I'm just...

...gonna go home and knit a scarf.

I started saying this when I first joined Sobriety Club, in a self-deprecating, yet comprehensible manner - mainly so that people would laugh it off when I left a party at 9:00pm, with merely a light flick of their wrist and a, OK, we get it. You're sober, we're drunk, and although we don't literally believe you're going home to knit a scarf, your new lifestyle suggests that you do just about that anyway, so ha ha ha, fine.

But, no really. This week, when I say I'm off to go knit a scarf, I really fucking mean, "I'm going home to knit a scarf." Knitting is terribly versatile, see. Sure, I can't make shapes. So the initial idea of banging together a new toilet seat cover for the can seems a little over-dogmatic. I can only knit box-90-degree-angled shapes. Someone zyphed the toilet seat cover at the last house party we had, so I figure a nice bright orange fluffy one should put the zen back into our WC.

Annnnnnnnyway. 747 and I went to a Madhatter's Tea Party on Saturday. It was nice to catch up up with folk I haven't seen in ages, over my soda and lemonade spritzers. Especially K2, Dick, and the enigmatic Alice in Swaziland, who'd borrowed his maid's powder blue pinafore, for the occasion.

747 and I know when to leave these days. It's when you've chatted to everyone, and had a good time - even when more sober than the most Catholic friar in the Vatican. And suddenly people are incapable of stringing a sentence together. It was good, I had fun, but it was...time to go home and knit a scarf. Well, no not really, we went to watch a movie.

We watched a helluva lot of DVDs and/or movies this weekend. As well as a bit of festive cricket-watching at Wanderer's on Friday night. (Others bought tot packs; we bought packets of wine gums in little vampire fang shapes. People were loving the fangs. I thought it was a nice touch.)
Was a nice, chilled weekend. I'm starting to enjoy Sobriety Club. No, really. I mean, my eczema has cleared up. How's that for a bar rash that just didn't go away?

Here I thought it was stress, but no, it was just a bar rash that decided to squat on my upper chin for the last 5 months. Nice. And now it's gone.

Big week ahead. My car is going for a service ($$$$$$$$$$), I'm knitting doilys, and...I'm getting a new tooth.

I'm really living the dream.

panic, and where's my wine?

Last night, out of all the nights I've been diligently ensconced in sobriety, I really could've done with a drink.

Dude.
Like. Really.

I panicked last night. I panic a lot ok, I panic pretty easily. Aunty Peas hates being a loose cannon – going from deliriously happy to suddenly overwhelmingly angry from one minute to the next – but que sera, it fucken happens. It's panic stations over at Aunty Peas HQ – and there's really not a thing I can do about it. Sure, I could meditate (if my mind would stop thinking for just five and a half seconds), but the problem is panic sets in when there is no immediate solution to a problem.

The panic was about a project I am doing at the moment. A big one. One that until it is done, only then I can die. Sort of thing.

Yesterday was a big day. I had to present a content strategy manifesto to a team of Big Guns in a boardroom. A presentation that I have been working on for two weeks. I got through it, but was rather exhausted after it was over. All I wanted to do was have a glass of chilled white Fat Bastard in the garden outside.

A chilled glass of Fat Bastard out in the garden with the roses, after a long, hard day.
Christ. Just how many destressing bath crystals can one person gooi into a bath? (They work, but not as well as wine.) Then there was a frigging load shedding in the middle of my bath time – the one thing I actually live for these days – hurling my [haunted, mind you] flat into complete darkness.

I was alone in a haunted flat, in the darkness, panicking about a huge project. And the Boogie Man.

Depressed and anxiety-riddled. Just as my eczema was starting to move the fuck off my face.

So yes. Yesterday I really. Really. Could've done with a glass of wine. Or maybe winning the lottery or something.
Or something.

a fact

Why Lindsay Lohan and I aren't even close to being the same, even though we both not drinking:

1)She has a firecrotch. I don't.

The End.


PS: I headbutted Mr 747 in my sleep last night. Aw come on, I was running away from a fangy Boomslang in my dreams and the thing was nothing short of bloody terrifying.

it's really this good!*

“....this is one car chase you don't see everyday! Through a graveyard! We're in Salivaville, Arkansas, and this young lady has no intention of stopping....ever!............She is arrested for having products to make methamphetamine in her car!”

“.....The police decide to search a woman's car after seeing a drug-related narcotics sticker on the dash! And what do we have here? A baggie of marijuana!...these police have just put a chill on these girls winter plans...with a felony charge!”

“....this policeman has just run over the suspect as he jumps in front of his car! He suffers minor injuries and is jailed for a suspended license!”

Well pump me full of cream and call me a Twinkie.

The funbus never stops in Sobriety Club.

Guest on talkshow: "I found a camera in my public bathrooms at work. Behind the toilet. The security guard who put it there got 15 days in jail. I am now campaigning to change his misdemenour charge into a felony charge."

Talkshow host: "Well that's just beautiful."

(That's beautiful? That's all you got? How about trying “well that's courageous and well done?" for size, you dumb idiot?)

"Places to look for hidden cameras in public bathrooms are behind the air vents, the paper towel dispensers, the soap dispensers, behind the toilet, and look for stray wires.”

Cue Aunty Peas with torch, going to the bathrooms this morning and checking all the places for hidden cameras. Paranoia is gnawing away at my temporal lobe, the same place where alcohol was previously stored.

The lengths of sheer depravity and depth reality TV reaches these days is quite admirable.

But my favourite. My absolute jaw-dropping, thank-fuck-I-gave-up-a-night-of-boozing for this-favourite. The ultimate, "is this really happening on TV?" moment occurred at midnight on Saturday night after a sober, yet enjoyable meal at Soi with ten other people.

Cheaters. The sheer depravity and dysfunction of society on a whole, is shown explicitly in this show, and honestly - I mean:

"So your husband has been cheating." [Shows her video camera]. "Let's go find him in this hotel room."
[Woman walks into room with camera crew, just as a transvestite prostitute dressed in a pleather batman costume, is on his upswing with a whip, and is about to plant it on the cheating boyfriend's derriere. The boyfriend is handcuffed to the bed and is wearing a pleather mask.]

“Honey, she's helping me sort out my intimacy issues.”

[Intimacy issues? With a transvestite S & M hooker? That's perfect.]

“The three of us could work this out, look it's beautiful, us three together, right now!”

[Boet, you're still talking? I mean, there you are, in a leather thong, your wrists are fluffy handcuffed, you have a batman mask on. And you've just been caught with a prostitute in mid-whip swing. I mean, and you're still talking?]

This weekend, it sucked being in Sobriety Club. Firstly, it was E2's housewarming, at her new spot in Westdene. (“Ooh guys, is anyone else feeling the effects of this punch? Wow this is nice.”...Ooh this punch has a bit of a kick hey guys?”) But, even though Aunty Peas was more sober than the soberest person on the fudging planet, it was good.

One thing you do notice when you're not getting trouser-legged, is when others start getting fucked. You're having a conversation, when suddenly the noise level rises ostensibly. People are suddenly shouting. And for once, my voice stays at the same volume as it was at 4:00pm. (Low). Or in the middle of the conversation, the person suddenly goes: “Yeah, so we were stting watching this sunset and WOOOOOOOHEEEEEEEEE – how's this punch hey?” (I'm sure it's very very nice.)
Then the body movements start. “Yeah, work's been hell on coming back...oh my GOD. I LOVE this song!” And they'll start dancing. It's interesting to watch, and I didn't feel out of sorts per se – I just didn't feel......you know, drunk.

One place I know I can't handle right now are the usual After Work On Friday Drinking Holes. When you have to queue for a drink, and you get bumped copiously. This is ovverated when I'm buzzing on gin and tonics, but sober....hell no.

Blow me down with a straw. But Sobriety Club was a serious liability this weekend past.

I'm halfway through January.


* My voice is straining of the "this".

sobriety club

It's really awesome. When you're president of the most fun-tastic society in town. Everyone wants a piece of me, everyone wants to be me. Mr 747 has also decided to go on a two month alcohol ban, and I am thinking Friday nights will be a real ripper handling this one day at a time. It's been almost a week.

Although admittedly, we did those annoying “High On Life!” activities this weekend, that everyone promises to do, but never does. Except join a church that is. That won't happen, so save the eye rolling, assholes.

We went ice skating yesterday. We took the dog on a walk. Twice. We drove around town endlessly. Twice. We're eating more pizzas than Luciano Pavarotti when he was alive.
I've started knitting.
Fucking knitting.

It's only a matter of time until I start growing clivias hydroponically, or start picking my toenails in public.

Sobriety Club! You wanna be part of the action? You wanna piece of the magic? You wanna sit in a restaurant, smashing overpriced rock shandys and mocktails, while the table next to yours klaps cold beers and gets loud and obnoxious? You want to be completely MISERABLE for a good cause?

Then Sobriety Club is for you! As my Vice President correctly quotes: “It's life...but without the good bits!”
Because life IS worth living without the small pleasures isn't it!
And if that's not enough to convince you, while your mates taste the sweet, eridescent velour of Jaegermiester, you'll be in bed by 9:00pm after watching the E! True Hollywood Story of Evel Knievel, because you have bugger all to do on a Friday night!

Suddenly you'll have all this spare time on your hands! You'll scratch your nether regions in public, make endless cups of tea, and eat shitloads of chocolate truffles because your body cannot believe you're depriving it of it's basic joy in life: Bacardi Breezers. It's that great! This is not just a marketing pitch!

And that's not all! While the other members of Sobriety Club have only signed up for the month of January – my extreme and impulsive nature has locked me into a two month contract! Two months of being High on Life, yes, I want to vomit too!
As the President of Sobriety Club, my social occasions with mates will end up being “breakfast on Saturday morning,” because I know that none of them will pop open a Savanna over their bacon and eggs!

The good news is you'll completely over-analyse the meaning of life in Sobriety Club, by trying to make sense of what's the point in living when you can't just pop over to the pub and savour the crisp, cold, frothy pint you've worked so hard for during the week! Extra good news: You won't overreact to anything – in fact – your mood will stabilise into a placid, smooth-rolling machine, and you'll spend more on petrol when driving around aimlessly to find stuff to do instead! Does this sound too good to be true? It's not!

You'll probably knit five scarves at Stitch 'n Bitch Club. And you'll be calm and collected as you sip on lime and soda. You won't be the kid who dry humps the walls at The Colony Arms anymore! Isn't that fantastic?
Join now! It's FREE!
Sobriety Club kicks the shit out of any club you'll ever join! Phone 0800FINDANEWHOBBYNOWBEFOREYOUGOINSANE for more information!

I'm really really happy 747 is doing this with me. And that mum has a spare set of knitting needles for me to borrow. Which I'll try not to poke my eyes out with.