On One Night Stands

Let’s face it. Once you sleep with someone, no matter what, you want them to be damn besotted with you. You want them to have fallen under your strange and mysterious spell.

And that’s fucking scary, isn’t it? What if they don’t get that? And in the morning, instead of staring into your eyes and covering you with kisses, they roll over and give you the – “please leave already” vibe.

Luckily, I don’t know what that’s like. I’m far too scared of being rejected like that, to bother taking the risk! Hence, until recently, the last time I had sex… was with my ex. (A year and a half ago. What!?)

I’d had enough friends tell me that after a one night stand, the feeling of “Yes! I’ve still got it, I’m still sexy!” soon wears off to “oh dear… I’m a whore.”

And enough experience to know that sex makes you fall in love with anyone you find semi attractive. Well, initially anyway. Plus… what about those nasty STDs. (let’s not forget about eye-herpes!!)

So, as you see, I’ve been rather conflicted on the ‘getin-some’ front, and taken to embracing a life of fantasy… where I imagine being bold like Samantha (from SATC) and having the confidence and care free attitude of the author of “My Horizontal Life”.

These girls are what I call respectable sluts! Empowered, hot and unafraid of conforming to other people’s judgement. They also own their sexuality with the familiarity and comfort of an old pair of favourite jeans. And shouldn't we all?



While I’m grateful for not jumping into another relationship straight after my ex, and for being happily single for an extended time (woot!), part of me wonders weather being happily single, is just an excuse for being too afraid to jump back in the game. As for one night stands? Well, I'd love to know your thoughts.

Cocktail Epiphanies

Rain beats down solidly for the second day in a row since my Aussie friends have left, and while I’m not feeling as devastated as I did yesterday, there’s still a sad empty feeling lingering in my heart.

The weird thing is, we hadn’t really been that close before they came. Two of them - I didn’t even know. But sometimes, on holidays, magic happens.

After a week of living purely in the moment - of bonding over chicken wings, hang-over brunches, endless shopping, and stories from our past, we managed to create that feeling you get between friends who have known each other forever.

Our crew consisted of... a dear college friend, Chelsea, who is as fabulous as she is outspoken, smart and funny. She kept us in fits of laughter with stories about the men she’s been dating, and never ceased to draw people in our direction. I had the experience of walking down a SoHo street with her and we got paparazzied! Very cool. We pretended it was totally normal for us until we rounded the corner and gave each other [the girl equivalent of] a high-five.

Chelsea managed to pick up a young woman at the luggage carousel in the JFK airport. A bright, confident and driven 24yr old, fleeing Australia fresh off the heels of a relationship break up, in pursuit of a fashion internship and a glamorous life in New York City. Ironically she was subletting in Harlem, and was the only white girl on her street. Her presence was fun and a gentle reminder of what it’s like in your early twenties... and how life gets easier with experience.

Our fourth member, was my gorgeous sister-in-law-to-be, Maz, who booked this trip on a whim as a last overseas jaunt before marriage. Maz was fun as always and all class - introducing the expression “I feel like a busted piece of ass!” to New York each morning after our cocktail infused evenings.

Of the male variety there was a spunky old-college “sepo” sometimes present in the evenings…. plus another guy friend of Chelsea’s, who was on a 30 day round the world mission of self discovery - thanks to an early bout of relationship experience, that luckily for him has taught him some huge lessons that most people don’t get to learn until well into their 40’s.

Maybe it was because we’re all on the brink of going through some exciting / scary changes in our own separate lives. Or maybe it was that we knew it was a special time and wanted to make the most of it. What ever it was, this trip will connect our time together forever. Just like the childhood holidays you have as a kid.

A few big lessons came out it for me. Firstly, I gained a special confidence that one gets when they are reminded that everyone has similar issues that they go through. Even people that appear and act to have it all together.

I also gained a sister!!... by getting to know how awesome my sister-in-law-to-be is, and how in many ways she reminds me of my wonderful step-mum, Abby. We talked relationships a lot and her pearl of wisdom that has stuck with me, among others, is that no matter what - if there’s something on your mind - always, always talk about it, no matter how hard or how much it might hurt the other person to hear.

Heaven to my ears. Frankly you could talk to me about relationships forever. Dating someone? Married? Come talk to me, I want to hear it all.

So another issue the group discussed was how important it is to keep your own identity within long-term relationships, and always take time for yourself…. and yr friends! This is huge for me because I’m actually a little identity clueless about myself. Having tied my identity to peers, my ex partners, my job and even my family, for so long now, this year - alone in NY is a revelation for me. I’m starting to get to know my true self for what feels like the first time.

***

Last week picked me up and shook me by the tail feathers. I learned a great deal and am still chewing stuff over before I discuss it here. One thing I’m incredibly happy about, is that despite drinking all week, I didn’t park one tiger. It’s a miracle people! And because of the hangover-nausea each day - I hardly ate - and may have kicked my food obsession. Hurrah!

So let it rain New York. Let me figure out what I'm really here for, and let this sad feeling be a reminder of just how much friends and family really mean.

A Cool Change

It was only fitting that the day after a great Aussie contingent left New York, a cool change has blown into the city. To me, it signifies the end of an intensely hot summer, the end of an insanely good week, and the beginning of something new…

I can’t seem to articulate what that new thing is, but it’s a feeling, like there’s something brewing. A new perspective on life perhaps…

Thank god for friends.

You Know You're an Aussie in NY when... #7

- You just took a video of a rat in the subway. (The real splinter!)

- People assume you are a crazy binge drinker. (Everyone wants to party with me. It’s cool actually.)

- You can’t stop telling people that the New Zealand accent originated from an English settler who had a speech impediment.

- You’ve never felt angry before in your life, but now you’re constantly 1 button-push away from being extremely pissed off. (Yes this is true of New Yorkers!)

- You’ve started to realize that talking to your self is acceptable.

- When people ask what crime your ancestor’s committed, you have a list of made-up felonies at the ready. (l tend to stick with bestiality)

Feet Fetish

The people on my mother’s side of the family have a thing about feet. They hate dirty feet, and place them on their list of evil, along with Hitler and pedophilia.

“I just can’t stand to feel grit under my feet!” my grandma will say, as she dustpans the kitchen frantically for the tenth time that day. These words rings so true, she actually vacuums her house every day. Every…single…day. Obsessive… Compulsive… Behavior.

When visiting Grandma, before we come in from outside – wearing flip flops, we have to stop at the laundry sink and wash our feet, like people wash their hands before dinner.

This feet phobia has unfortunately filtered down through the generations. I often clean my feet with baby-wipes before bed, and my poor little aspergers cousin, can’t even walk down the driveway bare foot, because he feels so dirty.

Of course, when it comes to ‘feet loathing’, my brother, J-Rad, truly takes the cake. “They are fucking disgusting!” he’ll say, as he stuffs whole cup-cakes into his mouth, spitting out the chewed up paper in little pellets to show me.

One afternoon, our family (Dad’s side), was sitting on the living room floor, for our weekly cheese-eating ceremony, when J-Rad was going on about how much he hates feet.

My step-mum, Abby, got a glint in her eyes. “Even girls feet?” she enquired.
“All feet,” replied J-Rad. “They are just wrong, I don’t let them near me.”

This made Abby chuckle. “Your father, doesn’t mind feet at all!”

J-Rad, along with my then-boyfriend, Ralph, and I all cringed. It was no secret that Abby and Dad had a healthy sex life. They were almost a little smug about it, and why not? In their 50’s, married for thirteen years, and still lusting after one another? Unheard of!!

Once on an email up-date to friends and family about their cruising adventures, Dad signed off with the sentence “With plenty of time to make love and read, we leave you to the next update.” (None of the children replied to that one.)

“Are you saying you’d never suck on your girlfriends toes?” Abby continued.
A repulsed look from J-Rad, “Nope!”
“Well… your father likes to suck on toes," she grinned, "and let me tell you, girls like to have their toes sucked!”

This hit a nerve. At 22 years, J-Rad was always keen to find out what girls liked, and she was stirring him. (Like she does to all us kids, in a fun and affectionate manner.)

“That’s fucking disgusting!” barked J-Rad. “If my girlfriend asked me to lick her toes I’d punch her in the ovaries.”

Ha! We all knew that he would probably lick them if she was hot.

Then J-Rad asked Ralph “Would you lick someone’s dirty feet?”
“Sure,” he shrugged.
What!? I never recall having my toes licked by Ralph. That would have involved having actual foreplay… a sore topic for both of us.

I was sure J-Rad would cave for money.
“We’ll all put in cash, and give you $100 if you lick vegemite off Ralph’s feet right now” I said, daring J-Rad.
“Get fucked! Would you lick vegemite off his dirty feet?”

I looked at Ralph’s blackened foot, with his thong hanging from it.
“How much will you give me?”
“Ten bucks.”
(Tight ass!) “Alright then.” I said, like it was nothing.

I got up and smeared some vegemite across the ball of Ralph’s foot. Then took a deep breath, bent down, and licked it in front of my whole family.

J-Rad gagged, while Dad and Abby clapped and cheered.

The things I do to prove my toughness to them.

“Easiest $10 I ever made!” I said, licking my lips.

My parents were extremely proud. They knew that it took a lot of guts for me to do, and I basked in the honor and status that it immediately earned me. Plus, who doesn’t like to make their brother feel like there’s something wrong with them?

I'm also pretty sure Ralph thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Sadly, we never took that move to the bedroom. But I’m thinking vegemite on toes would be a great foreplay article to write for Cosmo magazine, if they were to ever hire me.

The Finger Suck

I gave Ada’s hand a kiss this morning. She then grabbed my hand to reciprocate, but instead of kissing it, she narrowed her eyes, smiled at me, then put my middle finger in her mouth, and sucked on it.

WTF!!! I was so surprised, that I started giggling like a school girl. I yelled out to Jean to see if it was normal for old people to absent-mindedly perform foreplay on your fingers.

“Ah ha! That Ada! She knows trouble, you see?!” beamed Jean in broken English.

Ada was still smiling at me. I hope she didn’t want me to suck on her claws in return. I think I’ll stick to the cheek kiss from now on.

Urban Slang for the Elderly

Ada can be brutally honest, and extremely harsh for an 86 year old lady. Last week she coined a new word for me:

“A Nieviot!”

It describes someone who is both naive and an idiot. She call’s me this when I deny that her carers are stealing from her.

Usually, an insult like this would sting a bit, but this new word is so cool, I could only get mildly offended. In fact, I was so proud of her genius, that I almost gave her a high five!

I’m currently considering entering it in the urban dictionary.



Word.

Adore and Abhor

Adore:

1. When you're peeling an egg, and the whole shell comes off in one go. (Best feeling in the world, right?)
2. 'People watching' ON THE BEACH!!!
3. Biting the point off anything triangular. (That first bite of pizza or that first bit of cheese cake.)
4. The feeling AFTER you have done something you were shit-scared to do. (Even if it went badly, you still faced a fear.)


Abhor:

1. Full beards
2. Cancer
3. Stores that put strawberries on sale – AFTER they are ruined.
4. Public toilet seats

Beauty Routines

Ada and I engage in the following little ritual every morning, at least once:

“You are beautiful!” Ada will say. Then a worried look will come over her face, and she’ll extend an arthritic hand. “But your hair…” she continues, looking sadly disappointed, and shaking her head – “What can you do with the hair!”

I don’t really know what to say to this, but as it happens every day, I’ve gotten used to it. “I’m not sure.” I resign, “It’s just my hair I guess.”

She shakes her head again in disgust. I brace, and go in for some wet kisses, before leaving for the day.

Once outside the door, I pause by the hallway mirrors to wipe whatever was on Ada’s lips, from both my cheeks. (Usually a mixture of stagnant saliva, and small pieces of her breakfast.)

My hair looks as fine as it can, after accidently receiving a mullet from a hair dresser looking for hair models. There is nothing to do except "wait for it to grow," another hairdresser confirmed.

I enjoy our little ritual, but living with Ada has added a new step to my daily beauty routine. I now cleanse, tone, moisturize, apply make up, then run out the door and douse my cheeks with hand sanitizer!

New York Lines

In a city where seeing (for free): Anne Hathaway perform Shakespeare in the park, Amy Poehler improvise on stage, or Alec Baldwin introduce a concert, seems common place… it’s easy to forget why New York can do this. And that’s because it has a huge population in such a small place.


At Disneyland, they say you will need a whole week to try all the rides! But they don’t tell you, this is due to every ride having at least an hour long line to stand in before you get to go on it. (Surprise!)

Well, as it turns out, New York is like a giant Disneyland for adults.

As an Aussie, I’d forgotten what it really means to - line up. We wait more than five minutes, and it’s more that we can bare. But here… if you want tickets to a television taping, half price broad way tix, or just really great burgers, New Yorkers will line up and wait for it all.

Astonishing!...for us Aussies. Especially a slightly impatient one, who would rather pretend they don’t speak English, than make ‘line-up small talk’.

Arrive half an hour early, and it’s bound to be sold out. Think “bring a chair, a packed lunch and a book” kind of early. I’ve recently been in line for 7 hours to see a play, 3 hours to see good comedy and 4 hours, only to get rejected for tix for Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. It makes me wonder how on earth anyone with a real job in NY has time to experience anything worthwhile here? (Okay, maybe they just all pay full price.)

Regardless, it's a great way to realize why no one wears heels, and why temper's run so short. So if you're wondering where I am, that’s where you’ll find me. Waiting in line and practicing my small talk abilities.

First Kiss (part 2)

This is a continuation of the story of my First Kiss

The next morning, I awoke to a bright purple lump, the size of a golf ball protruding from my neck. It hurt to touch, and was so swollen, that I could barely turn my head. What the hell? A hickey?!!!
That Bastard!!

The previous night's thrill and excitement, from experiencing French-kissing for the first time, was suddenly replaced with a terrifying fear... If Dad sees this, I'm dead!

At the tender age of sixteen, this was the first all-schools dance he had ever let me go to. A hickey the size of everest on my neck, would be a complete breach of his trust, punishable only with death by firing squad.

I had to hide it. But how? I had a whole weekend at home with the family! Fuuuuck!!! I threw a scarf on, which looked completely ridiculous with my T-shirt and shorts. Then I remembered one of the few (medical tips) my Dad has ever passes on… “Ice is effective up to 48hrs after injury.” It reduces swelling and bruising, and the sooner you apply it, the better! With my scarf on, I bolted to the kitchen to get an ice pack.

I was leaning down into the open freezer door, when Dad walked in.

I froze, one hand in the freezer, and the other hand touching my scarf.

“How was the dance,” He said accusingly. (He says everything accusingly. Regardless of how much he loves his family, he will never trust any of them.) This was it. I was done for. I knew there was no way I would be able to hide my neck from him all weekend. I already looked incredibly suspicious wearing a scarf and raiding the freezer.

So I made a decision. I swallowed hard, and slowly stood up to face my Dad.
“I got this.” I said, unwrapping my scarf defiantly, to reveal the gruesome hickey.

Now it was Dad’s turn to freeze.

After what felt like a year of standing there in silence, he said to me “Well. We should talk about this.”
My stomach leapt into my mouth as he motioned for me to sit. We sat at our breakfast bench on bar stools, unable to look each other in the eyes. I was very silent. My dad, even more so. After another eternity, he said, “I’m not mad."

I exhaled. I couldn't believe he wasn't mad. Maybe he understood how much I just wanted to be like everyone else, and have finally kissed someone. Could he perhaps see that this experience was just one step away from me getting a boyfriend and finally being cool? Then he said the worst thing a parent can ever say to a child – especially one that has only ever wanted to please him. “I’m just very disappointed in you.”

The words hurt a thousand times more than my throbbing hickey. A second lump now formed in my throat, filling my eyes to the brim, before silently spilling over my newly exfoliated cheeks.

He then continued. “How far did you go?”
“What?” I managed through tears. “We just kissed,” I sobbed, feeling like I was admitting to first degree murder.
“Well, how far would you have let him go?”
“What?!” I said again. This was too much for my innocent mind. That there was anything more than just kissing at a school dance, was beyond me.

Dad, being a straight shooter, never beats around the bush.
“Would you have let him finger you?”
(!!!!) I now started crying in repulsion, that my dad had said the word “finger” in a sentence to me. I’d barely broached the topic with my friends, let alone my family. Plus… WTF? Had he even been to a school dance? Fingering would have been totally out of the question!

“No!” I screamed.
“Well,” he said, relieved that he had scared me. “It’s just something to think about. You have to know ahead of time, how far you are willing to go. Boys have a one track mind and will always try and persuade you to go further.”

This did nothing but fuel my distrust in guys. He was right. Boys were evil. I cried and told Dad I was sorry, over and over. I was deeply upset that my first real French-kiss had lead me into this agonizing conversation.

I spent the rest of the weekend cradling an ice-pack to my neck in shame. Come Monday morning, the hickey had gone down considerably, but I still needed two band-aids to cover it.

At school, I was convinced people would ask me what had happened. In English class, I hid from my teacher, Mrs Wheatley - A delightfully old fashioned soul who had accidentally stepped out of a Jane Austin novel and into our classroom. I feared and respected her so much, that I knew she could see straight through my bandaids to the little whore that I was.


It had dawned on me, that this first kiss was becoming deeply regrettable. When the school bell finally rang for lunch, I headed for the only two girls that could made sense of my world.

Suze and Connie laughed and laughed when I showed them the hickey, and recounted my tortured weekend at home. They were proud of my battle wound, and even nicknamed the boy I kissed “Vacuum Cleaner.” They decided to learn from my experience, and vowed never to let a guy suck on anything for prolonged periods of time, that could be seen outside of our uniforms. Then we spent the rest of the afternoon trying to find Vacuum Cleanter’s photo in a Toowoomba Grammar Year Book.

Thank god for friends. Right?

First Kiss

This is the story of my first real kiss.

Not until watching Baz Lurman’s Romeo and Juliette, did I imagine using my lips for anything more divine than eating ice-cream on a cone. (I always look like I’m trying to french my ice-cream cones… don’t you?) I’d built up kissing in my head the same way I would build up loosing my virginity. I just knew it was going to be mind-blowinglly amazing!!


Being a superstitious teen, I tried to believe my first kiss was never going to happen. That way, if it did, I would be surprised – and if it didn’t, then I would be right! But this pessimistic thinking became a self-fulfilling prophecy, and at “sweet sixteen”, I had still never been kissed. (Which made it more like sour sixteen if you ask me.)

School dances at Downlands College came and went, and no one asked me to dance. I figured it was because I was such an awesome dancer, and they were intimidated by my moves! (I really am an awesome dancer.) Over the years, I toned down my dancing to a mere two-step shuffle in the hopes of attracting the kind of boys that went to my school.

The Downlands College School Social dance floor was made up of three concentric circles of people. The outer perimeter contained mainly boys, stalking around, refusing to dance, but eager to look macho as they too, pined for a chance at a pash. The middle layer consisted of girls dancing in groups, mercilessly comparing them selves to one another - as it was rare to see each other out of uniform. And the inner core was made up of couples being watched like hawks by teachers, and sent outside the minute they stood too close, or went in for a pash.

Twice a year I would beg my Dad to let me go to an “All-Schools” Dance-social, where there was no 30cm rule, and french kissing was ramped!

“Absolutely not!” would be his answer. “That is completely out of the question.” This was coming from a dad who would throw a pen on the ground and make me pick it up if he thought my skirt looked too short. To say he was over protective was an understatement. He was convinced that all boys were out to get my virginity, which I wanted to believe, yet I knew was not the case. Otherwise they would have at least payed me some attention at school, surely!! Even still, he managed to instil in me, a fear of trusting men, that has lasted to this day.

At sixteen and a half, I told Dad that it was VITAL I get to attend at least one all-schools dance before I die from being a loser. I must have caught him at a good time, because he said yes! On the proviso of a curfew, and making sure I had a buddy (like when you go skuba diving) to look out for you.

The budy-diver system on a dance floor is actually not such a bad idea. What better situation to use your hand signals “I’m OK” or “go back to the boat, I’m going to use someone’s face as a breathing apparatus!”

The evening arrived, and I was getting ready with my two best friends, Suze and Connie. Suze was gangly tall, with braces and crazy bangs. She was a constant ray of energy and the sole reason I could bare high school. Connie was more stocky and from Dalas, Texis in the USA. This made her an instant celebrity to me. I would constantly ask her to tell me a stories, just so I could hear her accent.

We were interested in one thing only. Toowoomba Gramma Boys. They were rumoured to be much more gentlemanly that the oxygen deprived foot-ball jerks that plagued Downlands. I kept thinking “Oh My God. What if it happens tonight!” then I would quickly force myself to think the opposite to un-jinx it. Suze and Connie tried to ease my anxiety, but what would they know about anxiety! They had already had the pleasure of feeling someone else’s tongue in their mouths. I was still waiting for my chace!

We arrived and went straight to the dance floor. I cracked open my subdued two-step shuffle to woe the boys. It wasn’t long before a bunch of cute Toowoomba Grammer guys joined our circle with their versions of the two-step shuffle. I had my eye on a short, cute, dark haired, energetic guy with braces. But he never made eye contact with me.

…Then suddenly a tall, ruggedly handsome looking guy, with dreamy dimples walked right up to me and said “Would you like to dance with me?”

I stared at him in utter shock and disbelief. I even stopped my left-right shuffle. Then I realised what was happening. He was asking the girl behind me to dance, and I was interrupting his eye line. How embarrassing! But when I turned to see who the lucky girl was, there was no one there. Still unable to comprehend this, I pointed to myself and said “Me?”, then “You (pointing to him), want to dance with me? (pointing back at me).”

I rolled my eyes to let him know I was in on the joke, and I knew he’d been dared to ask me. But he just stood there and nodded. Then he took my shaky, pathetic, disbelieving hands and led me to the smooching section of the dance floor.

Immediately my diving buddies started giving me the hand signals for ‘good one!’ and ‘pash him!’ We danced for a couple of seconds, knocking knees awkwardly, then he pulled me closer, and suddenly we were breaking the 30 cm rule, by 30cms.

We were dirty dancing. I was Baby, and he was Patrick Swayze. My inner monologue was screaming “Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god! I don’t know how to do this!” I had watched Baily kiss Jennifer Love Hewitt on Party of Five that week, and figured we’d have to start staring into each others eyes before we entered into a perfect camera-ready kiss.

But before I could get a look at him, he moved in, putting his mouth over mine, and proceeded to rape the back of my throat with his tongue.

My inner monologue went from “OMG! I’m going to have my first kiss!!” to “WTF.!? Is this kissing? Is this what kissing is?... Wow… it’s kind of over rated… it looked so much better on tv... it must just look good, but feel like this. Well there you go! I’m sure sex will be as good as it looks in the movies, surely they wouldn’t lie about that.”

Having resigned to the fact that this was indeed, kissing, I decided to rape his throat, back.

Our tongues were ferocious anacondas, twisting in saliva, attacking tonsils and darting up sinus cavities by mistake. This continued for three hours. The whole time, I was thinking “So this is kissing. Well. I hope I’m doing a good job of it.”

Sometime during the last hour, he made his way over my raw pash-rash, and down my neck, where he proceeded to behave like a vampire, sucking for a good ten minutes. It felt good, so I let him do it.

The last song played, and ended. We both came up for breath and said “See ya.” I went back to my friends, who gave me the female equivalent of a high five... which is grabbing each other’s arms and saying stuff like “you did it girl!” and “He was sooo cute!” and “How was your first kiss!”

I floated out of there with Suze and Connie on cloud 9! I was a legend! And I’d finally done it! Even if kissing was totally gross. I could now officially cross if off the list and move onto trying Escargot. Surely that was less disgusting.

As the three of us strolled out arm in arm, sharing details of the dance, The burn of my pash rash became apparent. My face had been sandpapered within an inch of it’s life, and I was vaguely aware of a pulsing pain growing on the side of my neck.

TBC…….

This is Why I Write

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Parking Tigers, Hidden Dragons

(This post is continued from the previous post.)

Those skilled in the ancient art of Parking Tigers, know that discression is of great importance. A master always vomits alone, for they consider it a sacred ritual, and can hold their own hair back. That’s how skilled they are.

I had mastered the art of spewing in highschool, and was going for my knighthood in College. Chunder royalty indeed! I puked so often, I thought it would be fun to keep a tally. But after passing 20, before the first term was up, I stopped bothering.

After a decade of experience, I can now speak with authority on the topic. I’m an expert! Or a ‘spewspert’, if you will. For example… I’ll never be caught off-guard by an unexpected uprising. And the key is - to pay attention to the early warning signs: The growing twangs of nausea, the intense emotional denial where you think it’s not happening… then your breathing becomes more laboured, and eventually your saliva glands start to water.

Most people stay in denial right up until the moment they find themselves covered in barf, in the back seat of a taxi. Not me! You may deny your impending vomit all you want, but the minute those saliva glands start going off, it’s game over.

Most evenings after drinking, I return home and throw my fingers down my throat, just to save time… and spare myself the hours of nauseating corn hurling the following morning.

I’ve actually spewed from alcohol poisoning at every job I’ve ever had. From dish-pig, to television producer. The worst was when I was slicing ham in an industrial kitchen slicer. I’d have to excused myself to go to the bathroom and vomit, then return to the mesh glove and the ham. Mmmm. I remember when manning phones at an inbound call center, I’d have to hang up on callers so I could log out, and run to the ladies in time.

No friend or relative’s toilet has gone undecorated. Not even Ada’s.

Here’s a handy tip: Always drink lots of water between parking tigers. Because it’s much more enjoyable to spew water than to dry-heave.

On a couple of occasions, I spewed blood. This, coupled with the occasional intense liver pains, has ultimately led me to my current state. (Ordering mocktails and lapping milk from saucers if anyone calls me a pussy).

Currently, my alcohol tolerance is a joke. I can spew after two glasses of wine, or one…on an empty stomach. Last night I went for a cocktail with a friend, and felt nauseated all night.

I used to wish I’d been to rehab, so that I would have a legitimate excuse for being so straight edge. But luckily, with age comes confidence!!! Gaining a greater sense of knowing (and liking) who you are, means you can handle ‘not handling your alcohol’ with grace and charm.

Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love ME when I’m drunk. Who doesn’t. We are all fucking fabulous. But does anybody else think there’s something really wrong with that? Why does the brain waits until it’s had alcohol to feel this good?



Well in America (generally speaking) they don’t binge. If they do, it’s usually on a special occasion. Not just another Friday night. It’s a far cry from the Aussie blotto mentality. And I think I’ve figured out why. In Australia / Brittan, we drink to loose our inhibitions. In America… they don’t have any inhibitions! They already have all the confidence in the world, and are happy to make their intentions clear. Take it from me. Straight guys here approach women sober on the street.

And I say “Cheers to that!” After a decade of the complete opposite, I’m excited to be around people who don’t even notice I’m drinking coke instead of beer.

It does seem a shame to put my skills to waste though. A career’s councilor once said, look at what you’re good at. (Eating!!) and where you’re skills lie (spewing!!!) and that should give you the best indication of your future’s path. It’s good to know if my career in the arts turns to shit, then there’s always Bulemia.