Friday, June 24, 2011
There’s something almost old-fashioned about Drunk Dialing someone. I imagine there are actually 18 year olds who have never even done it – they probably Drunk Tweet. Actually, given some of the crap that pops up on Twitter, I wouldn’t be surprised if a large percentage of its users are tweeting under the influence. But drunk dialing, remember when that used to be the way to embarrass yourself?
Of course, like so many other self-inflicted forms of harm, there’s an App for that now. If you know you intend to have a big night, you use this App to remove certain contacts from you phone book for 24 hours. The numbers of people you secretly love, or people you know secrets about, or people who really need to hear just what you think of them.
But even an App can’t fight nature, and/or a determined drunk. I once heard a friend who used this App whilst inebriated was so eager to call an old flame that she simply pulled out ancient phone bills and starting trying numbers till she found the right one.
It’s a dangerous business. Only recently some colleagues drunk-dialed every senior member of our workplace and left singing phone messages. Why did they sing Happy Birthday to our boss? Who needed to hear We Wish You A Merry Christmas? And perhaps most bizarrely, how on earth did the soundtrack of Grease come into the picture?
I have a fail-safe habit I have formed to combat all drunk dialing tendencies. I think of the one person that can’t dis-own me, judge me or hold against me anything I say at some strange hour of the night. I imagine the one person who is almost guaranteed to have a phone nearby, won’t promptly call the cops on me and cannot fire me. Then I ring Mother Painefull.
Mother Painefull is always relatively good-humoured about these calls. Probably because she’s just relieved it’s a sign I’m being social at all. It’s quite possible a part of her thinks (through the haze of the sleep I have just woken her from) ‘well it’s good to know she gets out, for a period of time I suspected I had bred a hermit’.
But Mother Painefull, mythical powers of prediction, stunning accuracy in spotting future frenemies at 20 paces and unfortunate habit of buying me clothes I will never wear aside, is also merely human. Which, I imagine, is why Mother Painefull returned the drunk dialing favour just the other day. From Bundaberg. With her 3 sisters.
The drunk dialing sisters of Bundaberg.
They each took a turn to declare to me they were the only sober one in the room, then offer a random observation of what was going on.
Mother Painefull: Painefull, I haven’t had much to drink. Aunty F has her legs in the air.
Aunty F: Painefull, don’t listen to your mother. She’s had much more than I have. Now someone’s taking their clothes off.
Aunty J: Painefull, I think I must be the only sober one here (laughs hysterically). We’ve finished 2 bottles of Cointreau.
Aunty P: Painefull, I am the only responsible one here (giggles). I think we need another drink.
As the phone got passed around from mother-to-aunt-to-aunt-to-aunt-to-mother-back-to-aunt a part of me was relieved to discover even the older generation are keeping the drunk dialing skill alive.
Also, apparently it’s genetic.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Sometimes I bring out the patience in workmates. Most of the time I bring out the honest. Below are the Top 3 statements directed at me by colleagues from the past month.
Coming in at # 3…
“Did you brush your hair today?”
Judges say: Constructive, thought-provoking, an entirely valid question.
As Helena stood beside me during a rare lull on an early shift she couldn’t help but put forth a query which probably plagues a lot of people. This narrowly beats out the moment my boss pointed out that a recent visit to the hairdresser had left the back of my head looking much better than the front. The answer to Helena’s question was a resounding no.
Rocking out at # 2…
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but without glasses on you look 10% better.”
Judges say: A well-worn set up, with a delightfully back-handed conclusion.
I had to point out that I wear glasses all the time, thus Fanny was actually saying I spend most of my life looking 10% less attractive. LJ attempted to save the day with a slight correction: I’d say more like 8% better… maybe somewhere between 8 and 10% better. I love that there are statistics involved in this - it makes it all seem so much more scientific. Thank god you can measure the important stuff.
Storming home in the #1 spot…
“You need a headbutt.”
Judges say: Snappy, elegant, and frankly, probably deserved.
I totally deserved this. This is the reply you get when you constantly, and incorrectly, call someone a Vegan for 2 months, when in fact they are a Vegetarian. The lack of meat, when combined with the mitigating factor of working with a complete smart arse such as myself, can lead to violent thoughts. Dear Vegan, I know it’s not funny. Feel free to headbutt me at will.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
If I have one piece of advice for anyone in Sydney, don’t visit The Orient. It’s a delightful establishment on the Rocks, a tourist trap if ever there was one. But if you are sipping your first drink in the vicinity of security there is a grave danger that you are a threat to those around you.
To quote security from this evening:
SECURITY: Please put down your drink, I think it’s time you leave.
SECURITY: Don’t make me get physical.
I chose not to make him get physical. Instead I was marched out of the pub by FOUR security guards, while being photographed by Jim (my paparazzi of choice).
I requested an exact explanation of the cause of my expulsion, and the bouncer, high on the career path that was his life, replied he would explain all at the exit. Instead, he smugly directed me to a forlorn looking policeman once we reached the perimeter of the establishment. Thank you Smug Face. Your smugness is duly noted. I hope life offers you all the satisfaction that being a bouncer can offer. Revel in it.
This continues my grand history of being expelled from bars while relatively sober. It is something I have long associated with my apparent Drunk Look, but when it come to The Orient, it seems to have more to do with the bizarre whim of the people they label ‘security’. Now, I know when I have had too much to drink (often it results in me telling ageing professionals that “I prefer to bump” at family events), but this was not one of those occasions (as evidenced by the fact that I have come directly home, and written this straight away while my fury is fresh).
I usually try to sympathize with the plight of the security guard, they are the lone beacon of light in the monstrous hell that is the alcoholic haze. That’s a tough beat against a rising tide in Sydney, where the battle against self-assured, under-aged inebriates is a daily grind. But occasionally (and in the case of The Orient, often) they get waylaid/drunk/inebriated on their own sense of power. On this Saturday night I experienced one such encounter, and it led to an early exit by me and my two loyal housemates.
Usually I chuckle this off ruefully, as yet another example of the physical manifestation of my constant state of sarcasm. Bouncers are naturally offended by the sarcasm I exude as a natural feature. But this time I was particularly sober, and this time my opportunity to spend time with a friend who is only briefly in the country was cut short.
Dear Orient: So long, and thanks for all the fish. Also… go fuck yourself.