22

i am living with a 22 year old. and he is turning back my clock. i kid you not.

i arrived in sydney feeling kind of 35 and 22 now has me feeling 25 when the truth is i am somewhere in the middle.

so whats he doing? i dunno. its a pisces/libra thing. we talk and talk and talk and because 22 is ... 22 ... most of this conversing takes place in the Contemplation Of, during the Consummation Of and the through the Morning After The Night Of copious amounts of alcohol.

so i have become this walking wreck. if i drove, i wouldnt be fit to drive - at any time of the day - really its been happening over the last few weeks with things being amazingly hectic. very (very) much so at work and now, very much so out of work. normally on a school night baby gets out of the office around midnight and goes home too tired to raise her head let alone raise a bottle to it. but noooooooo. since october began, baby gets home and 22 is there. waiting. with beers. and funnies.

so baby drinks with 22 and makes funny with 22 for like ... hours ... and somehow grabs a couple of hours of sleep before beginning the whole day again.

and then of course there are the weekends ... one loooooong drink basically. ouch.

but baby knows the secret ... its called "drip-drinking" ... basically drinking without a break but slowly. none of this binge-drinking rubbish. its called Getting Sloshed Politely. you'd be surprised how effective this method is. although its not cheap. drinking more only enables one to drink ... even more than before.

ai yi yi yi yi

22 is leaving australia in a month or so and we are feeling an escalation in beerage and funny-making.

yikes. i cant remember a day in 2 weeks i havent drank and heavily. heavyweight baby has hit town.

i could tell you lots of things about 22 but - he's 22. so you can probably guess some of them. like the time i came home at midnight to find 22 and his right-hand-man snorting cayenne pepper and skulling vinegar ... just for funny. and then of course there are the litany of pretty-pretty 20year old girls that 22 used to bring home ... for another kind of funny. and then 22 making his first roast ever and roasting the chicken on handtowel paper instead of a metal tray (i kid you not). and then other things 22 year olds do like drink and ... drink ... and develop scurvy from never eating a green or a fresh thing ... you geddit.

yeah yeah. but when all is said and done. 22 is just fun. funny fun. 22 kind of fun.

so i am going to be sad when he goes. 22 thinks he is lucky to meet me but the truth is baby is glad - i dont mind entering this alchoholic-funny-making phase. and i have been giving it a pretty fair whack. and while its making me suffer and making me exhausted (and draws long looks from my beautiful secretary who has recently had to bring me nurofen and berrocca in the morning - sometimes together) - its been bloody fun.

cheekiness

ooooooh. i miss my little sister, i miss her. Babysister. miss her cheeky cheekiness and lovely loving. miss her huggy buggy and her smile. man, that smile can blow you away.

yes she can be a pain in the ass. but there are some stories only sisters know how to hear and only sisters can understand to tell. so there you have it.

missing cheeky.

LiftMan

There are some excellent reasons why I won't haven't and shall die trying NOT to join facebook. Some of them are illuminated here: http://blogs.smh.com.au/mashup/archives/your_say/016052.html

BTW for all ricebags friends on facebook - email me, talk to me, drink with me, dine with me, walk with me. Don't facebook me. I don't live there. Baby lives in real time.

Having said all of that tho - I have a widdle confession to make ... yesterday I joined up for 5 minutes - long enough to try to find a man that I met in a lift last Friday night. Yes yes yes. I am that desperate. But it wasn't just any man. It was an eco-warrior man, my LiftMan.

Sufficed to say my tiny babysteps into facebook did not turn up LiftMan but I don't think the answer was ever there. As I have no name, just a face - but it seems that may be just enough to go on. JayBird is helping me here - help me ladddddddeeeeeeeeeee. With her fellow eco-warrior contacts and together we just might find him.

Unless he finds me first.

xx

PS I have now deactivated my facebook account so pleeeeeease don't look for me there.

all the trees are green

Mattie

Just wanted you to know all the trees are green. Woke up one day and Sydney went from dry cinnamon bister-brick leaflessness to a bosky verdurous fringed botanic mass of foliage. Over one night.

And it is so beautiful it hurts.

That you just left us, and aren't here to know this, makes everything suddenly seem sharper. Its become so clear just how ballsy and ungoverned Spring is - everything stemmed and trunked and tendrilled, everything blossoming so rudely, everything flowerets and buds, this week, this sad week. The week you died.

And here I sit in a towered edifice amongst it. All this city wild. All this natural coarse. All this perfect birth. It might be the closest thing we have to God. So today at lunchtime while you are being put to rest in Lae I am going to lie under cover of a big fat awful tree in Circular Quay and try not to cry.

goodnight mattie

In the Post Courier on Tuesday last:

Poor road condition claims another life

A LAE businessman died in hospital yesterday after being shot in the head by criminals along the Boundary Road on Saturday night as he slowed down his car to negotiate potholes. The businessman who has been identified as Matthew Sigiruboi, was shot at close range at the entrance of the notorious Kapiak street, where there is a huge pothole. He was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit at Angau Memorial Hospital but died yesterday morning. The killing has left Mamose police chief Giossi Labi seething and the city residents in shock.

______________________________________

Xmas before last ricebag was a wandering baby, catching pmv's and cargo ships and roaming the Momase Coast for months. Little-lost wandering baby. Always always returning intermittently to Lae and Family and Hot Showers and Cooked Breakfasts and Swimming Pools and Lawns and ... a little pub called Clashes. Clashes on 4th Street above ChemCare and acorss the street from SVS. Clashes where the lime green walls are covered in village-chic thatch and the bar is loooong and the hours ricebag spent at the bar were loooong too. Clashes with the wonky pool tables and the 2 o'clock sundowners.

Clashes with Matt. Mattie. MattMatt.

Thankyou Matt. For always playing Grayson Hughes "Lets Talk It Over". Every single time I asked. Even for the 5th time in a row.

Thankyou Matt. For opening the bar for me even though it was 5 hours before official opening hours.

Thankyou Matt. For keeping the bar open for me long after official closing hours.

Thankyou Matt. For driving me home and never saying maybe I should party less and breathe more.

Thankyou Matt. For always listening to my boring old little-lost-is-me mumblings into the wee hours.

Thankyou Matt. For being the bartender without the bullshit but plenty of the blah.

Thankyou Matt. For not saying and not saying and then saying the One Time When I Was Ready To Listen.

Thanks Mattie.

And Goodbye.

I'm so sorry this is the way you had to leave us. Not good enough was it mate. Nowhere near fair. Nowhere near. And I'm sorry you had to go before you saw your first child.

Will miss you mate.

told you so

told you i was bringing summer back. and it all started in bondi. with tope and a bottle of cook islands coconut oil, an old pair of bathers and a new book. yeah yeah. bondi was all skimpy summer dresses and sandleless feet. just a public holiday monday yesterday and a thousand people diving into bucket-ice water and preparing themselves for the start of a long long golden summer. oh yeah - and lots of pale skin. including mine. all with the intention of changing that status asap.