‘You know the longer you leave it, the fussier you will become, and you’ll never meet the right guy for you at those bars you love to haunt.’
Bingo! My chance to pounce has arisen. She’s totally set this up for me. Pure magic.
‘You know, Soph, you’d be surprised at just who you meet at the bars. Just two weeks ago I met a guy out on his buck’s night. Poor guy must have been dreading the wedding because he spent the whole night buying me drinks and trying to get into my pants. Think he was getting married this weekend.’ I pause for effect. Yes, I know it’s a bit evil of me, but it’s revenge for all the horrors this witch has put me through over the years. ‘God, what was the guy’s name? Steve? Stelios? Nah, jeez, I know it started with ‘S’ … I guess that only leaves Spiro! Yeah, that’s it! You know I’m pretty sure he was getting married this weekend. Actually I think it’s on as we speak. I hope the fake number I gave him didn’t completely shatter his faith in his ability to be a cheating husband.’ I see the glances between Sophia and Spiro and I can see the open mouths of everyone within earshot at my table. My work here is done. Bubble burst, the honeymoon is over. They don’t call me the Queen of Revenge for nothing.
‘Come on, Soph.’ The man finally speaks. My God, for a minute I thought his mouth had been welded shut. ‘We’ve got other people to see.’
Sophia pulls her arm away from Spiro and I hear her hiss, ‘We’ll talk about this later. Of all people you had to crack on to her!’
At the end of the day I’m kind of glad I came along to my dear cousin’s wedding. It was priceless. Seeing the look on Sophia’s face when she figured out where I knew her dear hubby from was worth the whole torturous evening. I don’t know who I feel sorrier for, Spiro because Sophia will have him by the short and curlies and he’ll be afraid she’ll do a Lorena Bobbitt if he glances sideways, or Sophia for getting herself into a such a farce of a marriage. The bottom line is, I know (as do most of the people here) that it’s a farce. I found out that her father provided a nice dowry for the newlyweds. A mortgage-free home, a six-week honeymoon in Greece and a nice down payment on a fencing business for the groom to start up when they return. That’s quite a bit of money. I can’t believe that Sophia was so desperate to get married that she was willing to have her father buy her a husband. That’s sad, no matter how you look at it. You’ve got to feel a bit sorry for her, knowing that her husband valued her for the dollars that she could bring him instead of valuing her as a person. I’m so glad I’m single. I would rather be single for the rest of my life than in Sophia’s shoes.
----------2----------
Thank God that torture is over. Back home, quick change of clothes and out of here. I know exactly where to find everyone. It was definitely a gift from the heavens that the bride and groom were so desperate to get out of there that by midnight it was all over. Perfect timing, I won’t miss any action down at the bars. Nothing kicks off early anyway and there is no way I will be sitting at home before midnight on a Saturday night. I do have an image to protect.
I find the crew easily. They’re so predictable – sitting in the first bar I come to. I manage to piss off a few little teenyboppers when I bypass the queue and walk right in, leaving them standing on a street corner on a cold Melbourne night, worried that the predicted rain will start falling and all the women’s hair will frizz and curl. It’s just not the done thing for these kiddies to show up at a bar with an umbrella, despite the fact they live in Melbourne, the city where if you don’t like the weather all you’ve got to do is wait a minute. It will change. Four seasons in one day, and if you’re lucky you’ll be subjected to the worst extreme at the worst possible moment.
My mates Johnny, Tom, Connie, Voula, Mario, Soula and a few others are all in the middle of shots when I find them and they take little to no time to include me in the festivities. This is our usual Saturday night ritual. We start of at quieter bar, down a few drinks, and us girls shatter a few guys who think they stand a chance with us and still haven’t gotten the hint when their wallet’s are empty. Move on to the other bars. We hit them all in the course of the night and by the time dawn breaks you can’t tell one bar from the other. They all have the same setup, similar decor, but I still love it. I love the beat of the music beneath my feet. The pulse of the city races right through me as I hit the dance floor. We always have something to celebrate and tonight numerous toasts will be made in my honour and my triumph over Sophia and Spiro.
God I need to pee. The only drawback to bars in the city is the queues at the bathrooms. The queues to get into the clubs are easy to bypass but there is no cutting the line when it comes to the bathroom. Women can be vicious when it comes to bladder control. The wait for the bathroom is the true reason why we women don’t go the toilet alone. The wait is too boring. At least I have Voula to keep me company, although at the moment I seem to be holding her up more that than her holding me up. She started drinking a lot earlier than me and she is absolutely rooted now.
‘Hey Vouls. You okay?’ Man, if she doesn’t stop swaying she’s going to make me hurl.
‘Sweet, Des. Nothing wrong that this little baby won’t fix.’
What the hell has she got in her hands? Not again.
‘Want one, Des? Want one?’
I have no idea what she is holding in her hand but I know it can’t be good. And I am in no condition to deal with another overdose, or with trying to get Voula down in time for her to go home, making sure her family is none the wiser.
‘Pass, Voula. Vodka gives me all the buzz I need. What the hell is that and who the fuck did you score off in here?’
‘Relax, Des. It’s just an eccie. It’ll keep you bouncing all night.’
Who did she score off this time? The last time she scored off a guy she had just met it ended up costing her an ambulance trip to the hospital and a stomach pumping. I so cannot believe that her parents bought the whole ‘someone spiked my drink’ bullshit. How naïve can they be?
‘Who did you get it from?’ I need to know if tonight’s festivities are going to involve me sobering her up and getting her to a hospital again.
‘Relax. Johnny’s got a nice stash tonight. Go grab a couple, Des, and loosen up.’
And off she goes. Jeez I hate nightclub toilets.
By the time we hit the last bar it’s seven in the morning and none of us can ignore the rumblings of our stomachs. Food is needed, and after a heated debate we decide the safest option for breakfast is a cafe on Lygon Street as opposed to a post-alcoholic souvlaki at Stalactites. I personally love Stalactites – it’s a Melbourne institution, open twenty-four hours a day, and every Greek in the city ends up there after a big night out. But chances are too great that I will run into my ex there. He’s so predictable and I’m just not in the mood to end up in a fight with him that would probably end with me pushing him in front of an early-morning street sweeper. It’s not that I am a violent person, but Denny always manages to bring out the worst in me.
I finally arrive home at about eight-thirty in the morning, hoping that my folks have already left for church. Unfortunately they’re still home. I manage to get to my bedroom without hearing the whole tirade: ‘What sort of time is this for a girl to be coming home? What will the neighbours think? You better not be mixed up with some bum!’ I slur a few half-hearted responses before I get to the safety of my bedroom, slam the door shut, strip off and fall into an alcohol-induced coma. In a few hours I’ll emerge with a thumping head, hating myself for drinking so much and on the hunt for some greasy food. KFC on awaking I think. Goodnight.
I am never drinking again in my life. Never, ever again. I will remain sober for the rest of my life. I will develop an allergy to vodka. This is my usual Sunday morning chant. Every Sunday morning I swear the same thing. Every Sunday morning I swear that this will be the last ever hangover. This time I mean it. Never, ever again. My head is thumping and my mouth feels like something died in there last night. Oh my God, someone please shoot me. A ni
ce quick bullet in the head would be better than having to face the afternoon with my whole family. I squint a look at my alarm clock. The display torments me. One forty-seven in the afternoon. I have thirteen minutes maximum before the whole clan arrives – brother, sister, their partners and their kids. This is going to be painful.
This is a regular thing for my family. Every bloody Sunday without fail, by two in the afternoon everyone is there. My perfect sister with her perfect husband and her four perfect children. Then my brother with his oh-so-pregnant ‘she’s ready to explode’ wife. And do you think that my family feels any sympathy for me in my alcohol-induced state? Not a chance. I have to be there. I have to play with the children, amuse them, and amuse the adults with my single status, because the main topic of conversation at these gatherings is always me, and when I’m going to grow up, settle down and finally take something seriously in my life. A successful career and securing your future is not commitment in their eyes. It’s simply a passing hobby until I find a man to look after me.
So out of bed I get and throw on the first clothes I find. I prepare myself for battle. I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear the doorbell ring. Here come the troops, get the ammunition ready.
My sister, Effie, walks in, followed by her ever-loyal husband Andreas (for some reason they all refuse to simplify and call him Andrew – they claim it diminishes his true identity, his Hellenism or something like that). Following suit are the perfect four offspring: Fotis, the oldest at five, Con, just turned four, and the twins, Maria and Eleni, at two. My God, Effie’s uterus must be about ready to abandon her.
‘Yiasoo Ma. Hi Dad.’
Being the perfect daughter that she is, Effie plants a kiss on both my parents’ cheeks, instructs the children to do the same, and then turns her attention to me. ‘Desi, nice to see you awake and dressed. I thought you only came out at night.’
The battle has begun, with Effie drawing first blood, and it is my sisterly duty to finish her off.
‘Ef, I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to spend some quality time with you and your brood. After all, I only get to see them every day of the week. You know that’s nowhere near enough.’
Like many good Greek grandparents, my mother can’t enjoy being retired from paid work – she has to raise my sister’s children while my sister and her husband run their fish and chip shop. So every day, the kids get to my place at about nine in the morning and they’re gone by ten at night – if we’re lucky. More often than not Effie decides that they should sleep here because it’s such a shame to wake them. My mother fails to recognise that Effie and her dear husband are simply taking advantage of her. My mother fails to see all of Effie’s flaws because, as far as she is concerned, Effie doesn’t have any. Effie is perfect. The perfect wife, the perfect daughter and daughter-in-law, and the perfect mother. She did everything just right. Got married at the right age (twenty), produced the right amount of grandchildren (four), and managed to nab the right husband – donkeys years older than her but he already owned his own home and a business. See, she’s perfect, and I, on the other hand, am the devil child who can’t do a thing right.
Just as my darling sister is about to fire off another round, the front door swings open and in walks Tas and Poppy. Poppy looks like she is ready to explode even though she is only five months pregnant. By the time she’s ready to give birth she’s going to be as big as a house.
‘Hey Des,’ Tas yells out. ‘You look like shit.’ I can always count on Tas to be honest. Brutally at times, but that’s just the way things are with the two of us.
‘Oh, yeah, well, coming from you that’s a compliment.
How’s it going, Poppy?’ I know I shouldn’t laugh but she is so struggling to carry that stomach around.
‘Oh, good, Desi. Just tired. I reckon the doctors have made a mistake and there’s like five kids in here.’ She’s right. She looks like she is carrying a lot more than just one baby.
Everyone settles into the lounge room while Mum stays in the kitchen and tends to lunch, and Dad and Andreas hang around in the garden and discuss ways that they can make their tomatoes grow faster, bigger and redder. Riveting stuff.
I can’t believe my baby brother is going to be a daddy. What a spin. He’s so young – only twenty-three – and here he is, married with a mortgage and a baby on the way. Don’t get me wrong, I’m really happy for him. After all, he got out of this hellhole that I’m stuck in, but couldn’t he have waited a little bit, until he was a bit older? Or until I was out of here so I wouldn’t have to face the crap that my parents dish out all on my own? Tas was always my backup. I trained him so well, that when he was around Mum and Dad never knew what time we got in or what we were up to. Now their whole attention is focussed on me and my so-called pathetic excuse for a life. I need my Tas back home.
So, here we are, another riveting Sunday with my family. I do love them, and there’s no way that I would ever be able to manage without them. It’s just that they drive me absolutely insane. If they could just get over this infatuation they have with marrying me off and let me live my own life in the manner that I see fit, we would all be happy. If they could accept that I am not Effie, the perfect daughter, or Poppy, the dutiful daughter-in-law, that I am me, and no matter what they do they can’t change that, then all would be right in our worlds.
There’s only one person who isn’t constantly disappointed in me, the only person who tells me that I shouldn’t change for anyone and who tells me that I should enjoy my life now, while I can. My darling grandmother – my Yiayia. How is it possible that she actually gave birth to my mother? They are so different. It is almost as if they are from different planets. I can’t wait for my Yiayia to come back from Greece. She’s been there for three months now and I need her back in my corner. She’s going to move in with us when she gets back. It’s just too hard for her being on her own now that my grandfather is gone. Besides, having her here means that there is someone who can finally put my mother in her place when she gets out of control. Two more weeks and my Yiayia comes back. Two more weeks and I finally have someone in my corner. Someone whose advice I know I can always depend upon and someone who I know will never tell me what a big disappointment I am. Someone who loves me just for who I am. For me.
----------3----------
Monday morning. How I hate Monday mornings. I may be able to get to work on time but I can never actually function when I get there. All I know is that Monday morning should not start until at least one-thirty in the afternoon so that people like me can be eased back into the normality of the working week. Why did I go out last night? Why did I stay out until four in the morning when I knew that I had to be up at six? Why the hell did my boss roster me as the first team leader on duty this week when he knows that I do not function in the morning?
I walk into the main entrance. Literally into the main entrance as I forget to swipe my security pass. Soothing the bump that is sure to appear on my forehead, I wonder why the doors aren’t swinging open. Then I remember – pass required for access before standard business hours. I really should remember that for the rest of the week. Walking in to work covered in bruises is really not a good look.
I manage to get to my desk without banging into any walls. Not bad on two hours sleep and a wee bit of a hangover. I know, I know, I swore black and blue on Sunday morning that I would never drink again, but, hey, Sunday night is another story, another bar, and another celebration that needs to be toasted. Although I wish I could actually remember what we were celebrating. It’ll come to me eventually. But I just know that today is going to be a bad day. I can feel it in my bones.
I wasn’t wrong. It was a very bad day. Driving home, I think back over the past eight hours and can’t believe that I actually got through it. Five new staff members got dumped into my team. At least they have a couple of weeks training before they end up with me. Then we had to evacuate for a fire drill. Then a management meeting where all of us team leaders were told that w
e have one week to get all staff assessments done, and, that our team members are not performing, they spend too much time on personal phone calls, their sales are down, the collection of bad debts needs to be increased, and their sick leave is sky high and unacceptable. It all sounds like blah, blah, blah to me today. Hell, we’re a collection centre – a phone centre trying to collect bad phone debts. People pull sickies, left right. People talk on the phone for a bit too long because all that our customers want to do is bitch about how much we’re ripping them off and discriminating against them when we request payment for services rendered. When someone calls to complain that we’re being mean and nasty in sending them notices of demand for services they forgot to pay and listing them as credit risks, they really don’t want to be told about the many great products and services we have on offer that would require them to pay us more money on an ongoing basis. What the hell are we supposed to do to change that? If I have to give my team one more motivational speech, I think I may throw up in front of them.
I can’t wait to get home. All I plan on doing is curling up under the doona and sleeping till tomorrow. I’m in desperate need of sleep. Hopefully my sister’s kids will have discovered some outdoor activity that’ll keep them busy and out of my room. That’s the worst thing about starting work at seven in the morning – I’m home by four in the afternoon and the kids are still there and awake. Don’t get me wrong, I love my nephews and nieces but they’re just a little too much to cope with on no sleep. They’re so energetic and inquisitive and if they’re indoors when I get home, I know exactly where they’ll be – in my room playing with my computer, which means they will have stuffed something up. I really should get a lock on my door.
As soon as I open the front door I know that Mum has cooked already. Excellent. Will eat and hibernate till it’s time for work again. I can barely keep my eyes open. Oh my God, I am never, ever going to pull two all-nighters in a row. Never, ever again. I honestly think I am getting too old for it now.
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