Memoirs of a Fat Girl

From that Saturday night when we first met up, in person, Sandy and I started seeing each other regularly. As regular as you can get for one week, that is: five nights out of seven.

I was so happy. Cloud nine, really. I can’t lie when I say that I had a horrific thought for all of a minute, though: was this nostalgia? Could it be that I’d projected sweet 16 onto unsuspecting 31? After all, it’s different with him. We have a history.

But then equally quickly came the No. Oh, no. There weren’t hundreds or even dozens of boys and men before and between Sandy, but they were there nonetheless. I could pass by any and all of them on the street and really not look twice. Other than to criticize wardrobe choices, anyway.

Besides, after those kisses, I was crazy positive. Sure we’d kissed once before all those years ago, but then quick teenage peck in front of a library doesn’t even begin to compare with SUV and soft green lights on a summer’s night at two-something AM, in heavy lip lock.

Or how they make you feel half a lifetime later.

Our other dates that week were very nice. Very sweet. We took walks. We held hands. We saw horses, pet their noses, and chilled on my big couch, his arm around me. A couple more pecks here and there. Totally PG-13.

And then, the Australians came into our relationship.

I love Australians. My fascination with them first began in seventh grade history class, when I was informed that the entire island of Australia had first been populated prisoners. Imagine! A land full of cons that not only a) survived amongst each other, but b) in a land full of creepy crawlies worthy of the Pixar imagination, and c) modified their Shakespeare accents into something bordering on the reckless and exotic.

Meeting my first Australians, now that was something else. I was freshly 20 and on a tour of Europe with Oli, inhabiting a big yellow Cosmos tour bus that was chock full of Aussies and Kiwis. A fantastic lot they were, spouting jokes and bottomless renditions of, “Tie me Kangaroo down, Sport.” And, best of all, they never failed to make the poo poo Parisians recoil in horror with their slaughter of the French tongue.

For instance, trying to track down the Champs Elysees. Many a scoff and sideways spit did our group get when asking directions not to the Shans Elizay, but the Champs Eleez.

Shits and giggles. I keep in touch with some of them, still.

Furthermore, a trip to the land of Oz is high up on my travel goals. I can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t want to go to Bondi Beach and pop their first, “G’day, mate!”, or, “Crikey!”

(R.I.P. Steve Irwin)

Yes, in my limited knowledge of the country and its people, that is my affinity for Down Under. However, thanks to our wide and wonderful world of imported goods, I can appreciate Aussie products for all their guts and glory.

Aussie Bum underpants. Cheezels. And my favourite product of all: Australian wine.

I love Shiraz. I mean, love it. The stuff is deep, gritty and full in ways a delicate Bordeaux could never pull off. Better yet, it’s red, which I’ll take over white any day.

I am a connoisseur of fine Shiraz, and a bigger fool for it. Anyone who knows me in person knows I can’t handle wine. Not at all. For instance, recall the New Year’s Eve entry where I woke up with half my clothes missing. Or, the flight to Amsterdam with James where I, in a fit of hysterics, ended up spilling my Travel Scrabble tiles all over the plane.

This is totally ridiculous to me seeing as I can take Rum and Vodka quite easily, and their alcohol content is a lot higher than wine. It makes no sense at all, really. But then, when you think about it, have I ever really made sense to anyone?

It was a few days after we’d met, and Sandy was coming over for dinner. My loft, that is, definitely not at home with Moms and Dad. That would have been weird.

I hadn’t moved any of my stuff in yet, meaning there were no major utensils available to cook, so I picked up some food instead. When in doubt, dear ones, and when in locale, go to the Whole Foods Market. Their moniker is, “World’s leading natural and organic foods market,” and while I don’t doubt that one bit, it’s the prepared foods section that keeps me coming back for more.

Your usual prepared foods counter is all about mac & cheese, and cold schnitzel. Whole Foods has yummies like Sonoma chicken salad, braised lamb shanks, sweet potato mash with ginger, and arugula fennel salad. Not bad, huh? Healthy, tasty, AND impressive. A girl can’t go wrong.

I bought a bunch of little heres and theres and, for the sake of completion, a bottle of Wyndham Estate Bin 555.

If you’re looking to be a hostess and a half, you can’t go wrong with Bin 555. The online description says it “offers bright fruit-forward flavours of plums and strawberry, followed by a dash of pepper and a touch of black licorice.” I really have no idea how wine tasters come up with these descriptions, but then maybe if I tasted as opposed to gulped, I’d probably appreciate the whole range, too.

Anyway, point being, whether or not you can taste those things, it’s delicious. And, it’s cheap. Cheap cheap. Not to be a miser, but after a shopping extravaganza at Whole Foods, one needs to watch their wallets.

Sandy came over, we settled onto my couch, food was on the coffee table (no dining tables or chairs at my place), and dug in, He poured the wine.

Half a glass, I was relaxed and happy. I figured I’d keep my head and sip the rest of the glass, slowly. Tell that to Mr. Thang, who kept pouring. Okay okay, I didn’t exactly complain, but that definitely set the tone for the rest of the evening.

Here is my wine scale, in glasses:

1.0: Happy

1.5: Happy, Giggly

2.0: Happy, Giggly, Klutzy

2.5: Happy, Giggly, Klutzy, Horny

3.0: The Magic Glass. Inhibition flies out the fucking window.

3.5: Happy, Giggly, Klutzy, Horny, Adventurous

4.0: Happy, Giggly, Klutzy, Horny, Adventurous, Stupid

4.5: Don’t ask.

One bottle translates to three glasses apiece. We finished the bottle. Read Glass 3.0 on my Wine Meter.

We were sprawled all over my huge sectional, Sandy said something, but I was laughing too hard to take it all in. In fact, looking back on it now, the whole scene is a total haze. I said something back, maybe he replied, we bantered back and forth both laughing our asses off and then…

And then… in all seriousness… we made out with the fire of a thousand suns.

I may have been in stupid mode, but I remember most of that quite clearly. The slow sweetness we’d had in his car was there, but quickly gave way to two people really enjoying each other. Especially each others’ lips. Oh, his lips. I could write about them for days.

Never underestimate making out. It may seem trivial to some, but it’s a very powerful thing. After all, it makes you feel sexy. It makes you feel wanted.

It is an amazing thing, to want someone that bad. It is even more incredible to be wanted. That bad.

By the time he left a few hours later, I was, to be polite… ahem… thoroughly disheveled. Huge grin on my face; ear to ear. But the nicest part of all was, so was he. About the disheveled part, that is. And so he was he. About the grin, I mean.

Way to go, Australia. And the best supporting actor Oscar goes to my sectional sofa. Comfortable, yet practically oversized for such… surprisingly wonderful happenings.