• my friends will want to go to the Tav tonight and I will flatly refuse, as since I have moved to the city, I have grown out of getting shitfaced at dirty bars in the Hills.

CORRECT – in honour of the Tav’s famous night club re-opening, my school friends were extremely keen to pay $15 for the pleasure of reliving our youth by chugging breezers, dancing on a podium and getting fingered in the carpark.

• a few hours later, I will be standing on a table in the beer garden at the Tav doing shots of sambuca.

INCORRECT – I went to my parents’ house, watched an episode of Studio 60 and then went to bed. I am so boring.

• I will yell at a taxi driver and pass out in the study at my parents’ house.

INCORRECT – I was able to sleep in my old room, as the lesbian couple who has been staying there was away for Christmas.

• Mum will knock on the door at 8am tomorrow morning and ask me if I want to go to church. I will pretend not to hear her.

INCORRECT – the woman is learning.

• My brother and I will wake up 5 minutes before my parents come home from church and pretend we have been up for hours.

INCORRECT – I got up early and went for a run, then made avocado on toast and read a weight loss magazine. Oh the shame of it.

• My mother will give me a Bryce Courtenay book, which I will never read, and I will give her a scarf, which she will never wear.

CLOSE – I got a novel by Philippa Gregory (an author I liked around 2001) and a Jamie Oliver cookbook, which I will never open because I am in no way gifted when it comes to food preparation.

• My brother and I will hand each other cards containing $50. Sometimes, we just pull out our wallets and exchange notes.

INCORRECT – we have developed a new arrangement where we request very specific gifts and nobody is disappointed. I am hoping to work my mother into this system for 2011.

• My mother will drink a glass of champagne while she’s preparing a dip plate, then have a hot flush and retire to the lounge while my father finishes all other food preparation for the day.

CORRECT

• Our Christmas lunch guests will be church families and awkward singles, because my mother believes that the days surrounding Christmas are for catching up with relatives and in-laws, but Christmas Day itself should be spent with her spiritual family.

CORRECT – this year’s line up included some people who were our neighbours during the 80s and an elderly woman with severe dementia who stared at a blank television screen for most of the afternoon.

• My brother and I, faced with the prospect of a long lunch with our estranged childhood Sunday School friends, will begin putting away beers as though our lives depend on it.

CORRECT – I don’t remember much after 5pm.

• Lunch will include a lot of seafood, which I will remind my parents I do not eat. (“Oh how nice of you to provide for everyone. Thank you so much.”)

CORRECT – but my mother also made a ham, which was the cause of many arguments but tasted delicious.

• I will start a fight with someone about Christianity, get shut down by my mother, sulk for the rest of the meal and then leave the table as soon as is vaguely socially acceptable.

INCORRECT – however I did make several racist jokes which were met with awkward silence and a lot of throat-clearing.

• I will sit for half an hour with my cat and then fall asleep on the couch.

INCORRECT – I partied all day and drank cocktails in the pool. Obviously the cat decided to spend Christmas Day hanging out with all her loved ones (ie. herself.)

• I will wake up after all our guests have left and my dad will make up a fruit platter just for me. We will sit in front of the fan and watch a documentary about Hitler.

INCORRECT – after a drunken stumble to a BP station to purchase microwave popcorn, my brother’s girlfriend and I watched Ricky Gervais’ Science and then I passed out around 10pm.

• my friends will want to go to the Tav tonight and I will flatly refuse, as since I have moved to the city, I have grown out of getting shitfaced at dirty bars in the Hills.
• a few hours later, I will be standing on a table in the beer garden at the Tav doing shots of sambuca.
• I will yell at a taxi driver and pass out in the study at my parents’ house.
• Mum will knock on the door at 8am tomorrow morning and ask me if I want to go to church. I will pretend not to hear her.
• My brother and I will wake up 5 minutes before my parents come home from church and pretend we have been up for hours.
• My mother will give me a Bryce Courtenay book, which I will never read, and I will give her a scarf, which she will never wear.
• My brother and I will hand each other cards containing $50. Sometimes, we just pull out our wallets and exchange notes.
• My mother will drink a glass of champagne while she’s preparing a dip plate, then have a hot flush and retire to the lounge while my father finishes all other food preparation for the day.
• Our Christmas lunch guests will be church families and awkward singles, because my mother believes that the days surrounding Christmas are for catching up with relatives and in-laws, but Christmas Day itself should be spent with her spiritual family.
• My brother and I, faced with the prospect of a long lunch with our estranged childhood Sunday School friends, will begin putting away beers as though our lives depend on it.
• Lunch will include a lot of seafood, which I will remind my parents I do not eat. (“Oh how nice of you to provide for everyone. Thank you so much.”)
• I will start a fight with someone about Christianity, get shut down by my mother, sulk for the rest of the meal and then leave the table as soon as is vaguely socially acceptable.
• I will sit for half an hour with my cat and then fall asleep on the couch.
• I will wake up after all our guests have left and my dad will make up a fruit platter just for me. We will sit in front of the fan and watch a documentary about Hitler.

This one time, at Hotel CBD, I was drinking gin with some friends when this forty-something guy began lurking near our table. My friend, whose eloquence was matched only by her drunkenness, turned to him and said, “Fuck off, you’re old.”

His jaw dropped a little and he went and sat at the table immediately next to us, looking crestfallen. I was embarrassed, so I went over and apologised on behalf of my friend. He bought me a drink and we started chatting. He told me he was in Sydney on business and didn’t know anyone, but just wanted to chill out and have a drink in town. We talked for a while about travelling, university, and how unnecessarily rude my friend was for assuming he was trying to hit on a bunch of chicks who were clearly young enough to be his children. I mean, come on, he just wanted someone to talk to! He just wanted to hang out! No funny business or anything. And what is wrong with society these days that you can’t just go up to people and say hello without them jumping to conclusions and assuming you’re trying to fuck them? The world has truly gone down the toilet.

After a while, I noticed my friends were getting ready to leave, so I stood up and held out my hand.

Me: Have a good night.

Old man: So, can I have your number?

Me: What?

Old man: I find you very attractive and I’d like to take you out to dinner.

Me: We just had a ten minute conversation about how old you are and how it would be criminal of you to date anyone my age.

Old man: Mmm I know.

Me: If you really want to, you can add me on Facebook.

Old man: What’s that?

Me: Exactly.

He gave me his business card and I kept it for a while, because he looked so much like Drew Carey.

That pretty much sums up my dating history anyway.

Old man at bar: I saw you at the races today!
Me: I don’t think so.
Old man: Yes, I did. You were serving chips.
Me: Actually, that’s impossible, because today I was at home playing Goldeneye.
Friend: I can’t tell which one of you is the bigger loser right now.

Friend: Why do they always put the fat girls behind the bar?
Me: I don’t know, but every bartender in here just heard you say that.

Me: Do you guys take EFTPOS?
Bartender: No.
Me: Do you have an ATM?
Bartender: No.
Me: What kind of a strip club doesn’t have an ATM?
Bartender: There’s one just outside.
Me: Good. I’ll withdraw giant wads of cash on my way to a strip club with better facilities.

Me: Some guy at Bada Bing called me fat.
Ryan: Think about the start of that sentence. Most girls who start a sentence with, “some guy at Bada Bing” end it with “date raped me” so I’d say you got off lightly.

Kristen: I see Foursquare as a game. I like to score points and earn badges and stuff, so I always check in exactly where I am. I like to play fair to win fair.

Me: I like to check in to random private residences and then write creepy tips, like, “Thanks so much for tonight, it was really special…” to freak people out.

Julia: Fuck you guys. Let’s do shots.

So I did Dry July.

It was horrible and wonderful in equal measures.

I went to an engagement party, 3 farewells, a birthday, Halfway Crooks, and my own work farewell without so much as a cheeky nip.

(I smoked heaps of crystal meth though. Not really. However, I did order a steak with a red wine jus one night.)

Going out sans-booze isn’t that different from going out with booze, except that time slows inexplicably and you will have finished everything you want to do in a night after about an hour.

I became pretty productive.

I lost 4kg.

I got a new job (may or may not be related to Dry July.)

I did heaps of yoga and bought various seeds and juices and vitamins and am thinking about purchasing some incense because I have all this extra money I didn’t spend on ten beers and I don’t know what to do with it.

How to do Dry July:

1. Accept the fact that it’s okay to hang out at a bar without drinking ten beers.
2. Know that most people won’t try to pressure you too much into drinking, unless they are a dickhead.
3. If your boyf or girlf is prepared to do it with you, it’s ten times easier.
4. Don’t drink.

I celebrated the end of Dry July by getting hammered at Splendour in the Grass. It was fun, but after a point each day, I decided to switch to water. Normally I would just drink through that. The mornings afterwards, I wasn’t too hungover, but felt generally shakey and unwell. The best way I can describe it is to say that I felt vaguely poisoned, which is probably not an inaccurate way to talk about alcohol.

Will I do it again?

Probably. Maybe not a month-long stint like Dry July, but I definitely do not intend to resume my mid-week sessions any time soon. I think that drinking a lot/often is like wearing underpants that are too tight. Sometimes you don’t realise how much they’re hurting you until you take them off and surely you can’t have put on that much weight since uni and why are you even wearing the same underwear as then?

• one dead goldfish
• four towels covered in blood
• fingerless gloves
• a broken stair banister
• a toothpaste penis on the bathroom wall
• vomit splashes on the cupboard doors
• the garage door no longer opens
• someone drank half my vodka
• my birthday book got stolen
• somebody pooped in our bin

The best/only thing to do while growing up in the Hills was to go to house parties. I went to house parties every night of every weekend until I turned 18 and ditched my then-underage friends so I could go out clubbing instead with work people. I have very fond house party memories though.

Opportunities
Anytime anybody’s parents went anywhere ever, we had a house party. However, the best kids to host house parties were those with single mothers who were in the middle of messy divorces and/or distracted by alcoholism. They were too depressed to give a shit about what we did in their backyards, as long as nobody died or got pregnant.

Preparations
We spent every lunch break during grades 9-12 figuring out how we were going to get blasted on the weekend. We’d pool our money and then fight over what we wanted and who could buy it for us.

“Can we get a bottle of Midori?”
“No. Fuck the Midori.”
“We need cigarettes too.”
“Do we have enough for Cruisers?”
“Just steal a bottle of wine from your nanna. She won’t notice. She’s like a hundred and fifty.”

Then we’d organise for somebody’s older brother/sister/cousin/boyfriend or someone with a fake ID to do a bottle shop run for us. If that didn’t work, we simply hung out around the front of Liquor Land and smiled at every guy who walked past until one of them agreed to buy us booze. Sometimes they’d give us a lift to the party too. We were street-smart.

Deceptions
Usually you would tell your mum and dad that you were staying at a girlfriend’s house for a “movie night” or similar. They’d drop you off and you’d walk gingerly up the driveway, trying not to let your Country Road overnight bag full of Stoli’s and Woodstocks rattle. Then they’d collect you the following morning and you would lie on the backseat of the car in the fetal position, reeking of cigarettes and alcohol, complaining that you ate some bad party pies and might have gotten food poisoning and could you please wind down the windows, it’s like a goddamn oven in here and where the hell are my sunglasses?

If the house party occurred at your place while your parents were away, you had to get up early, ignore your raging hangover and attempt to restore everything to its former condition as much as possible. You febreezed the shit out of the couch, stashed garbage bags full of empty liquor bottles under your bed and hoped your dad wouldn’t notice the garden hose had gotten shorter when you tried to make a bong.

Consequences
My highschool friends are now teachers, psychologists, lawyers, nurses, and some do jobs I don’t even really understand. All are functional, well-balanced, tax-paying members of society, and one has even reproduced and is now responsible for the wellbeing of another human being who is still successfully alive at the time of writing. I guess the point is that even if your kid seems like a complete fuck-up, it will probably turn out fine. So just chill out and do your own thing while they binge-drink their way through their interminable adolescence. It’s the Australian way.