You get to hang all day, and you eat junk and laugh, hang some more, and then you know that the best thing about going to bed that night is that you’re going to wake up and still be hanging out with your buddy and you have a spanking great do-over.
We mostly stop doing sleepovers as grown ups. Not sure why because they’re awesome, but I guess it involves something to do with the minutiae of life and logistics and kids and proximity and shit.
When I spoke to my mate Champagne Carolyn last Wednesday, she was having a bit of a beige week. I’ve been working my chops off lately and I recognised I really needed a day off this weekend because I haven’t had a whole day off in far too long, but I also knew that I probably wouldn’t take it because I’m atrocious at relaxing and always find my itchy fingers sneak their way onto the computer and I bang out some work before I know it (or waste hours killing my brain on social media.)
“Come to Sydney for the weekend,” I flippantly suggested to my BrisVegas dwelling buddy. “I don’t have the kids.”
She responded that she had her big girl for the weekend, but I heard her hesitation so I said in my most manipulative manner –
“What are you and your daughter going to remember in 10 years time?”
She totally fell for that line like a big ol’ sucker and booked a flight for the weekend, so I took the weekend off to play tourista in my own town.
It was Spencer’s first trip to Sydney and I was determined to make it an epic rock and roll adventure so we ate yum cha, we cooked together, we hit the Opera House, The Harbour Bridge and The Rocks markets.
We discussed the comfort level of g-strings, boy crushes and Minecraft. I got to see what eleven looks like in the landscape of children. Eleven is pretty cool. Interesting, engaged, fond of devices and a little moody at times.
Much like myself. Maybe I just never matured beyond eleven. Highly possible.
We went did Halloween make-up and went trick or treating, we ate pizza and ice-cream and naturally Champers C and I drank wine until the wee hours and tried to solve some of the big stuff.
We’re big dreamers and deep thinkers we two, so we talked out some shit. We talked about love, and direction, aspirations and fears, and then I discovered something that has forever changed the way I feel about my friend.
I realised that Carolyn has a very large flaw and if this weekend is anything to go by I don’t know if she’ll ever be able to rectify it…but I must admit the discovery was one of this weekend’s highlights.
She has duck face dysfunction.
I was completely unaware that you could have a strong online presence and killer Instagram following whilst suffering a duckface inability, in fact, I think she’s probably an anomaly. Instagram is filled with trout outing duck faces and everyone trots one out now and again….even if only by accident.
Don’t judge her because she looks like she needs a poo as this is the best she can do, and because she’s so awesome at everything else I think we should overlook this defect.
We damned near died laughing. The really big, uncontrollable laughing where you struggle to get your breath, and then she said –
“I never realised I was so shit at duckface.”
And it was pretty much at that exact moment that we realised that life was indeed crazy, and we were indeed lucky.
Obvious dysfunctions aside.
Can you duck face? Whether you’re a pro or a rookie, I want to see it.
Load a picture of your duck face onto my faceboook page and I’ll send you my Cook Once, Feed All ebook.
Just put your email address with your best trout pout and I’ll shoot it out to you….if you already have the book, play anyway.
Show me your best duck and give me a smile for the day!
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