#MyFirst... Date

I was a horrible person.

Okay, I wasn't really a horrible person. I was just young. And I was very inexperienced in the Ways of the Male. Or rather, how to deal appropriately with the Ways of the Male.

I was fifteen years old, and on holidays in Surfers Paradise with my parents. I had brought along a friend, and a few other friends of mine were there with various parents. My friends and I had met up one night for dinner at the local Toga restaurant, Roman Scandals. (Yes, the wait staff wore togas. It was considered very Of The Moment.)

Clive and friends

I had some Donelli Lambrusco at dinner, because it was sweet and cheap and that's what we drank (and if you are under 18 and reading this, underage drinking is BAD, as you will learn from this post).

I can't remember the details because a) it was thirty years ago, and b) Donelli Lambrusco, but somehow after dinner I ended up being walked back to our Surfers apartment by Clive the Toga Waiter. Clive was 18 or so - not much older than me - and very cute in the dark, at least when viewed through the prism of cheap, spritzy wine.

I was a little late for curfew, and as Clive waited by the elevator with me, and pressed his 18 year old lips to mine, the lift doors opened, and out jumped my father.

"I have to go!" I cried to Clive, and followed my dad into the lift.

"When did you meet that boy?" my father asked me.

"Tonight," I said sheepishly, and he shook his head.

The next day, I met Clive the Toga Waiter at the beer garden down the road. We had arranged our date when we were pashing, and it had seemed exciting at the time. I had never gone on a formal date before, and Clive looked so cute in the Donelli.

But when I got to the beer garden, and saw him in daylight without his toga (meaning, in shorts and a tee shirt - not naked, for goodness sake), I realised I had made a terrible mistake.

"You want a drink?" Clive asked me, and I shook my head.

"You want some chips?" he tried again, and I shook my head once more.

And so I sat, beside him, not saying a word, as he scoffed his chips and drank his beer and watched the footy game on the telly, thinking no doubt (because I was), "what an absolute little nob".

Then, after twenty minutes had passed, I said "I have to go," and left. And then I ran, and took a shower, and never saw his face again.

So that was my first ever date. Pretty hideous, but memorable. My second (first) date was much, much better.

But that is another story.

Next week's topic: #MyFirst... Agonising Loss of Material Possession

#MyFirst... Time Drunk

Each Monday I will be writing about a First. I will choose the First (first kiss? first drink? first fight? first phobia?)I will post the topic here and write my own little piece about it. And I will invite YOU to write about your own First on your blog anytime during the week. If you have never experienced that particular first, write about why not. And how you feel about that.Then add your blog post via the linky below, and/or tweet it under the hashtag #MyFirst.
Today's topic is My First... Time Drunk

Some firsts happen organically: first kiss, first heartbreak, first moment of fear, first time you taste a double dark chocolate Cherry Ripe and know you want to commit to it for life.

Some firsts need a bit of a push. You want to dive in, so you make it happen for yourself.

And so it was with my first time drunk. I was dying to experience the joys of intoxication, and my best friend Libby* was ready too. I was at her place for a sleepover, her parents were out, and we decided to hit the liquor cabinet and give it a go.

I was fifteen years old.

I was terribly excited.

I wasn't familiar with the Joy of Alcohol, and so started with something close to home. Libby and I poured ourselves shots of Sacramental Grape - the sweet, port-like wine that is drunk on the Sabbath. On the Sabbath it is drunk in thimble sized portions. We drank a tumbler-full each. And then moved straight ahead.



It is Holy, you know

What next? Well, Scotch seemed to be the obvious answer. Libby's father had several bottles of the stuff so we took a little bit from each and drank another full glass.

I don't know how people drink this stuff

The Scotch tasted horrible, and I was starting to feel a bit off. I needed something sweet again. The Tia Maria beckoned.

Not intended to be consumed by the tumbler

We drank a full glass of that each, too.

And well, that was it. I was out for the count. The room spun around me. Thick gauze descended on my brain and the world went hideously fuzzy. I felt dire. I thought maybe I'd die. Nausea clutched me in it's grip and swirled me around. I needed to get to bed. I needed to get to bed now.

"Ah needa gedda bed," I slurred to Libby.

"Me ooh," she muttered. She was a strange shade of puce.

I couldn't stand. Libby couldn't stand. I don't like this, I thought. I want this to be over.

Bed. I needed bed. We crawled to the stairs.

And just that minute, Libby's parents came home. I regarded them from my position on all fours on the stairs.

"Hugumph," I said.

"What's going on," Libby's dad asked in bewilderment. I think he genuinely didn't know. His daughter was a very good girl.

Or had been.

"Weh gogga bed," Libby said. And then she collapsed on the stairs. On top of me. I couldn't move, but I didn't care. Moving equalled death. I was better on the stairs.

I don't remember how I got to Libby's bed. I believe her dad carried me. I do remember waking up in the middle of the night needing to go to the toilet. This was problematic, as the bedroom door was next door to a cupboard, and I kept getting out of bed, walking into the cupboard, and falling back onto the bed again. Three times. By the end I was really quite desperate to wee.

The next day I experienced some of the worst pain in my life. Happily, my parents did not contribute to said pain with punishments or lectures. They knew that the Worst Hangover of All Time was punishment enough.

I didn't get drunk again for years and years. (Okay, the very next year. And the year after that.) But in general, I am not keen on getting drunk. And I have never been able to stomach Scotch or Tia Maria since.

Funnily enough, I do still love my Sacramental Grape. I guess the spirit of the Sabbath shines through the darkest hangover day.

*not her real name.

#MyFirst Blogging Challenge will be on holidays till the end of January. But it WILL BE BACK.

#MyFirst... Moment of Terror

Each Monday I will be writing about a First. I will choose the First (first kiss? first drink? first fight? first phobia?)
I will post the topic here and write my own little piece about it. And I will invite YOU to write about your own First on your blog anytime during the week. If you have never experienced that particular first, write about why not. And how you feel about that.
Then add your blog post via the linky below, and/or tweet it under the hashtag #MyFirst.

Today's topic is My First... Moment of Terror

I don't remember the party at all, but I remember the events afterwards with crystal clarity.

I had just turned sixteen years old, and I was coming home from the wrap party of the TV mini-series I had starred in. I can't recall what I was wearing, but it was probably similar to the 'Relax' t-shirt and leggings I wore to the premier. My hair was short and a weird dyed-blondey colour, my skin was tanned from six weeks on location in Queensland, and I was plump after eating my way through the catering services.

It was late, about two in the morning. My parents had excused me from my normal curfew because it was such an exciting occasion. And I was with adults. I was being dropped home in a cab. There really was nothing to worry about.

Of course, I was a little bit drunk, because this was a film crew, and people in film crews drink. And the actors drink, even the teenage actors, even the ones who had barely turned sixteen. I was a little bit drunk and I was in a taxi and it was two in the morning and it was time to go home.

I can't remember who I was in the cab with. I do remember that I wanted to be grown up like them. And so, when the taxi reached the corner of my street, I offered to get out right there, and not be driven to the door. It would have been no trouble at all for the cab to make that right hand turn, to travel the extra 150 metres to get me to my house. But no, I said, this was absolutely fine, even though the streets were empty and it would have taken all of two minutes.

And so I hopped out of the cab on the corner of a main road, shut the door and waved my chaperone goodbye, and headed up the street to home.

It was 2am, I was a bit drunk, and I was sixteen. I heard a car behind me, the only car on the deserted road. And then I heard the car slow down, and stop altogether, and then turn slowly into my street.

And as my whole body went cold, and the terror rose in my chest, the car pulled up beside me, and began following me at pace.

I could barely breathe. I was bathed in fear. My alcohol haze was lifted and all was crystal clear. My vision narrowed to myself, the street, and the car. I was aware of nothing, not the past, not the future, not my life, just my home up ahead and the distance I needed to cover.

The fear. The fear. I wanted to run and keep running. But I wasn't a great runner and I knew I couldn't outrun a car. And I knew the car door could open and a hand could reach out. I could feel the emptiness of the streets, and the silence all around.

I considered bolting into a stranger's house, but it was 2am, and I could bang on the door, but what if nobody heard? I figured my only chance was to make it home. And I knew I couldn't sprint the distance, so I had to play it smart.

I wanted to run but I couldn't. Not yet. And so I forced myself to walk normally as the car trailed beside. I kept my eyes straight ahead, agonisingly aware of the vehicle, and calculating how many steps it would take to get me to safety.

And when I thought I was close enough, I broke into a run. I ran as fast as I could run, frantic with fear. I ran with eyes fixed on my house, terrified that any second that car would stop and a hand would reach out and I'd be gone gone gone.

I ran full pelt to home, and as I got through the gate I grabbed my keys from my bag and slid them into the door. I was ready to pound and scream and ring the bell, but I got the door straight open, and I slammed it shut behind me.

And then I was there, in the hallway of my parent's house. The fear drained away and I stood shaking with relief. I looked down the hall at the home in which I grew up, and I had never felt more safe. I had never felt more secure. I kissed my parents goodnight and I went to bed and I was so happy to be home. I never wanted to leave.

To this day, I don't know who was inside that car. Whether it was one person or six, whether they intended to scare me or worse. But it was the first moment of sheer terror I had ever known. I need only to close my eyes, and it is just under the surface.

I've had other moments of fear since, in many different forms. But none have resembled that night in the street. It has only been replayed in my dreams.

Next week's topic: My First... Obsession

You Won't Believe What I Ate Last Night...

Last night I ate a stock cube. Seriously. And not one of those small Maggi ones, either. I ate a giant, squishy Massel chicken stock cube, straight out of the wrapper. It was horrible. I mean, chicken stock is great in soups and casseroles, but pretty gross by itself on a fork. But I couldn't help it. I was craving that stock cube like the deserts crave the rain. (Except that the stock cube also made me crave rain. Or at least water.)

Now, the obvious conclusion to reach is that I am pregnant. And when I am pregnant I do crave strange foods. When I was pregnant with my son I bought so many spinach and feta pastries from the local baker every day (three to four, to be precise) that I became too fat embarrassed to go into the store, and had to learn how to make my own.

However, I am certain I am not pregnant. This is because:

1. My kitchen has been surgically closed;
2. I am not nauseous and dizzy and weeping for no reason at all;
3. See number 1.

No, I am not pregnant. In fact, I am as far as one can get from pregnancy without being menopausal. I am craving weird foods not because I am pregnant, but because I am not.

Yes, once gain PMS rears up its ugly head. It happens all the time. Once a month, actually. Every. Single. Bloody. Month.

I don't need to keep a chart of my menstrual cycle because I know exactly where I am based on the foods I am craving. Early in my cycle I eat my normal, boring diet. When I am ovulating I become quite extraordinarily hungry, and need about seventeen meals a day (at least three of which are based on chocolate). Clearly, my body is preparing for a potential baby by packing in enough energy in three days to last me nine months. Clearly, my body is stupid.

Mmmm.... DINNER

And then I hit PMS, and I head down to the salt mines. Oh yes. Salt salt salt salt. I eat stock cubes and drink cup-a-soup and eat Vegemite with a spoon. I chomp on Feta and swallow olives and ask for extra anchovies in my salad. And I get fluid retention and grumpy as hell and turn to alcohol to ease the pain.

You'd be in pain too if you'd been eating stock cubes.

So next time you are grumpy with PMS and cursing your hormonal surges, spare a thought for me. I am sitting at my kitchen bench eating stock cubes washed down with gin and tonic. It ain't pretty.

What does PMS look like for you?

A Letter of Resignation

To My Family & Friends,

After around thirty seconds consideration and with a heavy heart, I have decided to resign from my position as Mother.

I have enjoyed working with my children for the past nearly fourteen years. Unfortunately, however, this latest outbreak of lice has made my position as head of the family (no pun intended) to be untenable.

There are several reasons why I have come to my decision.

1. There was no mention made of the possibility of lice when I took on the position of Mother. I feel that I was tricked into a role that I did not agree to.
2. Removing lice from my children's hair is virtually a full time job in itself. There is simply no time in the day to attend to other parenting duties, such as feeding my kids, bathing them, doing the laundry, and drinking wine.
3. Lice are revolting.
4. Lice removal lotions smell terrible.
5. My children are clean. Lice, apparently, like clean hair. This creates a paradox which leads to severe cognitive dissonance which causes me extreme stress.
6. I can't claim worker's compensation for my extreme stress because Motherhood doesn't come with insurance.
7. My children complain that their heads are itchy then they complain when I put the lice potion on them then they complain even more when I use the fine toothed comb. I can't win. What is the point of a job where I cannot win?
8. There is no pay. There has never been any pay, but this is completely unacceptable now that I have to remove lice.

So goodbye children, and goodbye Motherhood. It's been fun. Some of the time. The rest of the time has been lice.

I wish me the best of luck with all my future endeavours.

Kerri

Betrayal... And Forgiveness.....And Olives...

I love my friend Lana. I do. I cherish her friendship, I cherish her unconditional support of me, and I cherish the fact that she nearly always pays for drinks when we go out. (I tried last night, I really, truly did, but she beat me to it. She's sneaky that way.)

However, last night Lana betrayed me in a fundamental way, which left me shocked and desperate. Even now, 16 hours later, I am struggling to reconcile my love for her with her extreme disloyalty. It is hard. I hope one day I will get through this.

We met for a drink at a wine bar near our kids' school, as the kids were busy at a school disco. (For the record, my five year old can dance like nobody's business. The child has moves on her never seen by human eyes before.) We drank a jug of sangria, and split a bowl of olives, and caught up on each other's lives. It was heaven.

I didn't notice anything was wrong. I thought that we were as close as ever. We went back to school and I collected my kids, and chatted and laughed with some of the other parents. All was fine. Or at least I thought it was.

(mouth shown not author's own)

But then I got in my car, and looked in the rear view mirror. And I saw it. As clear as daylight, only black, which is not at all like daylight, but rather like night - very, very black night.

A big piece of olive stuck between my two top teeth.

I was devastated. And horrified. Because Lana, my dear, dear friend Lana, had not informed me that I had olive between my teeth.

I felt sad. I felt betrayed. I felt hurt. And then I sent her a message asking how she could have done such a thing.

"Sorry," she replied. "I was trying to find your ears."

And just like that, I forgave her.

You Want Schnitzels? Go Pound Yourself.

My husband is a very easy man to please – gastronomically, anyway. He loves every meat, as long as it’s schnitzel, and every vegetable on earth, if it’s potato, and fried. And even though I hate cooking at the best of time, and schnitzels are the messiest, splatteriest, most annoying things to make, my greatest joy is pleasing my husband*. 

So every now and then, I will buy a mountain of chicken, and a huge pile of veal, and fry up enough schnitzels to last the year. Or at least feed my husband for a week or two.

Last night was one of those nights. I prepped the kitchen, pouring a mound of flour on one plate, a mound of breadcrumbs on another, and a bowl of whisked eggs in the middle. Then I added my secret ingredient , love (using ‘love’ in the sense of ‘combination of herbs, spices and salt’), and began pounding the meat.

Totally (not) my schnitzel

Now, let me tell you: I don’t like pounding the meat. Bits of chicken spray gets into my hair, and tiny shreds of veal get up my nose, and the whole thing is sickly carnivorous and gross. And then my five year old needed a bath, and my husband took ages to come and get her, and it was totally unfair because I was cooking him bloody schnitzels and the very least he could do was take one third of our joint offspring off my hands.

So I kept on pounding the meat, hard. Like, really hard. I wasn’t just pounding that meat. I was pounding my husband, and the bits of chicken spray in my hair, and the veal in my nose, and the whole unfairness of my life, of having to spend hours messing up my kitchen only to spend hours cleaning it up again when everyone around me just hung about taking it easy. I pounded and pounded until the kids became alarmed and my husband appeared before me.

“What are you doing?” he asked warily, looking as anxious as if I was wielding a mallet in my hands, which, of course, I was.

“I’m making you schnitzels,” I yelled.  “And you’ve forgotten about the bath!”

“I just ran it,” he said carefully. “Um... I think the chicken is ready.”

I looked down. The piece of chicken was in tatters. There would be no schnitzel for this particular bit of bird. There wasn’t even enough left for a nugget.

Chastened, I continued to prepare the rest of the meat. I dunked and I dipped and I rolled and I fried, and then I presented my family with a nutritious meal (using ‘nutritious’ in the sense of ‘containing trace amounts of protein amongst lots and lots of oil’). And then I sat down at the table with my own nutritious meal of Gin and Tonic and a slice of cheese (because I never wanted to look at schnitzel again), before rising seven minutes later to start cleaning.

It took one and a half hours. And another glass of gin.

My husband can be a very easy man to please. But next time he wants pleasure in the kitchen, he’s going to have to bite the bullet, and damn well please himself.

*Okay, so it’s maybe not my greatest joy, but it’s certainly up there in my top fifty.

The Accidental Drunk

So last night I accidentally got drunk. And when I say that, I don't mean that I accidentally drank too much and ended up inebriated (though of course that's exactly what happened, because there's really no other way one can get drunk, but it was far more complicated than that, and it really wasn't my fault, and... and...  perhaps I should just stop the preamble and get into the story).

As many of you will know, I do tend to have a little drinkie most nights on occasion. Come 5pm 7pm, I am tired from my long, hard day as a Busy Working Mum, and am ready to unwind with a glass of something mood altering. A gin and tonic, a vodka and tonic or a glass of cab sav is enough just to take the edge off my brittle corners and relax me for the evening. I don't get drunk. I don't lose control. I just feel..... ahhhhhhhh.

Of course, there are occasions when I decide to drink a little bit more, but these are few and far between*, and never, never in front of my kids. Trust me - I am unstable enough without alcohol; I don't like to impose my intoxicated self on my offspring.

Sangria. Who knew?

But last night was an accident. You see, last night as usual The Architect and I had no plans, so we decided to take the kids to dinner at a local restaurant. The kids ordered burgers, The Architect ordered something soupy with seafood, and I ordered a healthy chicken salad and a half litre of sangria.

Now, normally I can drink sangria till it's coming out of my ears. A half a litre will barely give me a buzz; it's like pink lemonade, only vaguely ethnic. So I poured myself a huge glass and drank it down on an empty stomach, pronounced it delicious, and then poured another.

And then suddenly the room started to spin. Oh god, I thought. Salt. I needed salt.

"CHIPPIES!" I cried, and fell on my daughter's plate, cramming them into my mouth handfuls at a time.

"Oh dear," said The Architect wearily. He could see the signs.

I leaned in to him earnestly and took his face in my hands. "I don't think I can drive," I told him conspiratorially. "THEY'VE. SPIKED. MY. DRINK."

"It's called 'alcohol'," he said. "Come on kids. Finish your dinner. Mummy's drunk."

"What's the matter?" I asked him, poking him repeatedly in the ribs. "Don't you love me anymore? That makes me so sad. You have to love me! TELL ME YOU LOVE ME!"

"Yes, yes," said the poor man. "Try to calm down."

"I AM CALM!" I cried. "I'M JUST A BIT DRUNK!"

"What's wrong?" asked my son.

"DRUNKETYY DRUNKETYY DRUNK!" I told him, and giggled. My son shrugged.

"Can I have a milkshake Mum?" asked my daughter.

"After a burger and chips?" I exclaimed. "SURE!!!"

The kids beamed. It made me happy. And when I'm happy I want ice cream.

"I WANT ICE CREAM!" I cried. "WHO WANTS ICE CREAM?"

"We want ice cream!" yelled the kids.

"HOORAY!" I cheered.

We finished our meal and The Architect bundled us out of the restaurant. I left my bag inside but quickly remembered when the waitress reminded me. And then The Architect drove us home and I giggled again as I walked inside.

"That was FUN!" I declared. "Now I just need a QUICK LIE DOWN and then I'll PUT THE KIDS TO BED!"

I collapsed on our bed and fell immediately asleep. It was 8.15pm. I woke up this morning at 8.30am, feeling  vibrantly refreshed and craving Vegemite toast.

The Architect, however, looked exhausted. Funny. I thought it was a really relaxing night.

*truly, Al and Val - I hadn't had to ask anyone to take my pants off for me in years

RIP iPad. And My Sanity.

So yesterday I had to take my iPad to be euthanized fixed. It was an emotional time for me, because a) I am very attached to my iPad, and b) my five year old was screaming at me and hitting me on the leg because I didn't buy her a (second) chocolate.

I had made an appointment at the Apple store, and rushed like a crazy person to be there on time. Sadly, the twenty five thousand staff members didn't seem to have quite the same sense of urgency, because they sent me over to sit at a table with several other people (including one man who appeared to be a homeless person  who came to use the free WiFi and a woman who I could actually hear seething) for at least another fifteen minutes.

Artist's Impression Of My iPad Screen

I killed time swatting at the five year old on my leg and hacking into the Apple Store computer (which involved swiping the screen and pressing one button). I discovered that I was described on their appointment list as 'Woman In Multi-Coloured Singlet', which pleased me, as alternative titles could well have been 'Tired Looking Middle Aged Mother With Fuzzy Hair', 'Chick With One Enormous Sticky-Out Ear' or 'Person Attached To Extremely Loud And Annoying Five Year Old'.

Finally, a pleasant looking twelve year old dude with roguish long hair came over to serve me.

"So what seems to be the problem?" he asked.

"My screen is broken," I said. "I can hear the iPad working, but the screen is dead."

"Ah..." he nodded wisely. "That's difficult, because the screen is one of the most important parts."

I nodded too. "Yes," I agreed. "Because without the screen you can't actually see anything."

He nodded again, a little uncertainly this time. "Um... well, I'll just go see if I can restore the screen with *insert technical term I didn't understand here*".

"Okay," I said, and rubbed my leg where the five year old was gnawing on it.

A few minutes later the twelve year old returned with my iPad.

"Unfortunately the *insert technical term I didn't understand here* didn't fix the problem. You will have to purchase a new iPad at *insert price that made me weep here*."

"Okay," I said, and rubbed my eyes where the tears were flowing. Given, I had no idea whether he was telling the truth or not, as I a) didn't understand the technical term, and b) had no idea whether he actually performed said technical thingy that I didn't understand. But I had absolutely no choice. He was twelve, and I knew nothing about fixing iPads, so I handed over the money.

Which leaves me here, now, with my brand new iPad and a lot less money. Bruised, but not broken.

Okay, a little bit broken. But less broken than my poor old iPad. At least, according to the twelve year old. Who may or may not have been telling the truth....

Yup. Can somebody please pass the vodka?

Home. Vodka. Home.

Yesterday was our first full day at home since returning from hell Surfers Paradise. I was looking forward to a relaxing day after the trauma of the recent week.

I was sadly disappointed.

Here is a breakdown of my schedule yesterday. There is a thousand dollar gift voucher for anyone who can pick the moments of 'relaxing' that I actually achieved in the day.

7am - Wake to the sounds of Spongebob Squarepants. Feed & water children, put on 17 billion loads of laundry, unpack suitcases, regard pile of clean laundry to be folded and put away, sit in corner weeping for several minutes.

10am - Book tickets on the internet for son and husband to see The Hobbit at 12.20am. Sweep up rabbit poo and clean the fish tank. Weep for another couple of minutes when I realise a piece of poo has fallen down my tracksuit pants.

11am - Go with husband and 5 year old to visit a friend who is on weekend leave from hospital. Scream in horror at 12am when I realise that the movie starts in twenty minutes and husband and son are not there.

12am - Drive extremely fast safely back home with husband and 5 year old (and, inexplicably, friend's 8 year old daughter) to pick up son. Drive son and husband to movies. Get there only two minutes late. Drive home in cold sweat. Sit in corner weeping for several minutes. Supervise 3 little girls in the pool whilst the pile of laundry grows like the magic fucking pudding.

3pm - Go to pick up husband and son. Stop to pick up house keys from kind friends who were bunny sitting in our absence. Drive back home with husband and son (and, inexplicably, friend's 5 year old daughter). Arrive home. Husband announces he is going to work for a few hours, leaving me alone with five children and a now dangerously teetering mountain of laundry. Sit in corner weeping for several minutes.

4pm - Realise I am out of some vital supplies such as alcohol, milk, bread, medication, alcohol, fruit, bunny food, and alcohol. Further realise with growing horror that I am trapped in the house with five children. Further realise with tears of fear in my eyes that I will need to take at least two of the children with me to the shops.

5.30pm - Arrive home from Westfield with several bags of shopping, two five year olds high on sugar, and the loss of at least eight years off my life after chasing said five year olds around the supermarket for an hour. Throw some sushi at the kids (who, like the laundry, seem to be multiplying like the magic fucking pudding) and crack open the vodka.

6.30pm - Husband arrives home and enquires politely about dinner. I respond, less politely, and have another vodka.

7pm - I can't remember because VODKA.

8pm - Um... Vodka?