Good Greek Girls Don't Read Free Page B

Stalactites – it’s a Melbourne institution, open twenty-four hours a day, and every Greek in the city ends up there after a big night out. But chances are too great that I will run into my ex there. He’s so predictable and I’m just not in the mood to end up in a fight with him that would probably end with me pushing him in front of an early-morning street sweeper. It’s not that I am a violent person, but Denny always manages to bring out the worst in me.
    I finally arrive home at about eight-thirty in the morning, hoping that my folks have already left for church. Unfortunately they’re still home. I manage to get to my bedroom without hearing the whole tirade: ‘What sort of time is this for a girl to be coming home? What will the neighbours think? You better not be mixed up with some bum!’ I slur a few half-hearted responses before I get to the safety of my bedroom, slam the door shut, strip off and fall into an alcohol-induced coma. In a few hours I’ll emerge with a thumping head, hating myself for drinking so much and on the hunt for some greasy food. KFC on awaking I think. Goodnight.

    I am never drinking again in my life. Never, ever again. I will remain sober for the rest of my life. I will develop an allergy to vodka. This is my usual Sunday morning chant. Every Sunday morning I swear the same thing. Every Sunday morning I swear that this will be the last ever hangover. This time I mean it. Never, ever again. My head is thumping and my mouth feels like something died in there last night. Oh my God, someone please shoot me. A nice quick bullet in the head would be better than having to face the afternoon with my whole family. I squint a look at my alarm clock. The display torments me. One forty-seven in the afternoon. I have thirteen minutes maximum before the whole clan arrives – brother, sister, their partners and their kids. This is going to be painful.
    This is a regular thing for my family. Every bloody Sunday without fail, by two in the afternoon everyone is there. My perfect sister with her perfect husband and her four perfect children. Then my brother with his oh-so-pregnant ‘she’s ready to explode’ wife. And do you think that my family feels any sympathy for me in my alcohol-induced state? Not a chance. I have to be there. I have to play with the children, amuse them, and amuse the adults with my single status, because the main topic of conversation at these gatherings is always me, and when I’m going to grow up, settle down and finally take something seriously in my life. A successful career and securing your future is not commitment in their eyes. It’s simply a passing hobby until I find a man to look after me.
    So out of bed I get and throw on the first clothes I find. I prepare myself for battle. I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear the doorbell ring. Here come the troops, get the ammunition ready.
    My sister, Effie, walks in, followed by her ever-loyal husband Andreas (for some reason they all refuse to simplify and call him Andrew – they claim it diminishes  his true identity, his Hellenism or something like that). Following suit are the perfect four offspring: Fotis, the oldest at five, Con, just turned four, and the twins, Maria and Eleni, at two. My God, Effie’s uterus must be about ready to abandon her.
    â€˜Yiasoo Ma. Hi Dad.’
    Being the perfect daughter that she is, Effie plants a kiss on both my parents’ cheeks, instructs the children to do the same, and then turns her attention to me. ‘Desi, nice to see you awake and dressed. I thought you only came out at night.’
    The battle has begun, with Effie drawing first blood, and it is my sisterly duty to finish her off.
    â€˜Ef, I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to spend some quality time with you and your brood. After all, I only get to see them every day of the week. You know that’s nowhere near