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Posts Tagged ‘drunk in public’

I’ll be frank with you. Turning up at a live music gig with my friend The Fabulous Miss Jones to see my very first Childhood Crush play felt a little bit like going to my school reunion with a supermodel.

Before the gig, I left a message on my Childhood Crush’s facebook wall saying:

“If I don’t get to talk to you tonight, can you pretend that the tall leggy blonde you saw in the audience was me? Thanks.”

When I told my husband about my misgivings, I thoroughly expected he would give me a little pep talk about how I’d impress the Childhood Crush with my sparkling wit and personality. Instead, he said “You should wear a dress that shows off your breasts.”

So I did. I mean, there’s something about revisiting the flames of your past that makes you want to look your Absolute Best – even if it’s just your breasts looking their Absolute Best.

Sadly, I once saw a Former Love in a food court in the city. I instantly knew it was him – after all, the bastard had broken my heart. He, in turn, looked over at me with some uncertainty. You see, it was shortly after the birth of The Pixie and I was the bloated shadow of my former self. So I kept my head down and thanked the Lord that I had used my ‘Starbucks Name’ when ordering my Boost juice.

[An aside: for those of you who are unaware of the Starbucks Name concept, it’s an easy-to-grasp pseudonym adopted by those poor souls endowed with Eastern European names with complex spelling who don’t want to be shouting “NO, NO! THAT’S ‘M’ FOR MOTHER!” over the din of a food court. ]

So when my Starbucks Name was called and it clearly wasn’t my name, the Former Love obviously decided it wasn’t me and went back to his conversation with his colleague. And I was able to waddle home to my suburban lair, Boost juice in hand.

Of course, ever since I became sohotrightnow, I have not seen him. Not once. The universe must hate me.

Anyway, back at the live gig, my Childhood Crush was very handsome and charming and gave The Fabulous Miss Jones, me and my breasts equal attention and I went home with that reassuring feeling that I’d had excellent taste in men at the age of 13. Result.

But here’s the thing… I also went home perilously late and extremely very drunk (another good reason not to go places with The Fabulous Miss Jones: neither of us have ‘Moderate’ as our middle name) and woke early in the morning fully dressed on the couch.

Except, I wasn’t fully dressed.

As I tried to drift back to sleep, I became suddenly – and terrifyingly – aware of the fact I wasn’t wearing any underpants. And, not being one to go commando for no good reason, I knew for certain I had started the evening wearing underpants…

When I got up later, I started looking for them. I looked everywhere: the laundry baskets, the bin, the fridge (yes, the fridge), under the couch, in the toilet. But they were nowhere to be seen. I even rang The Fabulously Hungover Miss Jones to ask her if she knew where they were. She denied all knowledge.

When my husband got home from work, we casually chatted about our days for a while before I tentatively raised the question of my underpants.

“Oh, yes. I found them with your handbag on the back table,” he said. “I put them in the washing machine because I didn’t think your father [our current house guest] needed to see them.”

Which at least explained their whereabouts… but not why they had been taken off or, indeed, when they had been taken off…

Listen, whatever happened, I’d like it to be stated for the record that it wasn’t me. It was someone who looked a helluva lot like me but had my Starbucks Name. Yeah, that’s it.

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When I originally accepted an invitation to the Members Area at The Races with the freshly-single Mild-Mannered Lawyer, I imagined that I would mostly be there on some kind of security detail. You know, screening the menfolk as they approached her: “Sorry, your shoes are too beige, git away back!… How much do you earn? Okay, you can talk to her but you Can. Not. Touch…. You? You’re cute. But I might have to snog you first as a precautionary measure…” Etcetera, etcetera. 

I also imagined that I would look reminiscent of a slightly older yet still beguiling Audrey Tautou in the black 1960s cocktail dress I had chosen to wear and that we would both be sitting around on a red velvet chairs in the Member’s Lounge, being elegant and witty and drink champagne from crystal-cut glasses. 

What I didn’t count on was that I would still be in incredible pain and heavily medicated following my oral surgery the previous week. That the only way I could possibly be said to resemble Audrey Tautou was if she were to play the role of a mad woman who’d decided to store nuts for winter in one half of her face. And that I would make a last-minute – and somewhat uncharacteristic – decision to wear heels. And that there would be nowhere at all to sit – not even along the long concrete ledges where there’d be some girl sitting with a couple of half-drunk alco-pops who’d say “Sorry, those seats are taken!” and make me mutter loudly to the MML “Oh, the poor dear. She thinks those bottles are her little friends.” Not to mention that she counted a narrow concrete ledge as “seats”. Desperate times, people. Desperate times. 

Nor could I have foretold that the MML would insist on placing bets with the independent bookies and that I’d end up saying “I bet you don’t get to see big money like this very often!” to one bookie as I poured a handful of twenty cent coins into his hand for a “$1 bet each way on Horse 14”. 

Or that I’d win $42 off the $9 I placed in bets.

Or that we wouldn’t get an iota of male attention until the very last race, by which time we’d have drunk three bottles of champagne between us and all my weight would have slowly transfered to the front of my feet so that my two big toes were essentially holding up my 75kg frame. And that I’d be almost pathetically grateful for the pain because it at least took my mind off my aching jaw. 

Anyway, let’s just say that I wasn’t exactly in a discerning state of mind when a gaggle of 30-something boys in crisp suits and pastel ties surrounded us and started making remarks about gettin’ them some sweet cougar lovin’ even though we clearly weren’t that much older than them. Clearly. Good-natured creatures that we were (we were also very drunk), we let them take photos of us and examine out our fingers for wedding ring marks and The MML even spot-checked each of them for “beer girth” – although, ostensibly, that should have been my job in my capacity as her Door Bitch. Some friend I turned out to be. 

Then, when they suddenly disappeared off to the bar and the one left behind to “mind us” decided to call his mother – yes, his mother – the MML and I had a quick conference.

“Do you think they’ve gone off to buy us a magnum of Moet?” I asked her, always hopeful.

“I don’t know,” The MML replied. “They might just come back with five coldies for themselves.”

Which it was, we’ll never know. We chose to slink off mysteriously into the crowd, like the cougars that we were. And actually, it was lucky we didn’t stay because, as the MML herself put it later, if she’d drunk any more champagne she might have thrown up and that might have “ruined the magic”.

Anyway, the point is this: who’d have known that I could wear heels and drink as much as I did on the amount medication I was on without falling over?  Or that my fascinator would end up staying on my head and not falling in the toilet? Or that I’d end up spending so little and laughing so much at a day at the races?

Thanks for a great day out, MML.

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When all is said and done, I like to think I give good facebook. Why, just the other day, my status update read:

[The NDM] got dressed up, went to the city, drank cocktails, watched a great show, drank more cocktails, didn’t fall over, caught the bus home and threw up. In that order.

Which summed up my recent Mothers’ Group Night Out quite nicely, with the omission of one or two important facts. 

Such as that we drank piccolos of champagne on the train into town, which we hid in our handbags between sips, like teenage girls but classier. Or that I let Mistress M and KT give me a Generation Y hairdo. Or even that many of us had started drinking at 3pm. 

And then there was the groovy bar in which the aforementioned consumption of cocktails took place. It was a strange and wonderful place. For one thing, the interior consisted of fake grass and garden furniture. But even stranger still, was the mix of clientele. On one table, there was a group of middle-aged men in anoraks, sporting “bum bags” (aka the more titilating “fanny packs” in the US), like they were on some kind of walking tour of the city. And on another table was the most sedate hen’s party ever. Despite their traditionally outrageous headgear (which politely alerted the public to their hen party status) they sat around like they were having afternoon tea with the local vicar. And what’s more, the party was starting to wind up and it was only six o’clock.

“What the hell is wrong with them?” I whispered to KT. “You’d think somebody was getting married or something…”

But KT was too busy eying off an untouched plate of sandwiches on their table. Which I myself had clocked the very minute we sat down. 

“Do you think they’re going to eat that food?” KT whispered back.  

“No. Do you think we should nick it?”

Yes.

Of course, the waiting staff must have been onto us. While I say we were whispering, the truth is we were probably using our Outside Voices because of all that fake grass. Oh, and possibly because of all that alcohol we’d drunk, too. Anyway, the very second the last of the hen’s group left, the waiter swooped in to start clearing away the table.  

But that didn’t stop us. Or, rather, it didn’t stop KT, who boldly went right up to the waiter and said: “We couldn’t help but notice those sandwiches haven’t been touched. Do you think we might have them, please?” 

The waiter, a prim young man was visibly horrified. He was clearly someone who had never finished off a butterfly cupcake that somebody else’s two year-old had already licked the cream off, let alone someone who pushed the bounds of The Five Second Rule as far as five hours with alarming regularity.

“Those sandwiches, madam, are chicken!” he exclaimed. “And they’ve been at the table for over two hours.” And then he shook his head firmly at KT, and then, for good measure, looked over at the rest of us, and shook his head firmly again. 

“Hey, I’m the one who says ‘No’ round here!” I felt like shouting. But then I realised that “round here” wasn’t my own habitat, and that there was no room in the Big City for the rather dubious food hygiene standards I applied in my own home. 

KT, unruffled, came back to the table, her head held high.

“Well, it’s a waste of good food!” she exclaimed loudly, in her best mother voice. And we all tutted disapprovingly and muttered things about “the youth of today” and “what a sinful waste” until we had drunk enough cocktails to forget all about it. And when I threw up later, it had nothing and yet EVERYTHING to do with those chicken sandwiches. 

Still, if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer it if the prim young waiter didn’t find out I threw up later that night. I have a feeling he’d shake his head again and maybe even say “I told you so!”. And that just would not do.

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