The Art of Being Clumsy

I am, it seems, a complete clutz. I haven’t taken a tumble in quite a while but when I do something, I don’t do it by halves.

I run most mornings; I get up at 5:45am, change into normal running clothes, pop the ear buds in my ears and off I go.  In summer I am in my element, running on the Anniversary Trail and feeling at one with nature.  During the winter months, however, I have to endure the dark and lonely streets… running only the well-lit main thoroughfares because evil walks amongst us, and with my music so low it is neither a distraction to me nor does it hinder my ability to hear.  This can sometimes make me appear quite paranoid and crazy.  The fossicking of birds as they go about their breakfasts and scuttering of possums returning to their nests or dreys cause me to tense in alarm and constantly look over my shoulder and behind me. 

Running in the dark of winter comes with a separate set of challenges.  Even the well-lit streets have dark patches where I can’t see the path clearly and depth perception is almost non-existent.  In these dark places, I slow to a jog or even a walk, lest I trip over or sprain an ankle, and I find I am quite anxious during my morning runs. Autumnal leaves also hide raised pavement, sticks and other detritus that can otherwise cause a fall and make me question the sanity of these early morning jaunts.  As Spring has recently taken hold, sunrise is arriving earlier however, it’s not quite light enough to run on the track just yet so I am still running the streets and looking forward to next month when I can resume my easy lope along the Anniversary trail. 

On this, the day of my last spill, it was 6.40am and I was running in full light, on my return trip back home.  I was running on a main arterial road and the traffic lights up ahead were red, so there was a sea of taillights in the long waiting line of traffic before me.  It was quite mild for this early in Spring, but it was really windy.  Despite the blustery conditions, I felt good.  My asthma was playing nice and my allergies were settled.  I felt like I was running easily so I decided to pick up the pace and sprint as fast as I could to the traffic lights at the corner to boost my heart rate and calorie burn; something I did often.  This would have been fine had Mother Nature not been bored shitless and decided to mix shit up a little.  Whilst I was sprinting, my breath puffing in front of me like vapour and leaves swirling behind me in my slipstream, a giant gust of wind blustered against me and blew a large branch from the front garden I was passing across my path.  The branch blew between my ankles mid stride and because I was sprinting, a nanosecond later I was airborne and swimming in air. Holy Mother of Murgatroyd!!!

My memory plays the whole scenario back in slow motion; the thwack of the branch on my ankle, the realisation that I am falling, the windmilling of my arms and giant, leaping strides as I try to regain my footing and balance, followed by the inevitable landing, which caught in my own speed momentum, propelled me across the path.  I’m sure the people in their cars would have seen something quite different.  Their visual would have been a crazy woman running at pace with a face set in sheer determination, suddenly appear to fly… then actually try to fly with arms flapping and legs taking giant leaping strides, then bounce on the pavement, before sliding in a flurry of arms and legs like a fat sea lion tobogganing across ice, ending sprawled across the path.

My glasses flew off my face and bounced along the path and I felt the burn in my hands immediately but the biggest sensation warring with the physical pain was humiliation.  In one swift movement I leapt from sprawled across the pavement into a crouch, like a surfer on the crest of a wave.  I then hobbled and stumbled like a drunkard around the corner and down the street, away from the cars whose occupants were surely laughing so hard they eyes were leaking.  I retreated to the safety of a nearby park to quietly sit on a park bench for a moment to slow my breathing and calm my jangled nerves and shaking limbs. I looked at my hands and noted my left hand had two meaty, chunky pieces dangling that were full of dirt and the right hand had the skin grazed clean off.  My forearm was smarting and so was my thigh, so I hurried home like a broken lump because I can’t teleport.

In the privacy of my bathroom, I quietly removed my clothes to assess the damage.  Lordy, my right thigh was also bruised and scraped (from the bounce and slide) and my right shoulder was sending screaming messages all up my neck and down my back.  I filled a bath and climbed in against my better judgement, knowing that this was going to make my whole-body sear in pain.  Well roll me over and call me shorty, I got through those first moments without even yelping.  I did hiss my breath in through clenched teeth though; my hands throbbing and burning and my brain firing all manner of expletives at me.  I had to cut out the meaty chunks in my left palm because I couldn’t remove the dirt.  Just the thought of that should make your nether regions tingle.

Miss Marvellous ventured down the stairs and find me trying to dress for the day with fucked up hands and a very dead shoulder, looking for all intents and purposes like a nonagenarian.  It was all I could do not to sit on the ground and cry like a toddler. She bandaged my weeping hands, so they didn’t stick to everything at the office and weep blood everywhere, and I ventured into the office to explain my stupidity and the artful injury.  This is what happens when you turn 50, your usual routine throws stupid shit at you and one simple fall can result in all manner of ouches.  Imagine if I was actually 90?!?!?!!!  I would have required a hip replacement and possible organ replacement.

The last time I tried this trick was about 11 years ago and around the same time of year.  During that display of gifted calisthenics, I took a whole patch of skin off my stomach, off the V-dub bonnet (mons pubis??) and forearm and almost tore one of my nipples off so I guess I should be grateful that I contained the injuries to my extremities and not my undercarriage. Sigh!

What was that??

Boy Wonder and I were watching End Game, a 3hr Marvel movie, the last in The Avengers series. As usual, tiredness was tugging at the corners of my eyes (I’m always tired and usually in bed by 10pm because I get up early) and I was wondering how I was going to make it all the way through the movie without nodding off and majorly pissing my son off, who’s patience with my “old bag” behaviour was wearing very thin (this was our second attempt as the last time I was drooling in my collar within the first hour and only taking in snippets during that time.. it’s hard to watch a movie through closed eyelids). We were engrossed in a scene when we heard a loud thump, thump, thump. First, we looked to the roof for the usual nightly possum entertainment, but it wasn’t the possums. Each night we hear them scramble across the roof like a herd of elephants; thumping, falling, sliding, raking their claws trying to find purchase, bouncing, then rolling down the steep slope, only to fly with momentum off the end and over the gutter, into the nearby tree when they cling for a few moments to get their shit together after the nightly ride. The possums in Camberwell are either bat-shit crazy, because they repeat this behaviour nightly, or off their noggins on some kind of natural smack. Anyway, I digress.

The thumping sound was loud but oddly sonic in nature, like steps. It definitely sounded like something or someone on the roof. The movie is instantly paused, and I marvel at his dexterity in a crisis (I’d be groping and molesting the whole couch looking for the bloody remote, then peering at it myopically, trying to see the buttons in the dark). We both froze, hearts in our mouths, listening. Another softer noise sounds and my son teleports to the kitchen where he grabs the massive carving knife, and I note that he’s not waving it like a scared little boy, he’s holding it firmly by the handle in his fist, arm raised above his shoulder, ready to strike down and do some serious damage. Well shit a brick, this propels me into action, and I grab the next sized knife down in the block and follow him. All the lights are out, and I hiss at him, my whisper quavering because I’m shitting myself “don’t turn the lights on... they don’t know our house and it’s an advantage for us that we can navigate in the dark”. I can just see his eyes and I see them narrow, like he thinks I watch too many crime shows, but it makes sense to him.

First we tiptoe downstairs to the bottom level. We pause at the bottom of the stairs, looking through the windows at the backyard, which is pretty well lit by the moonlight. There lots of branch movement but no human shaped shadows. We tiptoe towards the cupboard, which is open and I’m wondering why. Then I remember I put some crap in there yesterday and obviously forgot to close the bloody door. I’m straining in the dark to see if the shapes match what should be in there. My eye balls are aching because I’ve got my eyes so wide open in an effort to see in the dark they’re positively protruding from my skull and I’m sure I look like a lemur, only not cute... probably more like Dobby, the House Elf.

Boy Wonder goes past me and springs into the dark bathroom. I hold my breath... waiting for a someone’s startled yelp at my son’s sudden appearance. My butt is clenching and unclenching so much I could chew a fucking Minty with it.

Finding downstairs safe, we stealthily make our way back upstairs to the main level and go room by room. I’m expecting Boy Wonder to drop into a commando roll across the carpet, but he keeps his ‘this is serious shit’ hat on. He is curiously angry... I’m trying not to shallow pant myself into a faint. We see nothing. Then I remember the Miss Marvellous doesn’t lock her door to the outside deck and if someone is on the roof, they’re going to get in through her room. I whisper this to my son and his face sets in a hard line. I think in his head he thinks “Oh you better bring your end game, arsehole!” I swallow hard and follow in his wake.

Oh, Lordy I’m getting scared as we tiptoe our way up the stairs. On the landing, we peer onto the bathroom and find it empty. He goes into his room while I stand in the door way of my daughters room, trying to see in the dark and knowing it resembles a tip and there will be shit everywhere and if there’s ever going to be a moment when we stand on something small and sharp and makes us yelp and scream expletives, it will be in this room. I peer through the open door to the glass French doors that lead to her deck... I can’t see anyone outside, but I wait for my boy because I’m shit scared. I look into his room and frown as I see him crouching like a Kungfu Master, knife in his fist and raised above his shoulder; scowling into his room. Dude! What the fuck... your room is empty, get your arse over here.  We tentatively tip toe into the messy space that is Miss Marvellous' room and shuffle rather than step so we can clear a path and avoid stepping on something sharp.  As I sweep my foot, a pin inserts itself in the pad of my big toe and it is all I can do not to squeal like a stuck pig.  I lower myself at the pace of a sloth and remove the offending stick impaled in my toe and continue to scope the room.  The deck is clear, the roof is clear, and her room is clear, so we back out of the room and gently make our way back down the stairs at the main level again.

We stand at the bottom of the stairs and listen hard.  The house creaks as it expands and contracts with the contrasting temperatures inside and outside.  Then suddenly something glass like is knocked over and rolls across the hardwood floor in the main living space.  JFC! Someone is in the house. At this point, my butt would have sucked that Minty in and swallowed it whole. My heart thuds so hard it rocks me in place and the roar of my blood rushing through my veins is loud in my ears.  I am so terrified at this moment and although you may think you know how you’d react, when it actually happens, any bravado just leaves you.  Terror and adrenalin make you so alert, you think you’re positively glowing with it in the dark.  Boy Wonder’s manly ‘protector’ instinct kicks in and grabs my arm and pulls me behind him. Part of me is willing to hide behind him but I’m at war with my motherly instinct to protect my young and acutely aware that it’s a fine line between being a lioness and emasculating my son. I chose to remain behind him. The house creaks loudly and I fight the urge to crawl to safety in his arse crack. My butt is now contracting at an alarming rate and I hope it doesn’t consume my pants.

We carefully tiptoe into the main room, which is dark, and we’re holding our breath. We soundlessly take in the kitchen, dining area, living spaces and see them empty.  Then I spy the cat in the corner looking to the side of the couch and in my head,  I’m whispering “OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod”  We creep forward and around the couch, the fight instinct outweighing the flight instinct because my boy looks like he could gut a mountain lion.  Then I look at the cat in the corner again and see that she looks guilty. WTF?  I squat down low and see a glass on its side and the contents all over the floor and spattered on the wall, but no one hiding behind the couch.  I stand up suddenly and announce to my son that the stupid cat knocked over the glass and there’s no one here.  We both near collapse with relief and deflate on the couch.  There’s no longer a question of 'if' I’ll stay awake for the movie, there’s now a question of if I’ll be able to fall asleep at any point during the night.

We discuss the whole thing for a good 15 minutes then resume the movie but we’re all antsy now.  Every time the house creeks we jump and pause the movie.  The cat decides to get her crazy on and zooms up and down all the stairs and through the house, keeping us on edge.  Boy Wonder utters that he hates this house and our cat.  At that moment I share his opinion because I'm all flighty and nervous.

Half an hour later there’s a distinctive noise outside, the sensor light comes on and the trees shake.  Boy Wonder is having NONE OF IT!  He grabs the knife again and tears outside, running through the yard with murder in his eyes while I watch through the picture window upstairs.  I see him running around the perimeter of the house like a madman and then I watch the fat arsed possum jump from tree to tree, snapping branches and activating the sensor light; shaking the trees as it ambles across the branches while my son loses his fucking mind outside.

The Party

Ah, the celebration of emergence from awkward, pimply teen to legal adulthood with just enough knowledge and legality to be dangerous.  Old enough to drink and get completely fucked up, but not old enough to have any idea how you got there so fast, how you actually lived to tell the tale or how to get rid this pulsing, all-consuming hangover that’s threatening to blow your head clean off your shoulders.

Boy Wonder turned 18 in May this year and required a party to tell the world of his arrival at this magnificent stage of life and to get his friends out of their tree in group celebration.  As we planned the party, it became obvious that most of his friends would still be 17 so we couldn’t have it at a venue as they wouldn’t be able to get pissed... “it has to be home, Mum”. Shit! Do I really want a bunch of youths yelling and yahooing around my house and yard to blaring music while they drink themselves into oblivion? Nope, I don’t want that shit. I want to run far, far away from that shit! But what I want isn’t relevant here because Captain Fantastic has agreed with Boy Wonder. Insert major anxiety and remove slumber for the next month… there was much trepidation on my part.  The Captain thinks I worry too much.

The event preparation started with 60-odd invitees. Over half said they were coming so I started shitting tacks from the get-go. I decided to hire security... I can’t have the possibility of a Corey Worthington party so this decision restored a little sleep.

In the week prior to the Soirée, a few dropped out, so the number was getting better and more manageable from my perspective. Of course, I catered for the whole 60 odd because let’s face it, when you come to my house and eat, if you don’t have to pop the top button when you’re done, then I have failed my ethnic heritage.

The week prior was a blur of hyped activity as June in Australia is winter so there were tarps and marquees to set up in case Mother Nature had a hissy fit, outdoor heaters were hired, enough alcohol to drown a herd of cattle was purchased, the bar was arranged (Miss Marvellous and her beau were our bar tenders), the DJ (a close mate came to the rescue) ... ready, set, go.

I had organised a couple of my friends to attend so the Captain made a nice crackling fire in the formal living room, where the ladies relaxed. His nibs and I were intermittently in that room between running hot food up and down stairs, checking on supplies and greeting pissed teens and showing them the way to the throbbing cacophony of pissed teen yelling and doof, doof music.

Only a handful turned up at the beginning and Boy Wonder was not impressed but at 9-ish, a whole bunch turned up and the party got started in earnest. Almost all the attendees had Pre’s (mostly straight vodka) somewhere before arriving and judging by the red eyes, a few smoked some weed too.

We only had around 30 people in the end, but they were a great group and they had so much fun. They went through a truck load of snacks plus 60 home-made sausage rolls, 60 party pies, 60 mini spring rolls, some pastitsies, two bowls of lollies and then a bit of cake. Oh, and a shit-ton of grog.

Every time someone rocked up, a massive group ‘man-scream’ went off downstairs as the new arrival was welcomed.  Teens were getting smashed everywhere and Miss Marvellous had absolutely no problem being savage Bar Bitch with the drunks, refusing alcohol until water was consumed.  She also took possession of the vodka jelly shots because there were jelly shot pigs in the mix and they needed to be contained.  She could be a prison warden, although I’d take exception to anyone calling her vinegar tits (Prisoner… 1980s).  Everyone got smashed, except me (someone must be the parent).  Turns out alcohol removes all filters.  Explicit language became the norm and eventually, I stopped cringing and blocked it out.

On one of the trips outside to check on supplies and deliver more hot food, Boy Wonder ran up and screamed at me “this party is fucking LIT!” Then the DJ put an 80s song on, and he grabs me firmly by the upper arms and says “You’re gonna dance!”  Fuck me, I don’t want to bloody dance… I’M NOT EVEN TIPSY!  He grabs my hand and yanks me hard after him, oblivious little shit, but there was a giant pot plant in a concrete planter between me and the dance floor.  Boy Wonder gives no fucks as he pulls me after him and absolutely cripples me as my right knee collides with the planter and the impact zone is the worst possible place, right in the corner of my knee at the juncture of knee cap, tendons, muscle, bone, nerves and whatever else is in that area.  My leg buckles and I almost land on the ground but Boy Wonder yanks harder and pulls me into the room and I stumble in his wake.  Nobody gives a flying fuck that Mother is down.  Miss Marvellous is in the process of taking pictures of pissed youth and runs to my aid to help me limp up the stairs.  I retreat to the living room and quietly wait for the throbbing pain to abate.  Boy Wonder hasn’t even noticed I’m not dancing with him.  Rude!

The cake nearly didn’t happen because I didn’t want to ruin the vibe of the party. I went down and spoke to Miss Marvellous, her Beau & our DJ (who was sober at the time) and asked if we should leave the cake and not worry about it.  The consensus was ‘everyone is having so much fun... it will spell the end of the night’ so we canned it.

I took the bowls of lollies out and the people were pleased. During this deliverance of jellied joy, Boy Wonder came up and hugged me so hard the air left my lungs with an “oof!” my back cracked. He said in front of all his mates “Donna, I fucking love you! If I die, I wanna come and do it all again because you’re a fucking LEGEND!” Yeah cool, Geez. Then he gave me another bone crushing hug and leaned so far forward in his drunken love that I nearly fell onto his friends, who were nestled around the heaters.  My knee was still throbbing from earlier when he smashed me into the pot planter.  This kid needs hazard lights on him.

At this stage, 1/2 the party was shooting hoops in the pitch black of the cobbled ‘right of way’ lane behind our house.  Boy Wonder was very drunk, and the gate was padlocked but this little bastard lifted it clean out of the latch then went running through the party yelling “I lifted the gate outta the latch! I am Yoda! I’M FUCKING YODA, FUCKERS!!! YAAASSSSS! CALL ME YODA, BITCHES!” Oh Lordy.  Our neighbours were getting an earful.

By now, The Captain, aka Peter Pan, was downstairs smashing beers with the boys (thanks for your support, jock strap!) and was already thick tongued and slurring.  Our DJ, who had been mainly sober up until now, started sculling Vodka Cruisers, of all things!  It was at this point that a lot of the boys approached the bar, awkwardly asking if they could ‘try’ a Vodka cruiser because they really should try one at some point in their lives… elbowing each other in masculine jocularity “Hey, let’s be girls together, LOL!”  Miss Marvellous almost lost an eye in her eye roll (she doesn’t tolerate stupid testosterone bravado) “For fuck’s sake, settle down, son. You want a nice tasting drink?  Just ask, mate.  You don’t have to swap the drink for one of your testicles.  I promise you’ll still be a man afterwards.”  This was when the boys started to get really shit faced.

Then at around midnight, Boy Wonder comes running (literally) into the warm room with a crackling fire,” Mum! We haven’t had the cake! People are asking where the cake is!!!” Um, ok, so I carried the cake downstairs.

I started lighting the candles and then Boy Wonder went screaming down the lane telling everyone we were doing cake.  A very drunk mate yells “it’s time for Happy Birthday! Sing happy Birthday”. Then outside and inside, boys are scream-singing Happy Birthday at a thousand decibels, getting louder with every verse! Boy Wonder comes tearing into the room like a rocket sled on rails and runs/slides up to the cake and blows the candles out. What the fuck? Everyone cheers, cake is over.   No fucking photos except the blurry one Miss Marvellous managed during his “risky business” slide to blow the candles out. Grrrrrr!

Boy Wonder then delivers a smashed speech, said “hey y’all” about 20 times. He also said he ‘fucking loves” everyone repeatedly. Then the Captain gave the second slurred drunk speech of the night. We got some family photos, but Boy Wonder was falling all over the shop in his inebriated state, so we were all on the tilt in them. Drunk bastards!

At around 1am, there was a mass exodus.  Everybody pretty much left all at once.  The music went off, last drinks (travellers) were obtained and Boy Wonder and a couple of mates went for a Macca’s run via tram.  Our smashed DJ didn’t want to go so they took off. Then the DJ stumbles upstairs; he could hardly stand upright, and says ‘where is he? I need to say goodbye.’ He got completely messed up on cruisers and Moscato (women’s drinks they called them… obviously too strong for men).  His Mum (one of my friends who joined me in the living room) was absolutely shocked because it happened in the space of 1/2 hour. He was fine ... then he was smashed. He left all his DJ equipment on (had no more fucks to give at this stage). I turned it all off and walked them out... DJ stumbles his way to the car, and they were gone.

We went downstairs and cleaned up all the empties, put the grog away, locked everything up and then I put my Jim jams on and sat by the fire to read a couple of pages before climbing into bed.  It was almost 2am by this stage.

Ten minutes later, Miss Marvellous, who had joined me and is lounging drunkenly by the crackling fire, gets a distress call from Mate 1.  Mate 1 says Boy Wonder is in a bad way, he hurt himself and could barely walk (because he was smashed), please help. We could hear Boy Wonder saying, “Aw man, my ear hurts and I need to throw up.” Then we can hear Mate 1 yelling “No, mate, don’t run on the road. Oi!  Stay here, man” Shit! I went in to chat to The Captain, who had put his drunk self to bed and was trying to entice me to join him to ‘ride the wild pony’. No mate, there’s been a call and I’ve got to go get Boy Wonder. He’s not in a good way. The Captain, all care and responsibility, says “Tell him to get on a fucking tram”. Nice. The kid couldn’t even walk and was trying to spastic-run up Warrigal road.  He’s not getting on a tram.  That’s ok, I’ll be the parent.  You just get yourself to sleep.

I got a bucket and towels for the potential Vomitron and went to fetch the boys, dragging the smashed Miss Marvellous with me.  The streets were empty at that stupid hour (except for drunk teens running amuck) so we got there pretty fast.  I parked down a side street then we made our way to the bus stop to fetch Little Boy Pissed.  Boy Wonder was indeed a mess and when he saw us, he shot his arms in the air and screamed “Heeeyyy! What up, Niggers!” Oh, holy God, get him in the bloody car before someone shoots us all in the street. Turns out, these drunk dickheads thought it would be a great idea for Boy Wonder to climb into a shopping trolley and Mate 2, who was very pissed and stoned, was running around pushing him.  Apparently Mate 2 was so far gone that the trolley was on two wheels for most of the adventure, so it was only a matter of time before mishap occurred.  And occur it did – he hit a kerb at high speed and the trolley smashed into a power pole with Boy Wonder in between.  Stupid arses!  He has hurt his face, shoulder, ear and neck (all have grazed abrasions - not good, although to the untrained eye, they could be mistaken for hickies… but Boy Wonder wasn’t that lucky).  The worst injury was his elbow, which got a little crushed. His arm was bad on Sunday. Stupid drunk youth.

Mate 2 had buggered off so Mate 1 rode gunshot, but it was too awkward to move the seat, so he looked all bent up like a giant grasshopper for the trip home.  I had the insane urge to giggle but wasn’t sure I’d be able to reign it in, so I bit my tongue and kept myself nice.  Miss Marvellous sat in the back with her drunk brother, belted him in and held his head in case he needed to vomit.  He said he was going to throw up a few times, so we were pleased that we made the trip without the stench of vomit in the car. When we got home, he couldn’t even walk so Miss Marvellous and I had to carry his dead weight up the bloody stairs... it was like carrying a Shetland Pony. Jesus H Christ on a popsicle stick. 2/3 the way up, he jerks awake and becomes alert and sprints up the last few steps and speed smashes into his bed, moaning that he wants a couple more frothies.  Yeah, nah mate... GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP, SUNSHINE!

I undressed him, surrounded him with towels and the bucket and put him to bed.  Mate 1 went to bed in the 4th bedroom and I finally locked up and went to bed myself at 3:30am.  In his drunken state, the ‘wild pony’ had star fished in the middle of the bed on his back… so I slept precariously close to the edge, next to a snoring, farting Shrek all night, almost getting drunk myself on the vapours rising from him. 

I was up at 7:30am for clean up. They all, every single one of them, had a hangover on Sunday morning so I had to make a mercy dash for bacon, eggs and Panadol.  The Pony was in bed by 7:30pm on Sunday night.  Miss Marvellous went out with a bunch of girlfriends for round 2, a true seasoned Newlands.

Footage emerged the next day of one of the drunk boys trying to make his way home.  Holy crap, he was walking like something straight out of the Zombie apocalypse.  Shuffling along, using only one of his legs and dragging the other one… his eyes closed, and he looked for all intents and purposes to be asleep.  The video ended with this kid laying in a toddler position on the nature strip.

Teenagers, who’d have ‘em?

Sigh.