Good Greek Girls Don't (3 page)

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.

‘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.

‘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 enough.'

Like many good Greek grandparents, my mother can't enjoy being retired from paid work – she has to raise my sister's children while my sister and her husband run their fish and chip shop. So every day, the kids get to my place at about nine in the morning and they're gone by ten at night – if we're lucky. More often than not Effie decides that they should sleep here because it's such a shame to wake them. My mother fails to recognise that Effie and her dear husband are simply taking advantage of her. My mother fails to see all of Effie's flaws because, as far as she is concerned, Effie doesn't have any. Effie is perfect. The perfect wife, the perfect daughter and daughter-in-law, and the perfect mother. She did everything just right. Got married at the right age (twenty), produced the right amount of grandchildren (four), and managed to nab the right husband – donkeys years older than her but he already owned his own home and a business. See, she's perfect, and I, on the other hand, am the devil child who can't do a thing right.

Just as my darling sister is about to fire off another round, the front door swings open and in walks Tas and Poppy. Poppy looks like she is ready to explode even though she is only five months pregnant. By the time she's ready to give birth she's going to be as big as a house.

‘Hey Des,' Tas yells out. ‘You look like shit.' I can always count on Tas to be honest. Brutally at times, but that's just the way things are with the two of us.

‘Oh, yeah, well, coming from you that's a compliment.

How's it going, Poppy?' I know I shouldn't laugh but she is so struggling to carry that stomach around.

‘Oh, good, Desi. Just tired. I reckon the doctors have made a mistake and there's like five kids in here.' She's right. She looks like she is carrying a lot more than just one baby.

Everyone settles into the lounge room while Mum stays in the kitchen and tends to lunch, and Dad and Andreas hang around in the garden and discuss ways that they can make their tomatoes grow faster, bigger and redder. Riveting stuff.

I can't believe my baby brother is going to be a daddy. What a spin. He's so young – only twenty-three – and here he is, married with a mortgage and a baby  on the way. Don't get me wrong, I'm really happy for him. After all, he got out of this hellhole that I'm stuck in, but couldn't he have waited a little bit, until he was a bit older? Or until I was out of here so I wouldn't have to face the crap that my parents dish out all on my own? Tas was always my backup. I trained him so well, that when he was around Mum and Dad never knew what time we got in or what we were up to. Now their whole attention is focussed on me and my so-called pathetic excuse for a life. I need my Tas back home.

So, here we are, another riveting Sunday with my family. I do love them, and there's no way that I would ever be able to manage without them. It's just that they drive me absolutely insane. If they could just get over this infatuation they have with marrying me off and let me live my own life in the manner that I see fit, we would all be happy. If they could accept that I am not Effie, the perfect daughter, or Poppy, the dutiful daughter-in-law, that I am me, and no matter what they do they can't change that, then all would be right in our worlds.

There's only one person who isn't constantly disappointed in me, the only person who tells me that I shouldn't change for anyone and who tells me that I should enjoy my life now, while I can. My darling grandmother – my Yiayia. How is it possible that she actually gave birth to my mother? They are so different. It is almost as if they are from different planets. I can't wait for my Yiayia to come back from Greece. She's been there for three months now and I need her back in my corner. She's going to move in with us when she gets back. It's just too hard for her being on her own now that my grandfather is gone. Besides, having her here means that there is someone who can finally put my mother in her place when she gets out of control. Two more weeks and my Yiayia comes back. Two more weeks and I finally have someone in my corner. Someone whose advice I know I can always depend upon and someone who I know will never tell me what a big disappointment I am. Someone who loves me just for who I am. For me.

Monday morning. How I hate Monday mornings. I may be able to get to work on time but I can never actually function when I get there. All I know is that Monday morning should not start until at least one-thirty in the afternoon so that people like me can be eased back into the normality of the working week. Why did I go out last night? Why did I stay out until four in the morning when I knew that I had to be up at six? Why the hell did my boss roster me as the first team leader on duty this week when he knows that I do not function in the morning?

I walk into the main entrance. Literally into the main entrance as I forget to swipe my security pass. Soothing the bump that is sure to appear on my forehead, I wonder why the doors aren't swinging open. Then I remember – pass required for access before standard business hours. I really should remember that for the rest of the week. Walking in to work covered in bruises is really not a good look.

I manage to get to my desk without banging into any walls. Not bad on two hours sleep and a wee bit of a hangover. I know, I know, I swore black and blue on Sunday morning that I would never drink again, but, hey, Sunday night is another story, another bar, and another celebration that needs to be toasted. Although I wish I could actually remember what we were celebrating. It'll come to me eventually. But I just know that today is going to be a bad day. I can feel it in my bones.

I wasn't wrong. It was a very bad day. Driving home, I think back over the past eight hours and can't believe that I actually got through it. Five new staff members got dumped into my team. At least they have a couple of weeks training before they end up with me. Then we had to evacuate for a fire drill. Then a management meeting where all of us team leaders were told that we have one week to get all staff assessments done, and, that our team members are not performing, they spend too much time on personal phone calls, their sales are down, the collection of bad debts needs to be increased, and their sick leave is sky high and unacceptable. It all sounds like blah, blah, blah to me today. Hell, we're a collection centre – a phone centre trying to collect bad phone debts. People pull sickies, left right. People talk on the phone for a bit too long because all that our customers want to do is bitch about how much we're ripping them off and discriminating against them when we request payment for services rendered. When someone calls to complain that we're being mean and nasty in sending them notices of demand for services they forgot to pay and listing them as credit risks, they really don't want to be told about the many great products and services we have on offer that would require them to pay us more money on an ongoing basis. What the hell are we supposed to do to change that? If I have to give my team one more motivational speech, I think I may throw up in front of them.

I can't wait to get home. All I plan on doing is curling up under the doona and sleeping till tomorrow. I'm in desperate need of sleep. Hopefully my sister's kids will have discovered some outdoor activity that'll keep them busy and out of my room. That's the worst thing about starting work at seven in the morning – I'm home by four in the afternoon and the kids are still there and awake. Don't get me wrong, I love my nephews and nieces but they're just a little too much to cope with on no sleep. They're so energetic and inquisitive and if they're indoors when I get home, I know exactly where they'll be – in my room playing with my computer, which means they will have stuffed something up. I really should get a lock on my door.

As soon as I open the front door I know that Mum has cooked already. Excellent. Will eat and hibernate till it's time for work again. I can barely keep my eyes open. Oh my God, I am never, ever going to pull two all-nighters in a row. Never, ever again. I honestly think I am getting too old for it now.

Yum, Mum's got chicken wings and rice ready. I've trained the woman well. ‘Hey Ma.' Why isn't she in the kitchen? Why are the children so quiet that I can't hear them? Uh-oh, they're in my room. Mum comes running down the stairs.

‘Despina, you home. Good, you take me and children to Effie's shop.'

No way. Shake of head in between mouthfuls of rice. My car does not have the Silver Top Taxi's logo anywhere on it.

‘No way, Ma. I need some sleep.' Where's Dad anyway? He can ferry them around. ‘Get Dad to take you.' Another mouthful of rice. ‘I'm going to bed, Ma, wake me up tomorrow at about ten to six again.'

‘Your father at Uncle Johnny house doing the bathroom.'

There is no way that I am going to the shop now because I know one way or another I will end up serving fish and chips to men who like to thank my boobs for serving them. Drastic measures are needed here.

‘Just take my car, Ma.' Now she knows I mean business. I know my car is nothing flash, but it's my baby and the only time someone else drives my car is when I'm drunk and forgot to leave the car at home, or I'm so sick that I can't move. Mum loves to drive my car because it's not as horrendously big as the Valiant. There is no way that she would pass up this golden opportunity. No way. I know her well enough and all I have to do now is get her and the kids out of the house and I can have peace and quiet. I can sleep!

I'm serving goddamn fish and chips. I really hate my sister right now. Hate her with a passion. Do you think that she is going to pay me for the hard work that I'm putting in? Do you think that Effie cares that I have had two hours sleep? Do you think that she cares that I've had a long, shit day at work? Where the fuck is her husband anyway? He should be the one working here now, but, no, he has a good wife with a sucker for a mother-in-law, so he's off at the bloody club drinking coffee and playing backgammon with the other wog men. What did I do to deserve this? That's it, an oath: as of tonight I am never ever stepping foot inside my sister's shop again. She can plead, she can beg, hell she can even offer to pay me. I've had enough. I stink of fish and oil, my feet are killing me, my hair is all greasy and I want to sleep.