Nipplegate and the Arseholed Midget - Mums behaving badly!
As a women’s wellbeing advocate, and a passionate defender of our voice and our right to own our narratives - I wrote this story to highlight what I believe is a very big social issue. I was trying to be humorous to make the point - Why do we make light of excessive drinking? Why are the dangers of alcohol abuse so often ignored until they are catastrophic? Middle-aged women in Australia are drinking at increasingly dangerous levels. A study by the George Institute for Global Health found that one in five middle-aged women are drinking at 'binge drinking' levels, which is a significant increase since 2001. The “humorous” story below calls that out.
I was part of this tribe, so I’m calling out my behaviour as much as anyone else’s. My position is not judgmental, it is a curious and a concerned perspective. When you move to the outside you see a different view, have a different lens. It’s that lens that can show people perspectives they may not have considered before. If we need to drink that much that oblivion is our destination, it would seem there are issues we need to address. I know for me; my Mum friend drinking was symptomatic of much deeper issues which my SHINE journey taught me to face and work through. When we giggle about getting “arseholed” and laugh at events like showing our nipples inadvertently, we’re not helping. That’s the juxtaposition this post poses – it’s humour to call out the humour associated with a serious social issue.
I understand people may find this story confronting and I received lots of messages asking who it is about. It was actually mostly inspired by events that happened at an interstate event and is not about any school that my children went to or go to now. However, I do see this type of behaviour at many events I go to and in many of the social circles I engage with. The real question should be why alcohol abuse is increasing at such a rapid rate in the Mum tribe and what can we do to help each other.
I wish we talked more about how the right to drink to oblivion is more valued than calling it out. I wish we were braver and told our friends when their drinking is a problem. I wish there wasn’t alcohol at the centre of nearly every event I go to. I wish we didn’t normalise declaring a hard day can be solved with a glass of wine and I really wish we didn’t model this behaviour to our children.
I respect people’s right to drink, but I also wish many people drank less. I wish there was much less suffering due to the effects of alcohol abuse. Maybe next time we see the type of behaviour discussed in this post, instead of encouraging it, we could kindly talk to the person about it and even help them (if they’re receptive to help).
Note this story is inspired by real events but I have changed some details to protect people. The point of the story is less about the actual events and more a social commentary on the influence excessive alcohol has both on the Mummy culture and society. It is commentary on social constructs and our way of being. I get that some people aren’t ready to be confronted by the other side of this type drinking, by someone who doesn’t appreciate it and calls out the impacts it has, but I maintain my right to my authentic voice. You have a choice to read this or not, as I had a choice to write it.
A little story of Nipplegate and the Arseholed Midget
Ok, so these days I’m a middle aged, vegan non-drinker with an exercise addiction but back in the day I was a wild, wild woman. There are stories to tell – no doubt about it. However, I am pretty sure I have never been so arseholed drunk I couldn’t find the stream of water to wash my hands, and I was always sure that my nipples were covered when clothed. (Not to say that there haven’t been drunken skinny-dipping episodes with my significant other, but that’s another story).
If nipples were on show (even inadvertently) at a black-tie event, you would think the culprit would be a young twenty something still learning the ways of the world. Nope, try a forty something Mum of three with enough coin to get a monumental boob job. Intrigued? Let me step you through the day and night.
Picture this. An innocent lunch organised by (champs loving) Mums to “bond” (translation – permission/excuse to get pissed/arseholed and find more women to join the get arseholed with tribe).
I was immediately wary. As I venture towards three years on the sober path, I have less tolerance for the arseholed brigade in full flight. Sober, on the morning school run with their dark glasses and myriad of late excuses I can tolerate and even at times, have empathy for – but in full arseholed mode they are pains in the arse. If I want to be spat on and clutched, I’ll go to a bloody llama farm!
I was visiting a friend for her milestone birthday and thought it was rude to say no, even though she was the only person I knew there. She was the only one I knew but it was a familiar story. There were Mums like this at so many schools and at one stage I was one of them.
I compromised and came late and stayed for an hour or so. The two organisers were arseholed by 2pm – four or so of their merry followers were well on their way to arseholed land but most were just happy or completely sober. It was a pretty good hour or so – I only had to walk away from two spitting, slurring, rambling arseholes. Not too bad.
We got ready for a black-tie 40th that night for my friend. This was a classy event with about 400 people present (my friend has a public profile). Many guests had a couple of glasses of wine, but no one was arseholed or even close. It was a lovely night with supportive, fun women who didn’t feel the need to visit oblivion in order to cope. (I know that’s a tad judgemental, but the other side of the table can be a hard place to sit too!)
However, drum roll please, this is where the arseholed midget and Nipplegate started. One of the mothers who HAD been at the lunch and was already arseholed at 2pm, turned up uninvited as a “plus one” to someone already there who was denying all accountability. She was slurring, hobbling, vacant gazing and generally displaying all evidence of being on Planet Arseholed. At 6.30pm at night.
She screamed when she saw us all, latched onto us, slurred, spat as she talked (OMG the worst) and talked absolute goobity gosh. Non-comprehende! We made our way to the tables (thankfully they weren’t on ours) and I hoped that was the end of it.
Alas, the vegan dietary tag meant little to our oblivious waitstaff, and the dairy based dish sent my lactose allergic self to the toilet. I had to push past Nipplegate standing guard whilst the arseholed midget did a barefoot Indian war dance around her shoes (loudly exclaiming she was looking for her shoes) trying to find the stream of water to wash her hands and missing quite impressively. She was ranting on high wattage at triple pace with some telltale signs of white powder spotted on her top lip. As I started loudly vomiting four other guests at the very elegant, black-tie function exited stage left in a Flojo type sprint. Nipplegate murmured incoherently and our arseholed (and powdered) midget found her shoes but couldn’t work out why she couldn’t walk in them (wrong feet and too many substances love).
They exited the toilets with Nipplegate now showing both nipples as well as a white powdered nose that was lit up like a sign. The four Flojo fans had obviously spread the word as a number of tables turned to stare at the three of us exiting the toilets. I was implicated too (bugger that loud vomiting). To say I was mortified was an understatement. Lucky my friend (the hostess) defended my honour and introduced me as her vegan clean-living friend, a tag I’m usually a bit miffed at but happily embraced on this occasion.
I ended up shrugging my shoulders and just letting it flow (as opposed to Flojoing it out of there). I can’t control what people think. I could however, enjoy my amusement at men in the room (including my girlfriend’s lovely husband) trying hard not to notice Nipplegate as the dress almost exploded (at one stage ¾ of a boob and two nipples on full display) – until a much nicer woman than I had enough and marched up and put a jacket on her.
It was a revelatory evening.
I’m glad I don’t belong to the Arseholed Tribe.
Anymore….
