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Archive for the ‘Drunk and disorderly’ Category

The other morning I woke up with some trepidation. I needn’t have worried because the hangover I’d been courting so hard the night before was nowhere to be seen. Evidently, that hangover had decided to go home with someone else instead.

It was a lucky escape because I had been The DPT at my husband’s work Christmas party the night before. You know, ‘The Drunkest Person There’. Thankfully, the party had been held in a dimly-lit bar with loud music, where the extent of my drunkenness was not obvious to anyone other than those who I was blethering on to.

Still, nobody wants to be The DPT. Nobody. Earlier in the week, I had the pleasure of declaring my husband to be the DPT in the car on the way home from a BBQ . You see, I, in my capacity as designated driver, had kept my body pure. And my mind – since for some reason, all the drunken BBQ people had been exchanging porn anecdotes. Of course it might have had something to do with me setting the tone for the evening by arriving, a peach and custard tart in my hand, and shouting “WHO’S UP FOR A BIT OF TART??”. But that’s a whole other story.

In my defence, I ended up being crowned the DPT that night at the Christmas party because I was drinking champagne on an empty stomach. And I was drinking champagne on an empty stomach because I kept missing the trays of food going around. And I kept missing the trays of food going around because I was being chatted up by a Kevin. Yes, a Kevin.

Eventually, however, I was able to handball the Kevin onto The Bride-To-Be (whose engagement party I had recently attended on the side of a mountain) and chatted instead to another of my husband’s colleagues, who admitted he hadn’t recognised me at first because he (and here I quote) “hadn’t remembered [me] being so hot.”

Yes, he used the words ‘so hot‘. I think it was all I could do to stop myself from punching the air. And, for the record, the reason he hadn’t realised I was “so hot” before was because I mostly visit the office, heavily accessorised by small children. It somewhat dampens the flame of my hotness, it must be said.

Anyway, fifteen minutes later, The Bride-To-Be came over with a horrified look on her face. She said one word and one word only:

“Kevin!”

It was at that moment I knew that I loved her. Like, really really loved her. It was hardly surprising because the “Izzzzzz loveshhhhh you!!” is one the trademarks of the DPT, along with “sobbing face down on the carpet” and walking that kind of walk that requires you to maintain constant body contact with the walls, furniture and complete strangers.

“Izzzz loveshhhh you!!!” I exclaimed with great gusto. Repeatedly. I also went on to tell her vaguely-alarmed looking fiance, Marmaduke, that I loved him, too. Repeatedly. Yes, I suddenly had a whole lotta love to hand out that night.

To the Bride-To-Be’s credit, the fact I was seventeen years her senior and evidently some kind of lesbotic cougar didn’t not deter her from agreeing to be my friend on facebook – another trademark move of the DPT (“Lezcchhhh be facebook friends…”).

And to my credit, I made being the DPT look pretty hot. You all know it. Now I just need you all to say it.

Please?

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Yesterday morning, my husband woke up to a grim reality. Not only did he face the  possibility of a conservative State government, but he also had to deal with the memory of FatherOfCrankyPants and I singing karaoke the night before. In his mind, it was hard to know which was worse.

“Perhaps the new government will do something about the karaoke problem in this area!” he said, trying to look at the brighter side of things. “The Brumby government had eleven years to fix karaoke but they did nothing. Nothing!”

“Huh! To think that our rendition of ‘I Will Survive’ might have been avoided with a more robust policy making process at a state level,” I replied, shaking my head.

Still, we’d had ourselves a great party. A chance meeting on the street had led to us inviting the CrankyPants family over for an afternoon barbeque. And then, when Mistress M had rung, scratching around for something to do on a wet Saturday afternoon, the party was complete.

I must admit that I’d had a few misgivings about having nine children trapped in our tiny house by the rain, imagining they’d be bouncing off the walls like silly putty. But the stars must have been in alignment for us because the kids quickly broke into splinter groups and discovered the dress-ups, the Wii and the Lego, leaving the adults to eat, drink and make merry for six hours.

And merry we made. Even the Glügg came out – to a far more receptive audience than the night of my 40th, it must be said, but perhaps only because the vodka came out, too. Even Mistress M’s husband ‘The Sculptor’, a naturally temperate person, entered a world of “Yes, please!” once the vodka arrived.

And then I cracked open the karaoke on the Wii. Although, FatherOfCrankyPants was the only taker amongst the adults, I did notice that The Sculptor stood in the doorway in a nonchalant “I can turn and leave at any moment” kind of way but was singing along all the same. Yes, I saw his ‘karaoke potential’ in that moment and swore to bring out the vodka and the karaoke earlier next time to fully convert him to (what my husband calls) my “karaoke ways”.

[An aside: I later found out that The Mild-Mannered Lawyer was at that very moment in the city being forced to play charades with a group of senior insurance managers, wherein she found herself having to mime ‘Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon’ to her husband’s boss. So it’s fair to say I’m not the only person who knows how to have a great time.]

At eleven, our guests left in a big walking bus (or, rather, “staggering bus”) outside our house and my husband turned to me.

“Now that,” he said. “That was my 40th.”

“What? Even though your birthday’s not until next June?” I asked.

“Well, if I was going to have a fortieth, that’s exactly what it’d be like,” he replied. “Maybe not with the karaoke, though.”

Yeah, right. As if he has any choice about that.

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Going to the Cox Plate with the Mild-Mannered Lawyer has become an annual event. It’s pretty easy for something to become an annual event, you know. You do it one year and then the following year you do it again. As they say in the classics: “Too easy!”

Last year, we were living the high life in the Members area. It was all champagne-in-glass-bottles and gourmet sausages. This year, however, we were slummin’ it in General Admission with sparkling-wine-in-plastic-bottles and rolls from “The Meat Shop”.

“Doesn’t he know who I am!” I told the MML when I heard her usual contact hadn’t been able to get us Member passes.

Indeed, when we first arrived in all our races finery, I remarked “There’s a man in skinny jeans and a ‘HEAPS COOL’ t-shirt. I clearly don’t belong here. For one thing, ‘HEAPS COOL’ is grammatically incorrect and I’m a writer, you know…”

I was also growing increasingly angry at the number of doorways we couldn’t enter because of our non-Member status. I vowed that, once we’d drunk our next bottle of champagne, I’d march up to the information counter and ask them if we, ‘The People’, would still be denied entry to the Members’ area in the event of a fire.

Of course, by the time the next bottle of champagne had been drunk, I was past caring and, in fact, had decided that General Admission was as good as Members – if not better.

For one thing, while the General Admission (GA) area was a little short on toilets and has limited access to the track (“Horses? What horses?”), at least we could sit unchallenged in a stairwell. In Members the previous year, we had found ourselves trapped in a World of No. We were always being stopped by officials for transgressing Members rules: no alcohol in lifts, no glass bottles in the stands, no napping under tables…

Also, the GA area had an AGE VERIFICATION tent where you could go up and get a little wristband allowing you to buy alcohol unchallenged. It gave me the opportunity to run up to to the bewildered Age Verification staff and blurt out “I’m – tee hee hee – turning 40 – tee hee hee – and my friend’s taking a photo – tee hee hee.”

Unfortunately, I couldn’t get an age verification wristband because I didn’t have my ID on me. I thought that was a good enough indication that I still looked under 18. Yep, that’s totally it.

Indeed, later, a jolly (=drunk) guy beckoned me over. That never happened to me in Members.

“You’re a bit geeky-looking, but you’re nice,” he said, rather generously.

“Aw, bless!” I said, patting him on his arm. “You know, mate? I hate to break it to you but I’ve got three kids and I’m turning 40 in less than two weeks.”

“Well, I’m 26 and I’m raring to go!” he replied, with some enthusiasm.

He really was very drunk, but at least he wasn’t wearing a fluorescent suit. Which is more than you could say for a lot of the GA crowd.

You see, one of the best things about the GA area was the number of men who laughed in the face of fashion and good taste. And I discovered that one of the best things about iPhones is that you can look like you’re checking your messages but secretly you can be taking photos of young men in startlingly coloured clothing, like some kind of Germaine Greer-inspired pervy-pants cougar person.

In fact, I ended up taking so many pictures that I started a segment called ‘Suit Of The Day’ on twitter. It had a theme song and everything  – although its genius was somewhat lost in a text and photo based format. It went: “Suit of the day, suit of the day, suit of the day… Suit of the day!” (I recommend you sing it as you look at the following pictures. Truly, it will enhance your viewing pleasure.)

“Next year, I’m doing ‘Shoe Of The Day’,” I told the MML a little drunkenly, as we waited for the bus to go home. “I don’t want to become typecast as the ‘Suit Girl’. I might even do ‘Shih-Tzu Of The Day’!”

Although there’s not a lot of Shih-Tzus at the races, granted. But who knows? Maybe next year, I could galvanise The People to rise up in protest to allow the Shih-Tzus of the world admission to the races, even if they are mostly owned by the Members.

You see, that’s the best thing about annual events. There’s always the promise of next year…

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