Introducing Beanie Face and Cali Gurrrl

The new housemates were strange and alien to The Boyfriend and I - they tried to engage us in conversation, for one. They were eager for employment, for another. It had been so long since The Boyfriend and Yours Truly had been around normal human beings that we were suspicious and shy around them at first. They were a couple in their mid-twenties; an Australian boy fond of head-wear who will be hereby known as Beanie Face, and his gorgeous American girlfriend, who will be hereby referred to as Cali Gurrrl. In Australia six months after a year-long 'round-the-world trip, they had decided to move to Melbourne for a change of scenery. They baffled me with their unplanned adventures, and their readiness to spend money on excursions. Years spent squeezing my few pennies throughout college and in the lead up to the big transition to See The Wizard had left me almost pained at the idea of voluntary expenditure on anything not absolutely necessary - that is, anything that wasn't alcohol or cigarettes. So, naturally, The Boyfriend and I befriended them the only way we knew how - through the irresponsible consumption of the Demon Drink.

We all piled into Dallas and chugged our way to Woolworths, where I made the greatest discovery of my
short and dull life - two dollar bottles of 11% white wine. We each grabbed a box of six bottles, and after some tricky maneuvering on The Boyfriend's part, managed to haul Dallas out of the ramp-ridden parking lot, and headed back the house. 

To say we got inebriated is probably akin to a statement which implies I was moderately pleased Fat Shite had finally upped and left us.

Anyway, the next day, sore and hiding from daylight, we agreed we were a group who were talented at getting drunk together. And so it happened that the following weekend, Cali Gurrrl, Beanie Face, The Boyfriend and Yours Truly found ourselves heading on a wine tour. 

Now, this may be an unfathomable concept to my Irish comrades - I certainly was pretty disbelieving when Cali Gurrrl first brought up the notion of a wine tour. "A tour, where you are driven to different wineries, and can sample as many wines as you liked?" Cali Gurrl continued. "Where they have about twenty different blends stacked in bottles behind the bar and you just point and they pour?" Cali Gurrrl nodded, and went on. "AND IT'S FREE?!?!" I literally almost fainted.

But it turned out Cali Gurrrl was telling the truth, and after I'd gotten over the initial shell-shock, we were on our way. We went to the Yarra Valley, a picturesque place with rolling hills and sprawling vineyards, home to the about 80 winemakers and their wares, including the famous Domaine Chandon, the only Australian winery founded by Moët and Chandon. In short, it was all very prestigious and fanciful, and with The Boyfriend's sudden declaration that he regretted being the designated driver, I should have known then and there that the day wouldn't be quite the elegant and sophisticated gustatory experience I'd envisioned.

Two hours later, Cali Gurrrl and I were probably drunker than is humanly possible. Beanie Face and The Boyfriend stood, arms folded, clucking disapprovingly like two old hens. To be fair, they had reason. We were outside our third winery and I'd walked into the glass door that was the exit - an exit I'd been ushered toward kindly by some old, gentlemanly wine connoisseur who I'd strong-armed into a photo with me. I was trying to keep it together - I really was. Unfortunately, I was failing miserably. My smile was lopsided, my voice several octaves higher than usual, my head was fuzzy and I kept desperately slurring at the winery employees that I could work there for a while to snare my second year visa, if they would like. Cali Gurrrl was whining in the background about Beanie Face's refusal to partake in the tastings - he'd been struck down by hay-fever or some nonsense. My alcohol-addled mind fervently agreed with her postulations, so I joined in the tirade of abuse, openly insulting my new housemate whom I knew nothing about.

We moved on to Chandon - I don't know what The Boyfriend was thinking. Really, he should have had more sense. That visit lasted about ten minutes. Cali Gurrrl and I couldn't even make it out the door, and decided to roll around in the bushes at the entrance door - as you do. Beanie Face and The Boyfriend finally must have decided it was time to drag us home, where Cali Gurrrl and I locked ourselves in the bathroom for two hours, discussing our respective other halves' many failures and annoying habits. After that, I thankfully remember nothing.

I woke up the next morning, wrenching my twenty pound head off the pillow, ropes of spittle clinging to the sheets, a wave of nausea overwhelming my fully-clothed body. The hangover was immense, unbearable. I met Cali Gurrrl in the kitchen, bent over the sink. I sighed inwardly, resigning myself to the fact that I'd ruined it with another pair of housemates - and these ones hadn't even done anything remotely irritating. They had talked to us, they had agreed to venturing outside the house with us`- they seemed like genuinely nice, normal people. They had even bought toilet paper. My eyes actually filled with tears - damn emotional hangovers. Damn housemates. Damn drunken version of me. I waited for the inevitable cold silence.

Then something wonderful happened - Cali Gurrrl turned around. She saw me standing there, pathetic and undoubtedly disgusting. And she laughed. She bent over with laughter. She cried she was laughing so hard. And so we sat there, at eight in the morning, on the floor of the crustiest post-session kitchen in the world, giggling until our stomachs hurt, reminiscing about our horrific drunken behaviour the day before.

Somehow, The Boyfriend and I had made friends.