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I am currently in day two of what will be anecdoted in my autobiography as “Fuck You Fondue”. According to my geographical sources, Fondue originated in Switzerland. And let me tell you: There is nothing remotely neutral about consuming two loaves of bread and two kilograms of cheese (with two litres of scotch). My digestive organs have taken a side and it is literally side splitting.

 

I’m mere hours away from setting my laptop workstation in the bathroom. And using my toilet as an ashtray. Among other things.

 

DTM, Jac, Luke and I celebrated Earth Hour on Saturday night. We got in touch with nature in the most natural way possible: cheddar and bourbon. I doubt we improved the green house gas emissions come Sunday.

 

During Earth Hour, we enjoyed an iPod singalong, cooked with an electrical “country kitchen” makeshift Fondue cooker, charged Blackberry’s and an used ice maker, while we sat in the dark and asked questions to a Magic 8 Ball.

 

Remember those? The 8 Ball’s that gave you insight before cocaine became chic.

 

According to the 8 Ball, I am going to sleep with a celebrity and already know my future husband. Unfortunately, I am not currently close with any celebrities so I can’t literally marry the two of those premonitions together.

 

As drunk, relaxing and insightful Saturday night was, nothing could predict the pain of Sunday morning.

 

The Sunday morning that began at five o’clock. In the morning. I know: I didn’t realize that five AM existed either. As far as I was concerned, prior to waking up next to Luke on a single lounge chair, Sunday morning started at three PM. And a bourbon. And an introduction.

 

According to DTM, wine is mixed in with the Fondue cheese so that it is easier to digest (Is there anything wine can’t fix?). Obviously, almost an entire bottle was poured directly into the pan (?) and mixed with the cheddar (and later dipped with McNuggets). On the drive to Masdjfsjdfljwer (or similar) (on the Sunshine Coast), it became clear that nothing would make cheese easier to digest. Not even litres of (alcohol free) caffeinated soft drink.

 

DTM, Jac and I sat on the sideline and watched hundreds of triathletes compete for a title. There is nothing quite like watching hot, sweaty young men run around in spandex. Unless you yourself are hot, sweaty and feel like you are wrapped in spandex. Only the three of us could manage to arrive at an athletic event and sit on the side of the road hungover, praying for premature death.

 

Come Monday, Benji said to me, “So many of my triathlete friends asked who you were.”

“I can only think that their curiosity started with, ‘Who was the girl sitting in the gutter smoking?’” I replied.

“One wanted your phone number,” He informed me.

At least I know a triathlete won’t be offering me cheese and scotch.

 

I have been in emotional pain of late. So it was nice to mix it up with some physical discomfort. It is amazing how quickly it is to fix. When I arrived home on Sunday night, I drank eight (yes, eight) glasses of water, took three magical little pills (Ahem, Panadol) and lay on my bed. Despite having only slept for nine hours since Thursday night, I decided to do the only thing I felt like doing: I decided to call my Booty Call.

Yes, my stomach had calmed.

“Do you want to watch a DVD?” I seductively purred while laying flat on my back in my pyjamas, rubbing my stomach. It has been a while since I have made such a call.

“Come over at ten,” Mr X said.

And then I fell asleep. I fell asleep on my booty call: I mean, how dysfunctional can I be in the face of any relationship?

 

In hindsight, I am pleased that I didn’t go over to Mr X’s house. I think I would have felt like shit if I did. 

 

Post By Salium