he is than me. I have an orange juice and ask him not to breathe on me because it makes me want to be sick. To be honest cannot decide whether I want to vomit or cry. He tells me he is going to try and wrangle some sort of business trip down to Melbourne as soon as he can so we can do it all again. Also says he will pay for my flights up to Sydney to come and see him soon as he knows that I'm a poor and derelict pleb.
1.30pm - Time for him to go. Tears in my eyes as he pulls me into a big hug. I am on tip-toes to reach him and don't want to let go. I can't stay and watch him board, so I practically run out of the airport and sob all the way to my car.
4pm - Arrive at my mum's house, physically and emotionally exhausted. Have gotten over my sads. Want to focus on the fact that I have had the most brilliant weekend and that it won't be another 4 years until I see Paul again. Sleep for many hours and eat a lot of vegies.
So there it is. All I can really say is that it has been a very very long time since I have been so happy without sex or drugs. Paul and I have the most wonderful friendship, one that I will treasure until the day I die. And the best thing is that it doesn't matter if there's 4 years in between the times we are physically in eachother's presence, or if either of us doesn't make any contact whatsoever for a few months, we can always just pick it up where we left off. I can't wait for him to be a surrogate 'Uncle' to my kids, I can't wait until he meets the right woman and I can be there at his wedding. I love the fact that we're 13 years apart in age and it doesn't matter. I love the fact that we can just be in eachother's company and not have to talk and that's okay. I love the fact that he feels comfortable enough to scratch his balls in front of me and I am quite fine with walking around in front of him wearing knickers and a singlet and I'm not concerned about someone watching my cellulited thighs. I love that he tells me that I'm wonderful and stunning and sexy and clever and I know that he's not saying it to get into my pants. I love the fact that it's so 'easy' with him. There's no pressure, no motivating factors, just a mutual adoration and love of getting drunk and talking shit.
First some background.
Paul is probably my best bloke friend in the whole entire universe. We met through mutual acquaintances about 5 years ago when I lived in Melbourne and so did he, briefly. I was all of 19 and living with my then boyfriend, Matt ("The First Arsehole"). He was 31 and new to Australia, having emigrated from London with his Aussie girlfriend, Lisa ("The Bitch"). As soon as we met, despite the massive age gap, there was just a real connection, as pox and soppy as that sounds. Then they moved back to Sydney, and Paulie and I kept in touch. I still have all the e-mails because he's just such a funny bloke that if I ever need a lift I just go back and read them and it makes me feel better. He's like my big brother in semi-long distance form. So, after 4 years of phone calls, texts, e-mails, tears, many relationship breakups, advice, laughter and all other good things, he finally gets his arse into gear and books his flight to Melbourne for what we coined "Fuck Up Your Liver" Boozefest 2005. Of course now he's 36, I'm 23 (and soooo much older & wiser)….so we simply picked up where we left off…..
Friday, 4.20pm - Tullamarine Airport. Arrive, sit down near baggage carousels, ask random woman sitting next to me if this is the arrivals area (feel very stupid and rural for not knowing). She says yes. Go outside and have smoke to calm my nerves.
4.25pm - Go outside for another smoke. Nerves still not calmed. 20 mins to go.
4.40pm - Have smoked half a packet. Nearly weeing my pants in excitement. Announcement over PA that Paulie's flight has been delayed for 5 mins. Have another smoke.
4.50pm - Everyone from the flight from Sydney comes downstairs. Woman sitting next to me greets her loved one. Paul is not there.
4.55pm - Paul still not there. Everyone from Sydney flight has picked up their luggage and gone. Stomach drops. Have not been at work for 2 days - has he sent me an e-mail saying he's not coming for some unknown reason and I haven't received it? Want to cry.
4.57pm - Call Paulie's mobile. It is switched off. Shit my pants and still want to cry.
5.00pm - Try mobile again. Rings twice, then big Northern English accent booms down the phone "Where the fuck's my big warm welcome then you bitch?!". Establish he is still upstairs as apparently only has carry-on luggage. Meet him at bottom of escalator doing little happy dance and receive the biggest bear hug of my life. Feel very very happy. Head out to car park to get into car, which I have parked on Level 11.
5.15pm - Have walked all over Level 11 and cannot find car. I feel like a complete bimbo, Paulie is laughing at me already.
5.20pm - Locate car on the 'other level 11' (Why there are 2 of them I have no idea), enter Friday afternoon city traffic into city. Drive like a demon to our apartment in Flinders Lane. Execute some beautiful "Italian Job" maneuvers in traffic to somehow compensate for embarrassment of previously not being able to find car.
6.00pm - Check in to the apartment I have booked. Discover that my booking has been fucked up, and that room is not a twin as expressly specified, but a double. Cannot rectify this at reception as apparently the room was definitely not booked as a twin. Maybe I was speaking Gaelic when I made the booking? Sheets are bought in to make up the sofa bed, although feel it may look REALLY dodgy from Paul's perspective. Cool driving efforts have been negated. Can do only one thing to make it all better.
6.01pm - Crack bottle of champagne No. 1.
8.45pm - We are both slightly pissed and head out for dinner. Walk up Flinders Lane and a restaurant called "Dimensions" catches our eye. It has lightbulbs (267 of them, according to the waiter in the wanker glasses) suspended from the ceiling at all different heights, and all dark wood tables and floors. Exquisite. Eat 3 beautiful courses and drink a bottle of gorgeous red before heading further up Flinders Lane.
11.45pm - Spot a club called 'Manchester Lane' and go in. It's perfect. A dark jazz club which descends from street level down into a big cavernous pit with a swing band. Feel beautiful and happy and spinny with many more glasses of champagne. Dance. Also feel great because at 6ft 5, Paul allows me to not be the one towering above everyone else. Also quickly remember that Paul has very little sense of rhythm so he contents himself with twirling me all over the dancefloor, bumping me into other innocent patrons. We laugh until we almost cry.
1.30am - Stumble out of Manchester Lane and find another little bar where we settle ourselves on a couch and listen to the band, another jazz one but without a vocalist. More champagne for me, more vodka and tonics for Paulie. Clearly extremely pissed. Lots of cuddling. Recall thinking how great it was to be with a bloke and not have the prospect of shagging looming over my head. Tell him I love him. He tells me he loves me too, but we both know it's more special than that.
3.00am - Get kicked out of pub. Go back to hotel after detour to KFC for much needed zinger burgers. Sleep together in same bed. Feel the most comfortable and relaxed in bed with a bloke than I have since I can ever remember.
9.30am - Wake up. Feel great. Try to go to bathroom and crash into door and fall on bathroom floor. Clearly still pissed. Paul comes and gets me and tells me to go back to bed.
10.30am - Wake up No. 2 and panic at prospect of 'wasting the day'. My mouth tastes as though someone has done a big crap in it. Push Paul out of bed.
11.30am - Find café around the corner from our apartment and have big fuck-off breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, mushrooms with orange juice and about 3 coffees. Feel slightly better.
12 midday - Board tram to St Kilda. Once we arrive we walk along the beach and out onto the jetty. The sun is shining and despite my raging hangover I feel deliriously happy. I can tell Paul is the same. Wax lyrical about our lives, Paul dispenses another round of his "I'm so old and worldly" advice, which predominantly consists of him telling me to get the fuck out of Shepparton and come and live in Sydney.
2pm - Walk up and down Acland St. Get some fresh juices and lay down on the grass in the sun just outside Luna Park. Whinge about how sick we are and who's fault that is.
3pm - Catch tram back into city and have nanna naps at our apartment.
5pm - Paul read the paper and I sit up on my window ledge to smoke and read my book. Complete silence for an hour and not a moment of uncomfortable-ness.
7pm - Robbie comes and picks us up and drives us out to Hawthorn to his sister's housewarming party. We camp ourselves out on the balcony and drink red wine, smoke lots of cigarettes and talk to semi-famous comedians and other very cool people. I feel a little inadequate but sit back and marvel at how Paulie handles himself in this situation of him not knowing a soul apart from me. Vyner, you're right, it's a really important trait and one I truly admire. When Paulie goes to get us more drinks from inside Rob asks if we're 'together' and is spun out when I confirm we are definitely not.
12 midnight - Drunk again, with the added bonus of red-wine-teeth. Catch cab back into the city and go to 'The Joint' for a nightcap.
1am - Back to the hotel and crash in bed.
9.30am - Awake to the smell of coffee, which Paul has kindly made for us. Tell him through my squinty puffy eyes that he is the best person to walk the earth at that very moment. Want to vomit.
10am - Check out, load up the car and then hit the streets to find some breakfast. Starting to feel very sad at the prospect of the weekend ending. I can't manage to finish my croissant but I do have 2 lattes which were sorely needed. Stroll up to Federation Square, where we find ourselves in the midst of some Buddhist celebrations. Tell Paul that right now if I died I would be reincarnated as a bottle of Merlot. Find eyewear shop and choose a pair of frames for him at his request, as he has lost his and wanted to wait until this weekend so I could pick some out for him. Feel about 100 feet tall.
12midday - Drive out to airport. Am getting sadder. We sing at the tops of our voices to the CD playing in my car. When we arrive I don't want to let him out of the vehicle. I don't want to lose that feeling of safety, contentedness and happiness that I have been blessed with for the last 2 days.
1pm - Sitting in PJ O'Briens at the airport. Paul has a beer which he says is by way of explanation of how much tougher he is than me. I have an orange juice and ask him not to breathe on me because it makes me want to be sick. To be honest cannot decide whether I want to vomit or cry. He tells me he is going to try and wrangle some sort of business trip down to Melbourne as soon as he can so we can do it all again. Also says he will pay for my flights up to Sydney to come and see him soon as he knows that I'm a poor and derelict pleb.
1.30pm - Time for him to go. Tears in my eyes as he pulls me into a big hug. I am on tip-toes to reach him and don't want to let go. I can't stay and watch him board, so I practically run out of the airport and sob all the way to my car.
4pm - Arrive at my mum's house, physically and emotionally exhausted. Have gotten over my sads. Want to focus on the fact that I have had the most brilliant weekend and that it won't be another 4 years until I see Paul again. Sleep for many hours and eat a lot of vegies.
So there it is. All I can really say is that it has been a very very long time since I have been so happy without sex or drugs. Paul and I have the most wonderful friendship, one that I will treasure until the day I die. And the best thing is that it doesn't matter if there's 4 years in between the times we are physically in eachother's presence, or if either of us doesn't make any contact whatsoever for a few months, we can always just pick it up where we left off. I can't wait for him to be a surrogate 'Uncle' to my kids, I can't wait until he meets the right woman and I can be there at his wedding. I love the fact that we're 13 years apart in age and it doesn't matter. I love the fact that we can just be in eachother's company and not have to talk and that's okay. I love the fact that he feels comfortable enough to scratch his balls in front of me and I am quite fine with walking around in front of him wearing knickers and a singlet and I'm not concerned about someone watching my cellulited thighs. I love that he tells me that I'm wonderful and stunning and sexy and clever and I know that he's not saying it to get into my pants. I love the fact that it's so 'easy' with him. There's no pressure, no motivating factors, just a mutual adoration and love of getting drunk and talking shit.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Another weekend, another hangover
I remember the times, only 2 or 3 years ago, when I could drink for 4 nights in a row and still function for the working week.
I remember when I could still be drinking at
I remember when a hangover took only a few hours and a strong coffee to eliminate. Now it takes three days, a lot of fried food, vomiting, sleep and usually some tears, to subside.
I remember when I was umm-ing and ahh-ing about being able to afford to go out, only having $20.00 in my purse when Raftis uttered the words “Don’t worry Kymmy, that’s why God gave you boobs”. Now it takes half my weekly pay-packet for me to have a good night out.
So why do I do it?
Because drinking is equated (for me at least) with socialising, and socialising is much more fun when you’ve got some head fuzziness going on. Because there’s no way I’d bust the “Christina Aguilara” move on the dance floor if I was sober. Because I’m 23 and I still can. God knows what’s going to happen when I’m 30 if in only the past few years my tolerance has deteriorated so much. Because we could all die tomorrow and those yoga loving bean eating weirdo’s could have been worshipping their temples for nothing. Fuck it, I’m going to smoke and drink and drunkenly pash random blokes because I’m young, and I want to.
On another (not completely unrelated) note….I was at the pub the other week with a couple of work colleagues, one of whom is happily married to an amazing woman. It makes me warm and fuzzy to think that these sorts of marriages still exist. It’s been 12 years and he’s still clearly besotted with her. I love that. In my never-ending quest to glean some sort of insight into what it takes for a happy relationship (clearly not being able to have one of my own yet), I said “Michael, how did you know that she was the one?”. He replied “Kym, I looked at her and I didn’t know if I wanted to sleep with her, or drink with her”.
It still brings a tear to my eye. Beautiful. So that’s going to be my yardstick from now on.
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