It's been 11 years since I puked on Mr Starters's shoes.
I went as his date to his matric ball, and ever since me, the 16 year old, got a hold of the red wine, and then sat on a bus on a windy windy road, it resulted in my oesophagal sphincter not being able to control itself.
And I henceforth vomited on his Toughees. On that bus. In 1997.
I was the world's perfect ball partner. I was a real catch.
It was excruciatingly embarrassed for years. I'd see him at varsity and take an immediate left turn the moment I spotted him anywhere near me on campus.
We've been in touch again over the last few years and he admitted to me last night that his first girlfriend at varsity also puked on his shoes.
Well. Thank fuck for that. What a relief!
I don't think you quite understand: I haven't been the only woman to have parked a tiger on his shoes.
This is excellent news.
It was such a traumatic night for me, not to mention poor old Starters – that can't be kiff.
The end result was my mother grounding me for a month. [She found my diary. Fucking fuck - this really annoyed the crap out of me:]
Mum: Peas! Did you vomit on this nice boy's shoes at his ball last night?
Mum: You did.
Peas: No I didn't.
Mum: Your diary, Peas, was lying open on your bed, to the page where you'd written about it.
Peas: I'd NEVER leave my diary on my bed lying open!
[Ensue teenage angst, the tempestuous and vulgar moodswing, the slamming of doors and unprecedented hatred directed towards any figure of authority – especially those who pried into my private world of diary-writing]
Mum:...we'll you're grounded.
Peas: WHADDOYOUMEAN I'M GROUNDED??
HOW CAN YOU DO THIS TO ME, YOU'RE RUINING MY LIFE, I HATE YOU, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!
Mum: I understand completely: You drank too much wine and vomited on your date's shoes.
Peas: ARRARGH! YOU READ MY DIARY! YOU INVADED MY PRIVACY! YOU'RE RUINING MY LIFE!
Mum: ...yeah and you're grounded. That's NO way for a lady to behave Peas.
Peas: BUT I DON'T WANT TO BE A LADY!
Mum:...well you're doing a sterling job of not being one.
[Ensue slamming door of bedroom and whacking on Nirvana's Nevermind, seething in adolescent complexities and disquietude.
Kurt Cobain, the heroin addict, understood me though. Of course.]
Speaking of school, and uncontrolled-schoolboy-error-puking and puberty,
someone I knew 10 years ago, and haven't seen since, woke up one day and obviously went, “Hmmm that Peas On Toast... I want a piece of that.”
I'm getting....what's the word...charfed? Wooed? Lightly bulldozed? by this person. Interesting. Flattering. Not to mention slightly perplexing.
Anyway, I'm just relieved about the High School Shoe Chunder scenario.
And that I wasn't the only one.
Might send the china a new pair of shoes, now that I am a freakin' lady.