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The teenage years

July 12th, 2010 · No Comments

Raising an eyebrow

Remember the days of the wafer thin eyebrows in the 90s? For the average person, this might not be terribly difficult to recover from but if you are of the Greek persuasion you would know that growing out your thick black eyebrows without humiliation can be quite a laborious and lengthy process. When my steps-sister Eff decided to grow her eyebrows back she decided to cover the awful regrowth with an eyebrow pencil. This was a painstaking process, particularly before a night out on the town. Watching her I dared not breathe for fear that her hand would slip and she would end up with an eyebrow drawn across her nose and she would have to start all over again.

One night after spending two hours perfecting her pencilled eyebrows (an hour for each eyebrow), we hit the first club and Eff met a young gentleman. It wasn’t too long before they retreated to a kissing corner…. sometime later my sister found me on the dance floor and dragged me into the toilet. For some reason when you are under 20 it’s never possible to go to the toilet alone. Like a bimbo girl out of one of those B-grade horror movies, I let out a ear shattering shriek – Eff’s face was covered in thick black smudges. I pulled her in front of the mirror to let her see what she had become. My first thought was that the kissing dude had bitten her and she was changing into a creature of the night but then Eff came up with a more practical and likely answer. ‘Oh my god’, she announced, ‘it’s my eyebrows – they must have smudged off when I was kissing that guy!’ So that was that (or so we thought) and we washed and dried her face off and left the toilets – minus a set of eyebrows.

Eff retreated alone to a discrete part of the club and continued shaking her groove thing on the dance floor when out of the corner of my eye I spied her kissing companion making his way over to her – he looked a little different – he had Eff’s eyebrows all over his face, and clearly this had been the case for at least 3 hours. Then I understood where the rest of Eff’s eyebrows had gone.

Rocket Rog

‘Rocket Rog’ was an old red rebuilt 1970s Datsun. There we were one night, Rocket Rog, Simone (Rog’s owner), Eff and myself heading out to some club or other. We had been regulars at this particular club and we were excited on this particular night because we had met some guys the week before and had agreed to hook up the following week. We were chatting away excitedly about the prospect of catching up with Tom, Dick and Harry when suddenly Rocket Rog came vigorously into contact with another vehicle and CRASH just like that Rocket Rog was seriously banged up. Thankfully no one was injured, but while Simone exchanged details with the other driver, Eff and I sat in dreary selfish silence both thinking the same thing. Did this mean we would have to go home? Rog was in pretty bad shape and we figured Simone was in no mood to go clubbing. Simone hopped back into the car looking stressed and tense, and we knew it was all over – there would be no club and no guys tonight. But then, low and behold, Simone announced that the clubbing mission was still on! We sat in sympathetic silence the rest of the journey listening to poor beaten up old Rog – the only sound coming from the left hand tyre wobbling hitting the front guard with repeated thuds. Ah, if only we had focused that determination on more significant challenges back then – we could have ruled the world!

The Podium

Most teenagers will remember, or at least remember flashbacks from pulling an all nighter with the help of alcohol Me? Well I never relied on alcohol to have a good night especially because I had a part-time job on the weekends with early morning starts. However one particularly night I decided to break the rules, be a rebel and drink myself silly (but not before responsibly calling into work the day before and advising them of the need to find a replacement).

Wasting no time, I headed for the bar to choose my poison – a shot of green chartreuse. Now for those of you have no experience with chartreuse, let me enlighten you. Chartreuse has a 55% alcohol rating and is extremely pungent, and remarkably potent – after you have downed a shot of chartreuse your entire world as you know it changes. Just imagine what it’s like to knock back some herbal mouthwash on steroids – this spicy elixir will set your body on fire and it’s well advised to have a glass of water on standby. Well naturally after a few shots of chartreuse, my memory was fragmented but I do recall moving onto tequila shots. Then from a distance I spied my cousin dancing on the podium – wanting in on the action I stumbled across the dance floor (but not before knocking several few people over and falling over a bar stool in the process).

By this time my coordination was nonexistent, not only was I unable to physically lift myself onto the podium, I was very confused about the process – how could I lift one leg onto the podium in order to swing myself up there with the other? The mystery behind the pyramids is one thing, but working out how to climb a step when you are drunk is even more bewildering. So there I was staring up at my cousin in awe swaying like a poplar tree in a gale when suddenly the heavens opened up and the hand of God (my cousin) reached down to help me. Alas the task was impossible for she too was inebriated, so the only thing left for us was falling to the floor in a mangled heap of fumbling arms and legs.

Sadly the story of the podium does not end well, the bouncers were not impressed with the commotion and escorted us outside to our waiting chariot – our taxi.  The unimpressed taxi driver sighed… he was obviously used to seeing people failing to reach the top of the podium so I greatly expressed my grief.. all over the black vinyl seats.

I don’t recall ever taking another day off work again.

Tags: musings

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