The Shame Files #2

The Time I Sabotaged A Co-workers Health

A few years ago I worked in a CD shop that was a lot less crazy than my current place of employ (which is not hard). Luckily for this blog, every workplace has at least a few of its own quirks. In this place, we had a boss (KM) who would eat other people's food. She wasn't sneaky about it, but she just had absolutely no self control. She would emerge from the back room with a comment like "I don't know whose Tim Tam's are in the fridge but I just ate one". It was quite irritating.

A few other things about KM, just to give you an idea of what she was like:
Her taste in music was ... interesting. She once tried (and failed) to sell a dance music compilation to someone by saying that she loved to listen to it while she was knitting. Another time, she famously said "I really like the new Celine Dion album because it's so easy to listen to".
She was built along generous lines, and had started going to the gym at about the time we started working together. You could see the effort and feel the pain when she ate a salad for lunch, because it was clear that every munch on that lettuce leaf echoed "Kit-kat Kit-kat Kit-kat" inside her head.

So now for the potentially shameful thing: I used to buy junk food on purpose and leave it lying around because I knew she would eat it. Good times.

All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth

I went to a concert the other day and I’ve been putting off putting fingers to keyboard because it provided me with so much material that I hardly knew where to begin. I have placed a restriction on myself in the interests of brevity: (almost) no personal attacks on the physical appearance of the singers. Believe me, this alone should cut things in half. NB This refers to physical attributes, not clothing.

To help with clarity, I’ll be writing this with a simple to follow point system; just think of it as online snakes and ladders.

It was a Christmas concert. -1 point

The musical director – dressed in barbershop quartet meets ethnic hippy cheesecloth – kicked things off with “a few words”. He talked of didgeridoos, eggs, cabbages and kings… I think, but like everyone else in the audience I stopped paying attention after the 5 minute mark. -1 point

The singers emerged. The men all looked like Westpac bank managers and the women looked like a grown up, thrown up version of what my friends and I looked like in our childhood choir. – 56 points

…although where physically possible (in 2 out of 3 cases) they had cleavage on display rather than the deeply hideous things called flounces that we had to wear. + 1 point

One of the women had a really great pair of shoes + 1 point

Now to the concert itself… It’s days later and I’m still in a state of confusion over exactly what it was supposed to be or do… but I can say that watching deeply uncool people (the human version of our old flounces) trying to be cool is a really uncomfortable feeling. It’s like being at a stuffy function and having a twig stuck in your bra that is driving you nuts but you can’t remove it. It won’t kill you but it is AGONY!!! And it makes you squirm a lot. -25 points

It was Mr G does Gilbert and Sullivan Christmas Extravaganza. – 1 point

The idea behind it was to sing carols that related to the 12 days of Christmas, with spoken … um…. bits … to connect it all together. For sheer ambition I am willing to give this points. + 3 points

Unfortunately, the ‘bits’ were not particularly funny (note to the performers: enunciating your words carefully does not equal comedic delivery), and they didn’t really make sense either in combination with the songs or even as stand-alone pieces. – 12 points

When I was 6 years old my friend Ursula and I had what we thought was a fantastic idea that involved dressing up as witches to scare people we didn’t like. Upon reflection, I can see that it was a pretty crap idea. It seems that such reflection was sorely needed yet woefully absent in regard to this concert. – 1 point

There were some highlights amid the mire of confusing, non-funny, forced jocularity. Somewhere around the 9th or 10th day of Christmas, one of the singers (good, hair, bad shoes, cleavage) read out a letter to Madonna (I’m really not sure why). Her accent swung between Jamaican and Irish with a touch of Scots for good measure, but she did say “touching your private parts for vouge-ing purposes” (no, I really don’t know why) for which I must award: +1 point

Musically, it was very clever with a lot of complicated harmonies + 1point

However, much like bestiality or clipping your toenails in public, just because you can does not necessarily mean that you should. The clever obliterated most of the audience’s potential enjoyment of the music. -1 point

Staging, movement and blocking were all very good. +3 points

After the show we went out for a debrief and saw someone with a really great dress +1 point

Final score:
Points Awarded: 9
Points Deducted: 96
Total Points: oh, what's the point of it all? Nobody cares.

My Life and Stuff

I am sitting at a library computer being distracted by a man's heavy breathing. I really don't want to know what he is looking at online... Oh good, now he is merely talking to himself.

Apologies if my last post sounded a little muddled. I was distracted by my little sister playing peek-a-boo with me as I was trying to write it. She is 26.

The Only Gay in the Village and I are now firm friends. This is because at our work Christmas party I told him he needed to use industrial strength eye cream and this comment made him realise that I "have a wit as quick as [his]". Bless.

Either nobody has been arrested outside my apartment for a few days, or I am learning to sleep through it.

I had a dream the other day where I was trying to do a magic trick with gold fish that I was keeping in a hot water bottle but they died. What does this mean?

I had lunch with the Russian ambassador the other day and he gave me three duck eggs and an Ormolu clock. He told me that I would make a brilliant quantum physicist, if only I applied myself to Maths. He also told me that he doesn't think Kurban will last. I tend to agree.

Arrest That Woman!

Some people should not be allowed to dress themselves. I think the argument for a nanny state really comes into its own where fashion (or should I say "fashion"?) is concerned. Clearly, some people are not capable of making sensible choices on their own. I was walking to work the other day and almost yelled out "Oh Jesus, Mary and JOSEPH that is HIDEOUS!!!" to the apparition walking towards me on George St. Luckily for her, my internal monologue was in top form. What was she wearing? Well, I'm glad you asked. It was a 2 piece suit in tiny black and white checks. The pattern itself was ok but there was way too much of it. It wasn't completely hideous but it made the most of all the wrong parts of her anatomy - for example her enormous camel toe.

I found myself thinking that they shouldn't be allowed to sell such crap, but that the problem was really in the combination of garments rather than the garments themselves, as well as the fact that she was wearing the wrong size. There is no legislation against wearing the wrong clothes but just imagine a world where there were. There would be no more skinny jeans on fat people, no more mumble pants*, no more socks and sandals and no more Harry Highpants OR Larry Lowpants.





*Leggings. You can se the lips moving but you can't hear the words.

Context Is Everything

But this is a whole lot funnier without the context so I'm not going to provide it:

JB: Maybe I should move to Coogee when I'm 35 and impregnate a lesbian.

AD: Don't move to Coogee and impregnate a lesbian 'cause you won't find one!

JB: Meh. There are plenty of lesbians.

Milk and Cream

So I have moved into my new place (hence the lack of posting for a few days) and love several things about my new life. One thing I was looking forward to before I moved was being close to shops that don't charge $10 for a ham sandwich. I was very excited about buying my fruit and veg from Harris Farm: cheaper, nicer, less distance to carry home. What I didn't take into account was The Harris Farm $30 Black Hole.

Let me explain. Every time I go in there I end up spending about $30 no matter what I needed, or what I intended to buy. The other day I went to get one vegetable to use in making my dinner. I spent bloody $30. Yesterday, I needed milk and cream. "Milk and cream" I said to myself as I walked down the street. "Milk and cream. Milk and cream" I internally monologued as I wandered the aisles of The Dastardly Harris Farm. I ended up with all sorts of foodstuff and things. I bought a jar of rosehip jam mostly because I was staring at all the lovely marmalades thinking to myself "If I ate marmalade I would totally buy one of these because they look so lovely, and such good value too! Milk and cream." So I sensibly decided not to buy the marmalade (even though it was made from Seville oranges which I hear are the best for marmalade, milk and cream) only to pick up a jar of jam instead. I don't even like jam. It's too sweet.

In the end, I had to go somewhere else for the milk so I effectively spent $29.70 on thickened cream that I only bought to go with the gnocci that I bought fromn Harris Farm the last time I was in there.

Tanty Man: The Week (and a bit) That Was

Thursday

Quotes from Tanty Man:

"Come ON computer. I want to do this quickly and you're taking too long!"

"Yes, I AM talking to the books"

Daily Tanty Count: 3

After That

Tanty Man lost his voice for a few days so was unable to have any tanties.

Then a Bit After That

I kept a tally on a piece of paper in my pocket and he reached a whopping eight tanties in one day!

Christmas Meeting

I was lucky enough to miss the Christmas meeting this year, but The Eye very kindly typed up all the notes from the meeting. So when I turned up at work at the start of this week I got a document titled "Just a few reminders from the meeting". There are 31. 31 is not "a few", 31 is "a fucking lot". On top of this, many of these 31 points are actually several points cheekily squashed together. As an example I will reproduce my favourite (#4) verbatim:

4. Don't rush the sale, be careful the customer does not want to go home with the wrong books! Also the person closing at night wants to balance quickly and go home! Keep the counter tidy and the work areas, but still merchandise!
Wrapping may have to be done by the third person away from the counter until charity wrapping starts. Throw away as much as you can ie old posters etc. We are in control!

By my count, there are between 4 and 6 points in that one.

I could go through the thing and count how many points there actually are, but I think it would turn out to be rather like my experience in The House of Tassels*, so I am going to count the exclamation marks instead... there are 25.

And for a nice punchy finish, here is the little postscript that comes after point 31 (yes, it is all in caps):
IN THE WORDS OF THE ONLY GAY IN THE VILLAGE WHO HAD HIS FIRST CHRISTMAS WITH US LAST YEAR... THERE IS NO FIRST GEAR IT IS ALL THIRD AND FOURTH!

ABOVE ALL KEEP OUR SENSE OF HUMOUR, HAVE FUN, LOOK AFTER EACH OTHER AND REMEMBER THE DAILY MANTRA:

WE ARE IN CONTROL!


*Old next door neighbours of mine loved to tassel it up. I counted them all once and the number of 72 comes to mind but it may well have been more. Honestly, there were tassels on everything. Ornamental keys in ornamental doors with ornamental tassels hanging off their ornamental ends. Tassles on cushions, tassels on curtain sashes, tassels on the bloody dog. And if you couldn't put a tassel on it you could probably paint some fleur de lis on it so they did that instead.

The Only Gay In The Village

The Only Gay In The Village originally appeared to be a relatively normal co-worker of mine, but he is starting to give me the irrits. I think he doesn't quite know what to make of me because my jokes are dirtier than his, and I do not treat him as an exotic entity (When showing me how to do something 'properly' he said "I'm gay, I'm anal". What was I supposed to do? You can't ignore a set up like that).

He is a gay man who lives in Surry Hills, so in my opinion he's not exactly cutting edge. In the village where we work, however, he likes to put on a bit of a show. I suspect he might have a sign at his front door that says "Sparkle!" that he reads out loud to himself with jazz hand accompanying gesture whenever he leaves the house for the day.

The trouble really started because TOGITV looks like this:



And he didn't take kindly to me pointing it out. The more people he indignantly showed the book to, the more people realised that he looks like Mawson, and the huffier and queenier he got. I offered to tell him upfront all the celebs I've been told I look like so he could get all the payback out of his system before lunchtime, but he wasn't interested. For those playing at home, I am pleased about Maria Callas, resigned to Nana Mouskouri and still smarting over Gonzo the Muppet.

Letters I Wish I Could Send...

Dear Tanty Man,
You are a dick. The Only Gay In The Village* is only pretending to be your friend.
You might want to re- think the tanties because, to be honest, they make you a laughing stock. In fact, I have a blog and I have called you Tanty Man in it.
Love, FfZ

Dear Peter Fitzsimmons,
You are a dick.
Love, FfZ

Dear ---,
You are a dick.
Love, FfZ
*** There are more details to this letter that I wish I could send but I have taken advice from my Ethics Advisor and decided not to publish. A damn shame because it was quite hilarious. Sorry kids. ***


*Details of this character to follow.

Stuff Happened. Here Are The Interesting Bits.

I can confirm that L was fired last week. The Eye didn't think she read quickly enough. At The Crazy Workplace, one is expected to read certain things in one's spare time and at a certain pace. I don't think that I match up to this but (luckily for me) unlike L, I am able to a) bullshit really, really well and b) play the bimbo card when necessary. All The Eye really wants is to feel superior, so as long as I am happy not to challenge that I'll be fine. oh, and I also need to make Tanty Man think I think he is cool. I got an A in Drama at school - this is a piece of piss.

I have found a place to live. I am almost disappointed that it was so easy. It only took one interview and I am now preparing to move into a very fun flat in Glebe. Luckily, I have been told there are a couple of Scientologists who live in another apartment on the property and one of them likes to eat lunch in a skimpy negligee on the basketball court across the road. I smell blog fodder.

Strange Random Thing: A man in the lift gave me a bottle of wine tonight. I've never seen him before and now that I am moving out I may never see him again. But the Desert Heart Rose from Otago is very nice.

The recent global financial crisis has affected us all. I have calculated that before the crash, I would have been able to enjoy about 3 weeks of retirement on the super I have earned so far. However, my super fund has lost money recently, and now I can probably only afford to retire for about 2 weeks and 6 days.

Soon I Will Be Homeless - Do I Get A Tax Break?

Oh GOD. Finding a place to live is such a pain in the arse. I'm trying to weigh up what I will compromise on, and what I am just being a goddam princess about. Maybe it's the (Italian, very nice) wine talking, but I have decided that it is UNACCEPTABLE to pay an extra $20 a week in rent to live in fucking Kingsford with someone named TROY. Ugh. He sounds like quite a nice, normal person in his profile but with a name like that I find it hard to believe. The only names worse than Troy, in my opinion, are Randy and Dwayne.


Another profile seemed to offer potential early on: one of the people has a degree in Visual Arts and is doing further study in History and Environmental Biology (she sounds not only diverse, but very busy, which means she would be out a lot. An admirable quality in a flatmate I think). But on further reading, they seem to be a little airy fairy. They don't say "Capricorns need not apply" which is a good thing, but you have to read every nuance in these ads. I was a bit worried when reading what they want in a flatmate is someone who is "Emotionally healthy and honest". However, they also want this person to be "Respective of themselves". I think I'll leave them to their patchouli and bad grammar. Besides which, I don't think I am particularly emotionally healthy anyway.

And this one made me laugh out loud. It seems like a fairly average, cool place. The residents are all in their late 20s so have probably experienced a few freaky flatmate incidents. In the section where they describe their ideal flatmate, they have put: "Looking for an easy going young professionals who is normal." Ok, well, that is pretty clear.

Ok, I will admit that this next profile is one I clicked on only to find blog fodder. But it BREAKS MY HEART to see someone try so valiantly to describe Baulkham Hills as a great place to live. Here is my favourite 'selling point': "You can get to Wynard (sic) in 26-28 minutes at about 7am (with a seat)." No wonder the Pentacostal churches are so big out there: I don't know how else you would survive unless you knew that you were destined for a better life once you died.

The Shame Files #1

I've been thinking lately about a few things that I've done in my past that I either am or should be ashamed of. Rather than specify, I thought I'd blog about some of them and you can decide for yourselves whether or not I am actually ashamed or secretly proud of my youthful antics, or maybe in some cases a bit of both.

The Time I Entered A Writing Competition and Won

It was the uni newspaper, and in order to win 12 bottles of Bicardi Breezers, students were invited to pen their funniest alcohol-related story. I went to a uni where student involvement was pretty lackluster, so I calculated that in order to win, the only thing you really needed to do was enter something and no matter how dire it would win by default as the only entry. The only problem was that I didn't have any funny drunk stories. This is not to say that I didn't drink - I just never did anything particularly interesting when I did. So I decided to take my dear friend's best antics over a space of several months and combine them all into one hilarious tale of brandy/vodka/beer-fuelled shenanigans. He was conveniently out of the country at the time. It was a great story, and I won my lolly water. I will reproduce the tale here, in a version that has been ok'ed by said friend:

A few months ago I went to a party and ----- punch ---- ---- special brownies. ---- brownies ---- a group of people --- Oprah had a guest the week before who---- LOVE TANKS!!!!! ----- back garden-----vodka shots ---- bathroom ---- NAKED ---- Mum and Dad ----- shrubs -----.

At The Water Cooler Today...

Tanty Man has had a few tanties over the last few days, but just for something different I think I would describe yesterday's effort as a hissy fit. A subtle distinction that most people would probably not even notice. He was quite well behaved today although he did say "it's obvious as mud" which made me laugh.

I've been meaning to blog about the incident that inspired the idea of calling him Master J. Pedant, Esquire but the thought of having to recount the details has me remembering the boredom-induced near coma state of being 15 years old. I just can't go there - I'm in quite a good mood today.

One more thing: I think somebody got fired last week because she was looking tearful the other day and her name doesn't appear on the roster for the rest of the month. I have a very reliable spy who works close to The Eye so will pass on any juicy details at the water cooler next week.

Little Old Ladies: Not So Sweet

As promised, here is my entry on Customer Rage. One day last week this little old lady asked me for the autobiography of some random man. Not understanding how computers work, she didn't realise that I needed to actually type in what she had said before the answer would magically appear on my screen so she kept interjecting with further information. Unfortunately, every time she said the bugger's name she changed it slightly. (Tony, Anthony... etc). So I furiously and with my best customer service demeanor tried all possible combinations. Then she said "I don't know who wrote it". At this point, we had a little discussion on the subtle yet important difference between biography and autobiography.

In a noble exchange of information, the Little Old Lady scathingly told me that the man in question was Princess Margaret's first husband. Or something like that. Someone royal in any case but having to remember such things as the distinction between biography and autobiography sadly leaves little room in my brain for remembering the details of love and marriage of a bunch of Germans who call themselves English and wear a lot of tweed. Anyway... at this point she and I acknowledged our mutual dislike of and disdain for one another, and I wrote down the details of her enquiry for someone else to handle later on.

After a decent period of time, I was venting to a colleague (one not strange enough to deserve a nickname) who actually knew the book she was after. Apparently - for those playing at home - the book is called Snowdon. I left a message on the Little Old Lady's answering machine* that very clearly stated: "The book you are after is called Snowdon and we can order it for you. It will take 5 - 7 days. Please call us if you would like us to order it for you."

A couple of days later she called back and said "You rang me and said you could get that book: Townsend. Can you order it for me? Thanks." We have decided that even if the book she thinks she wants is called Townsend, she probably isn't going to know the difference so we might as well get Snowdon for her.

*She seems to have entered the 20th century, if not the 21st.

White Boy Pain

I've been suffering quite a bit lately from White Boy Pain:

There was a blackout the other day and not only could I not access the internet OR watch TV, I had to walk down 20 flights of stairs in the dark!

I paid $12 for a loofah. The chick in the shop kept apologising to me for the enormity of the price but I felt I owed it to my skin so I had no choice but to pay.

I had to watch Tanty Man have another tanty on Friday. Something to do with Major Dick not realising how stressed and busy he is.

I have to find a new place to live because the owner of my apartment (I suppose technically it's her apartment...) is kicking us out.

In the supermarket the other day they were playing that "I'd rather be a hammer" song and I had it stuck in my head all bloody evening. I fucking hate that song.

There was this really cute dog I walked past last week and I looked up to ask its owner if I could pat it only to realise the person at the other end of the leash was Eric Bana - I couldn't ask him because presumably by attempting to talk to him he would think I was some mad, crazed fan when in reality I don't think he's especially

Tried to write a snappy blog post that ended up trailing into nothingness.

Working For Rich People Is Bad For Your Health

Working for rich people is bad for your health. I am covered in scratches and have sore arms and back because I have been lugging coffee table books around... I am probably working in the only area of Sydney where there is a substantial demand for a book written by an ex-model's daughter about how to laze about on the Amalfi Coast. And if you want to spend $75 on a book called Wisdom you probably need all the wisdom you can stumble across.

If I Wanted To Be Bossed Around I Would've Joined The Army

So much is happening in the world of the Crazy Workplace that I simply haven't had the time to write any posts because I've been too busy experiencing/suffering. First of all, I am adding a new member to the Cast of Characters. I've just realised that using the phrase "Cast of Characters" makes them sound fictional. If only. Sadly, these characters are all filed in the Biography section of my life. Or maybe Personal Development...

Anyway, today I am introducing Major Dick. I have decided to call him this because he is a major dick. He is the father of Tanty Man and the husband of The Eye. He looks a bit like a dugong and mostly just wafts through the shop between games of golf*. He doesn't say much but the other day he got angry at me for moving the sticky tape and a few days later he got angry at me for giving him a phone message (Yes, for giving him a phone message, not forgetting to give it to him).

Stay tuned for further updates in the coming days on subjects including The World's Ultimate Book Title, Customer Rage and The Impotence of Proofreading.



*As an aside: Major Dick's golf games are always noted down in our work rosters along side everyone else's shifts.

Introducing... Tanty Man!!!

Tanty Man is, as his name suggests, a grown man prone to throwing tanties. He is the son of the business owners where I work and he is also the manager. Despite his age of about one and a half score he likes to repair to the office for a tanty whenever something doesn't go his way. This includes fax machines, computers and printers not working, staff making errors, and sometimes just someone not returning an email quickly enough. It's nice that he usually makes it into the office before letting fly but the effect is somewhat mitigated by the fact that the door remains open at all times and the office opens directly onto the shop's front counter. Like a child playing peek-a-boo, he thinks that if he cannot be seen then he cannot be heard. Ah, Tanty Man, how you make us laugh! An average day brings forth about 2 or 3 outbursts.

In other news, The Eye (his mother) popped the other day but unfortunately I was not there to witness it. It sounded pretty juicy - she attacked a customer for being a bad parent and they had a screaming match. Then she spent the afternoon hitting herself on the head and blaming the outburst on the stress she is under which is caused by Tanty Man because he speaks to her rudely.

Did I mention I love my job?

My Day

I went to a party tonight with CC who dressed up in a fat suit. We caught the ferry then walked through Glebe. It was ok (except that the fat suit was probably a little warm) until we got to the dog track. The dogs (presumably) didn't like the suit and started barking like crazy. Or maybe it was CC's angelic face, which does fill people with murderous rage from time to time... anyway, I should probably mention at this point that I made the whole fat suit thing up. And although we did walk past the dog track, the dogs didn't bark at us. But I did go to a party.

I felt old so I left early. How do you know when you are too old for a party? There are a couple of ways. One is when the 35 year old's antics piss you off because you realise he is probably going through a mid life crisis, and the other is when the under 25 year olds' lack of antics piss you off because you realise they are too young to have developed personalities yet.

I walked home and spent my taxi money on chocolate.




(I should ruin the acerbic impact of this post to point out that I am only referring to a select few individuals, and not the entire demographic of a particular age group).

Untitled

I alluded in an earlier post to a character at work who really needs a pseudonym for this blog.The stories about him are starting to back up, but I can't settle on a name so I am holding a little poll. Please state your preferences in the comments. Additional suggestions also welcome. Thanks.


Tanty Man

Master J. Pendant, Esq.

The Eyelet

Baby Jon Burgess

Overheard in Neutral Bay:

"I am so many levels of angry with so many members of my family..."

Top 5...

... things you see in Mosman:

1. Babies

2. (purebred) Dogs

3. Bleached Blondes with jeans tucked into their boots

4. Women who look like Diane von Furstenberg

5. Couples who look like this

Peaches Mango Peaches

People ask for weird shit in bookshops. Actually, people ask for weird shit in lots of places, as my friend The Dominatrix* can certainly vouch for. But since I work in a bookshop I hear the weird shit most often there. Today, a woman asked me if we had a book called Grate's Peaches. "Grate's Peaches?" I repeated, not sure I had heard her correctly. "Yes, that's right. "Grate's Peaches" she replied. "ummmmm...." I said, waving my hand vaguely in the direction of the Art books while trying to remember where the Gardening section was.

"It's in Words and Ideas" said a co-worker for who I am yet to come up with a suitable alias. The woman looked to where he was pointing.
"Oh yes I can see it!" she marched over and I looked to where she was headed, still trying to figure out what on earth this wack sounding book was. There it was: Great Speeches.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Apparently my blog is off limits at Bankstown library. I am loving the street cred that gives me, although I'm not sure what is objectionable about it. Perhaps the posts where I rant and rave about punctuation?


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

CC - I haven't seen you for days. Adrian says "hi"


* That is actually her job, I'm not trying to use a clever name for a strict librarian or something.

The Adventures of Normal #2

The Gap Year

Averagely enough, I went traveling for a year after I finished studying. I spent most of my time in Western Europe (I know: yawn). I did not get beaten, mugged or attacked although I did get my bottom pinched by a man in Italy (also achingly typical).

The point of my The Adventures of Normal series is not to discuss anything out of the ordinary, so I won't be discussing the crazy things, like the husband and wife who tried to come on to me or the fact that there are miniature saws in Dublin supermarkets so that you don't have to pay for unwanted broccoli stalk.

I drank beer and ate chocolate in Belgium. I drank beer and ate chocolate in Germany. I drank beer and ate chocolate in a few other places too. But in Bordeaux I drank wine.

I went to some museums and shit.

That's pretty much it.

So You Think You're My Aunts?

I've come up with the best idea for a TV show called So You Think You're My Aunts? It's a Jerry Springer type scenario where someone's parentage is in question, but the whole extended family is up on stage for the drama, the intrigue, the bad hair, the missing teeth, the fisticuffs. I think what we have here is ratings gold.

I Am Not Mother Theresa

Contrary to recent popular perception, I am not Mother Theresa. I'd just like to clarify that, because I thought it was obvious but I discovered last night that - unbeknownst to me - I have been masquerading as some kind of modern day martyr. According to some people, the only things differentiating me from Herself of Calcutta are my eyebrow piercing, my lack of headscarf and my penchant for good wine, foreign cheese and watching crap like America's Next Top Model. Apparently, I live to help people. Who knew?

Last night I got a phone call from a family friend asking me if I would (do her a favour? Do my eternal soul a favour?)... meet a "lovely young man" for a drink. The LYM has been staying with her while studying English. The FF is very practiced in the art of bamboozling; I agreed. The FF neglected to mention, among the hyperbole about how charming, lovely, interesting and well spoken he is that the LYM is studying Business Law, has a facial tic and carries a bottle of shampoo on his person at all times. She did, however, mention that he is Italian which meant - of course - that I had to pay particular attention to my footwear, and put on an extremely uncomfortable yet fetching pair of something-something on my feet because everyone knows Italians are total snobs when it comes to footwear and even if you are prepared to despise someone before you meet them you still want to impress them. Big sigh. Now I'm home and I have sore feet.

I spent all day dreading the encounter, and calling everyone I know and love who might have been within a 25km radius of where we were to meet if they would join me to ease the pain. There were two things in particular that I was dreading. These were that he would either be stilted in the language department, and the entire event would basically be a verbal run through of the first 10 pages of his English textbook, or he would be just like the Golly-Wog*, another socially awkward colleague of mine about whom I will blog at a later date.

Initial impressions were not good. We said hello, how are you, how's the family (all on page 1 of the textbook) and that went so well that I metaphorically skipped to Chapter 2:

Me: What time did you arrive in Sydney today?

LYM: I will be here for 3 days.

Hmmm.

As it turns out, that was really the only misunderstanding of note we suffered. He was just awkward enough for me to not have a fabulous time yet not awkward enough for me to get a really great blog post out of (without having to rely to my powers of exaggeration). So, in summary, I was sucked into performing a Good Deed. Now all I need to do in order to gain automatic entry into Heaven when I die is advocate the rhythm method for married couples. Piece of piss.



* It's not often one is able to insult two ethnic groups with one nickname, so I'm rather proud of having managed it here.

It's not the dumbest thing I have ever heard, but....

... I can't seem to get it out of my head: the other day I was in a cafe and some chick asked the barista "is there any coffee in a soy chai latte?"

... There is an ad on TV this week where the voiceover refers to a character's "steely eyed mind" but the first 6 times I heard it I thought he said "coeliac mind"

Y2Kx2

I think I may need to stop this blog... I just noticed that the last post I published was my 144th. We only did up to 12 times tables at school, and since that is the result of 12x12 it is the biggest number I know. It sort of feels like New Years Eve 1999, when we all sat around wondering if our computers would work when we woke up, and if they didn't work then how could we warn people further along the national date line.

To be honest, that last part is a bald faced lie. I actually spent NYE in 1999 being slightly raucous in a rented mansion by a river, smoking cigars, wearing a silver sash that was supposed to be tied around a chair* and consoling my friend whose new hot pink dress that she was supposed to wear to her sister's wedding was ruined.

*I only know this because of the photos

FarceBook

A friend of mine informed me the other day that she had found her future husband on Farce-book. They have never met, but his profile assured her of his awesome eligibility. She showed me his photo, and we discussed his seemingly limitless list of virtues and merits together. But then a suspicion started to creep in. "He can't possibly be that perfect! There's got to be something wrong with him." My friend - let's call her Juliette - cried. "I mean, how can he not be married? ... He's probably gay - or worse - really really short."


In a surprising twist, Juliette has found her Romeo's flaw - he wears his collar turned up.

Top 5...

... Bad Ideas for a Top 5 list

1. Uses For Plastic Bags

2. Times I gargled salt water

3. Toilet Cleaning Moments

4. Rules of English grammar

5. Collaborations with Britney Spears (although I've heard that Tarantino wants her for his next movie - For serious!!!)

Should I Be Worried?

I started this new job the other day, and found out that the staff code name for the boss is "The Eye" (which I initially thought was "The I", not realising that the point of the nickname was to honour her hyper-surveillance rather than her ego mania). Anyway... I found out last night that there is a running competition for staff members with a $50 prize. The prize is funded by a collective group of ex-staff members, and is awarded to anyone who manages to "Pop The Eye". The previous winner succeeded in making The Eye stamp her feet and pummel her temples with her fists. Impressive. So... should I be worried, or should I aim for the prize?

What?? I can't hear you!

The other day I went on a little health kick and walked up the hill (to the bottle shop). On my way out of the shop, I put my head phones back in and realised that the little black cover was missing from one of the earbuds. So I looked on the ground as I re-traced my steps then had a slightly odd conversation with the man in the shop trying to explain why I had returned so suddenly, and also why I was staring at the floor. I couldn't see it, so resigned myself to experiencing one cushioned ear only until I could afford the $7* required to purchase another packet of replacements.

I got home, poured my wine and wandered around the apartment looking for takeaway menus, which proved to be irritatingly elusive (CC - I know you read this: I think you are the culprit here! Perhaps they are stowed with the missing tea towels?? We will discuss this upon your return). I eventually found a menu and sat down to "cook" dinner. I compared dishes. I thought about the option of prawn crackers. I searched in vain on the menu for something called "exotic fish" that used to be my favourite thing to order from Stir Crazy but which they apparently no longer make. I felt something funny in my ear. I put my finger in my ear, and realised that the earbud cover had been sitting there all along. I felt like a dick. The End.

* Times are tough

Farmer 'Cow's Arse' James Drops A Bombshell

People on this show (The Farmer Wants A Girl Friday) don't simply tell each other things, they Drop Bombshells. Last night, Farmer 'Cow's Arse' James Dropped a Bombshell. The bombshell was that despite asking two women to stick their hand's up a cow's arse (but not asking the cow if it was ok) he... wait for it... doesn't feel a particular attraction to either woman, or to any of the cows.

Further developments in the program since last week are minimal, except that "Rough Diamond James" has been upgraded to "Larrakin Farmer James".

Finally, I have noticed a few trends: if you would like to date a farmer then making your skin orange and your hair blonde will improve your chances, as will being a Personal Assistant and/or coming from Queensland. if you become successful in your quest, you can expect to be taken on a 'date' by the farmer of your choice that involves sitting on the back of his ute. You should understand this to denote "Romance".

The Farmer Wants A General Dogsbody

I figure that nobody apart from me would watch crap like this, so taking a whole week to post about it really isn’t going to matter.

Q. what do you call a fugly pig dog when you are trying to make him sound at least vaguely appealing?
A. “Rough Diamond James”. It’s the human equivalent of “renovator’s dream”.

Q. What do you cook to impress the ladies if you are a “rough diamond”?
A. “chicken a la tinnie”. In other words, he actually shoved a can of beer up the chicken’s lady garden in place of the more traditional bread and onion stuffing.

I can’t be expected to remember all their names, so I’ll refer to most of the guys as variations on the theme “Farmer James”. At the other end of the spectrum from “Rough Diamond James” is “Wealthy Farmer James”. This is cheating a bit because he runs a winery, not a farm. The show’s producers make sure there are lots of shots where he is walking past a castle-like building and swilling wine in his glass and just generally looking expensive and unaffected by drought. He’s still a fugly pig dog though.

Wealthy Farmer James is faced with the difficult task of choosing a trophy wife from two identical looking women. He seems unimpressed by Kristy (not sure on the spelling: it’s probably Krystii or something) whose single talent is to fold a cloth napkin so that it looks like a chicken. She might have had better luck with Rough Diamond James. In the end, however, it seems he is put off not by the fact that she is a complete bimbo, but by the fact that she might want to have a career (as a model, naturellement).

Meanwhile, over on Farmer Howie James’ farm, Farmer Howie James is deciding that another Kristy might not be the right woman for him. “Why?” I hear you ask – well, because she didn’t want to put her hand up a cow’s arse. I haven’t been on a date for a while, but I didn’t realise the etiquette had changed so much. It did put things in perspective for me though. I started a new job last week, and every time someone apologised for how dull or boring the work was, I knew that it could be worse: at least I wasn’t expected to stick my hand up a cow’s arse.

I think it's really nice and wholesome when you can learn an important lesson like the one above (gratitude for your lot in life, in case you missed it) so I'm signing off now to see if this week's episode (screening in a couple of hours) will be as good.

Hello Captain Obvious: I'm Still Lazy

Quote of the Week that almost made me spit tea on my laptop goes to Square Jacob: "Miley Cyrus is bulimic, meaning that she can read minds."

Congrats J, your prize of $10 000 and a complimentary How-To-Handle-Paparazzi-As-A-Result-Of-The-Fame-That-Comes-From-Winning-This-Amazing-Prize are in the post.

Picture Label of the Week Goes to the last pic on this blog entry. I agree, she sure is.

A Postcard From The Land of Burgers and Bobby Brown

It might surprise some of my regular readers to learn that I have been accused of laziness on more than one occasion. I fear this is another such occasion. Rather than write a blog post myself, I am just cutting and pasting an email I got from CC the other day. I couldn't even be bothered editing any of it, except for potentially incriminating names, so just sit back and pretend you are reading an email from someone you know and love. I suggest you make up your own name for CC in order to personalise the experience. For example: Computer Cat, Corpus Christi, Coco Chanel, Colin Carpenter. (These are just a few examples totally off the top of my head). So here it is:

Dear [insert own name],

>>The US is HOT in both its sexy landscape and blistering sun. Good thing food is like half the price here and petrol is so cheap (I rub it on my body to cool down). I'm doing a lot of work in my dad's office, its like we work together but have no idea what the other one is saying.
>>
>> ME: Hey dad, is a tritone the same as a diminished fifth or does it depend on the underlying tonality?
>> DAD: I don't think a 10,000 pound I-beam is going to support a weighted load in the tropics.
>> MOM: Do you boys like carrots on your salad?
>> ME: (at same time) Yes!
>> DAD: (at same time) No!
>> NIECE: Can I have my salad with no lettuce and just bacon toppings?
>> ME: Like, you just want a side of bacon instead?
>> MOM: Of course dear.
>> DAD: CC, did you go to highschool with Geoff G---?
>> ME: Yeah.
>> DAD: I just fired him.
>> MOM: Have you seen Mad Hot Ballroom?

In answer to that final question Mrs C: yes, I have seen it twice.

In other news:
- one of the best shows on TV, like, EVER - The Farmer Wants A Scrag - is back for a second season and I need to share details about it but that will have to wait until I am feeling less lazy.
-WYD concerts are set to continue all week long and since I don't want to listen to Guy Sebastian read from the bible and talk about Jesus any more this week I am decamping to stay with AD and JB for a few days.

I Pray That It Will Soon Be Over

Q. what is more annoying than helicopters buzzing loudly around your apartment for several days during the APEC summit?

A. a two day long (and counting) sound check for the World Youth Day Celebrations that can be heard over the water.

I can tell it's a sound check because I can't see any crowds, but I can see a stage. This means that we'll have to hear the whole damn thing at least once more. How hard can "Alleluia" be, for goodness sake? There's only one damn word on repeat. The whole thing is giving me an unholy case of the irrits.

EDIT: What is worse than either of those things? Perhaps predictably - the two of them combined. I am currently at home, listening (against my will) to the mass AND to the helicopters that are swarming around to film it. I suppose smiting is a bit old fashioned, so God has chosen this method to punish me for being rude about the pilgrims. I note that the law allows people to harass the pilgrims, but I would warn you to beware that while you might not face retribution in an Earthly Court, you might still be held accountable for your actions at some time in the future... like the Day of Judgement...

The Adventures of Normal

I was thinking today about how remarkable stories always get told, but dull or average ones very rarely do. Stupidly, and for no particularly good reason, I thought I might go a little way toward rectifying that.

Childhood

Many things about my childhood were typical, average, unremarkable. There are some exciting adventures, some run-ins with crazy relatives, and lots of amusing things that resulted from children getting words wrong, animals embarking on feline/canine shenanigans, or mothers saying funny things when they were half asleep or stressed. I am not going to discuss any of those things right now.

So here are the Childhood Adventures of Normal: I have siblings and parents. I went to the dentist regularly, but not as often as I went to school. I didn't like Brussell sprouts but I did like ice cream.

I don't remember being toilet trained, but evidence suggests I must have been.

I did not display any outstanding talent for literary, scientific or mathematical genius. Nevertheless, I was not especially slow either. I was able to spell my last name by the time I was in Year 4, unlike the unfortunate Adrian Indy-andy-orio*.

My family didn't belong to a religious cult that made me bang saucepans and preach aloud in the local shopping centre on Saturday mornings, and I never suffered from any rare skin diseases or mysterious ailments that had an A Current Affair reporter interviewing my parents while I was filmed playing on the swing in the background, bandaged to the hilt.

So, all in all, pretty normal.

*Not his real name

J to the E to SUS

Here is a little story about religion to celebrate WYD which will soon create an APEC-esque feel to Sydenny once more (although as long as they keep the helicopters to a minimum this time it doesn't bother me too much).

There are some odd characters in the Zosia clan. Undoubtedly, one of the most colourful is Dotty Great-Aunt Dotty. When she found out that her brother was going to marry a (gasp) Catholic, she cut the family (ie: me, ultimately) out of her (considerable) will and left all her money and possessions to an Anglican boys home that had closed about 20 years before she died, and some nasty right-wing violent political organisation.

Although she was never swayed to change her will, she did once soften enough to talk to my Catholic grandmother about something they had in common - Jesus. I know, scintillating topic of conversation. So Dotty Great-Aunt Dotty brought out a holy card she had with an illustration on it of her mate J, and showed it to my grandmother. My grandmother looked at it and said, slightly amazed "He's got blue eyes in this picture. Jesus wouldn't have had blue eyes". Dotty Great-Aunt Dotty said "why not?" or "how do you know?" or something, to which my grandmother replied "well, because Jesus was a Jew". Scandalized, Dotty retorted furiously "He was not a Jew!!!"

And upon reflection, that is probably why she never changed her will.

Fickle Pickle

Robert Palmer, that elegant and romantic wordsmith once said "you might as well face it, you're addicted to love". I heard somewhere that originally it was "addicted to drugs" but someone suggested the change would have a wider commercial appeal. I think maybe there is another possibility: "you might as well face it, you're addicted to pickles". I have fallen off the wagon. I have just been on a pickle bender.

In a Bit of a Pickle

I developed an obsession with these tinned pickled cucumbers from Israel a couple of months ago, and things started to get out of hand quite quickly. They are not available just anywhere, so I've been planning my social schedule around the likelihood of passing a supermarket on the way home that stocks the cucumbers (AD, JB - I'm sorry. I don't love you, I've been using you purely for your proximity to my dealer).

I knew I had a problem when I found them in a new supermarket. As well as the normal size, they come in massive 3kg tins. My eyes glazed over, I hopped excitedly from one foot to the other like a toddler needing to wee but not wanting to leave the sweets table at a party. I tried desperately to form a coherent plan of action: should I take a photo of the tins? should I buy one and carry it on to the bus and then the ferry? Would I be able to carry it home if I abandoned all my other groceries? And were things like olive oil really that important anyway? I managed to get a grip on myself, and bought 2 tins of the normal size.

I've finally managed to overcome the addiction by the total overdose method. Yesterday I had bacon and pickles for breakfast, and just like the time Channel 7 showed 2 episodes of Ghost Whisperer in a row and I got sick of it, I knew part way into pickle number three that pickle number four would be my last.

A Trip Down Memory Lane

I have a friend who I have known since I was 4 years old. In order to protect her identity I'll refer to her as Remma. You know how some people have on again/off again relationships but neglect to take note of the periods of time when they hated each other's guts when calculating the length of relationship time so they celebrate their milestone 6 week anniversary with bald-faced don't-you-dare-mention-the-time-he-pashed-skank-face-it-doesn't-matter-because-we-are-in-love...IN-LOVE-DAMMIT ... er, not sure where that sentence was headed but y'all know what I mean, right? Anyway, this friendship of mine is sort of the same as that. We have been friends for many years but there was the huge fight that lasted about 6 months where Ramanda and I ganged up on Remma. I think it was because she liked to watch Sooty and we didn't. And later there was a disagreement over whitegoods or something. But I'm still going to claim that we have been friends for about 25 years (the advanced maths students have just figured out how old I am).

Remma and I met and became friends in kindergarten because we had the same shoes and one day we wore each other's home by mistake. In that cute way that kids have, I didn't notice that mine were too tight and she didn't notice that hers were too loose. Reema's mother is actually the point of this post, and she's the reason that Remma and I became friends and also that I didn't spend the rest of the year with really really sore feet. She was organised, and had put Remma's name and phone number on the inside of her sandals. Naturally, my mother has always chosen the fast and loose approach to life (much like my sandals on Remma's feet) and shuns such rigid approaches to parenting (the vegie maths students have just figured out how old I am).

Because she's so different from mine, Remma's mother Rmargaret has always fascinated me. Whenever I stayed over at Remma's house I used to feel sort of like I was stuck in the Adelaide version of The Sound of Music except there was no telegram boy and they didn't have a summer house in the garden. They did have a cookoo clock though. Speaking of clocks, Rmargaret had the kids running like clockwork. she had all their lunches made and frozen a week at a time. There were almost as many kids in their house as the Von Trapps, especially if you counted Remma's dad Ravid, and since Ravid's lunches were also made and frozen for him I think he should count as one. Anyway, this is a very longwinded way of me building up to the finale, because I'm not sure anyone would believe me if I didn't set the scene first....

Every Sunday morning, the family were expected to eat breakfast together. Rmaragaret had a gong that she would bang to summon the household to the table at 9am on the dot. Ya-ha, a gong. And yes, there are two 9 o'clocks.

The Bold and The Restless

Back in the day, I used to be an avid viewer of The Bold and the Beautiful. I swore it was the best comedy show on TV, but after a while we drifted apart, I got a life that meant I wasn't always home at 4.30pm on a weekday, and I suppose the comedy craving in my heart began to be filled with other things*. Happily, my life has done a 16 point turn and I now often find myself at home during the week.

So I managed to catch a few minutes of my old fave the other day and Jesus, Mary and Joseph it did not disappoint. I can't believe I managed to live without it for so long and still function normally. Quite simply folks, The Bold and the Beautiful is CHAMPAGNE COMEDY. I think the last time I watched it Stephanie and Eric were back together again** but this week they were having their 67th breakup conversation because Eric has fallen in love with someone else (again). The object of his affection is a newbie so I can't quite remember her name (Donna? Summer? something like that). Anyway, the fun really began in the next scene when Donna/Summer was having a talk with Stephanie's sister (also a new character for me). The sister was telling Donna/Summer to stay away from Eric and the threat she used was the most crazied, most marvelous thing I have ever seen. She informed Donna/Summer that she is bipolar, and if Donna/Summer doesn't leave Eric alone, she will stop taking her "happy pills" and come after her. Then she swallowed her tea, stood up, picked up the used tea bag and put it in her mouth and chowed down to prove that she really is crazy. Cut to Donna/Summer looking terrified.

On a little tangent, I think this is why the gun lobby is so strong in the US. Forget the old "Guns don't kill people, people kill people" - what about teabags as a threat of violence?


*Like my ex-flatmate GD who used fabric softener to wash the dishes for the week that I was not there to nanny him.
** For those unfamiliar with the show, Eric usually leaves Stephanie for Brook who, as the village bicycle, is his double daughter in law (having married both his sons, although one of them turned out not to be his biological son) AND the woman his granddaughter's*** two husbands had affairs with.
*** ie Brook's daughter. Yes, she reverse-Oedipused TWICE!!!

Kids These Days

I overheard this conversation in a shop the other day:

A: My little brother is having an Emo party for his 20th.

B: what?

A: You know, it's like dress up for him and his friends. They're all going to dress up as Emos. But he invited a friend who lives interstate and this friend obviously misread the invitation because he sent my brother a text the other day saying "I'm having real trouble finding an Emu costume".

B: Oh no!

A: So my brother sent a text back saying "Don't worry too much, just wear some black stockings and make a beak out of cardboard"!!!

I Am A Little Confuse

Oh Lordy. I am at the library - sadly, not the one I took that photo of the other day. I have spent the last half an hour trying to print two measly little pieces of paper. After being shown to the wrong computer, and then given the wrong instructions I finally actually managed to open the goddamn file. Then, of course there were "insufficient funds" on the plastic card that I had just had to buy and while I was finding out why that was someone jumped in front of me in the queue to use the printer. Because, naturally enough, the library has a fabulous hi-tech system where there are 3 different types of computers (some just internet, some word processing etc) in 3 different locations. There is another location in the library where the print station and printer is and two locations where you can put money on your card. I was a Little Confuse*. By the time I sorted out the problem and got back to the Print Station someone had snuck in front of me. Of course, it was a woman who had less of a clue than me being helped by a man who had a clue level somewhere between hers and mine. And she had to print $10 worth of stuff. So here I am with my bits of paper. The only upside is that in all of the confusion they didn't charge me the $3 I was supposed to pay to use the (second) computer.


Score:
Time: Library =1, Zosia =0
Money: Library =0, Zosia =1
On the Spot Made Up Cocktail Recipes: Library =0, Zosia =1

That means I win!


*The Little Confuse
1 part Cointreau
1 part honey vodka
2 parts soda water
chopped up pieces of any fruit you can find

The Ideal Health Department

As you can see from the writing on the top of the doorway in this picture, this is a Health Department.
As you can see by looking a little further down, this is the most important part of any Health Department, and where you will find me if you are looking for me.

Things I Think Someone Should Invent

Wasabi flavoured chips

Email etiquette books, magazines and/or pamphlets

Something to keep the cuffs of your pants dry when you go out in the rain

A nose plug to cover bad smells in public the way an ipod and headphones cover annoying conversations and whining children

A world where "wasabi" is in the spell check dictionary

In Pursuit of...

I was at a dinner party last night and the talk turned to Utopias. It got me thinking - fuck that. What I want is to live in a Metopia.
My perfect Metopia would be... all about me.
-There would be a reshuffling of the working week so that you only work 4 out of every 7 days.
-Morning television would be illegal, and Mel and Kochie would be serving lifetime sentences.
-Also illegal would be instant coffee - life is just too short.
-The Fashion Police would actually have powers to fine and arrest those committing misdemeanours and infringements such as: yellow that doesn't match the wearer's complexion, skinny jeans on non-skinny legs, and socks and sandals.
-Wine would not produce hangovers.
-Somehow or other I would receive a stipend just for being me.

Hey Kids - Reading is Fun!

Talking Shit

I went to a party on the weekend and got trapped in conversation with possibly the most boring person in the room. Although to be fair, that is quite hard to judge, since I wasn't able to talk to many other people there. The most interesting part of the conversation was due to a misunderstanding (always a bad sign) and things went downhill fast once the mistake was cleared up.

Me: So, what do you do [yes, things were already desperate. We had tried "how do you know so-and-so" as possible conversation fodder and found it went nowhere]

Boring Person: I'm a Shit Roker.

Me: I'm sorry???!!?

BP: [slightly more emphatically] a Shit Broker

Me: Oh... Right. So... um,so... do you enjoy it?

This type of conversation is pretty tedious even when you know what job it is that you are actually discussing, but when you have no idea it is horrendous. How do you string along the conversation? I don't know why it is that I attract like a magnet the sort of person who makes me do all the work in a conversation, but I guess I did something terrible in a past life or something. I racked my brains for leading questions "is it messy?" "Do you find the smell a problem?" But in the end settled for "So how did you get into that?". This resulted, unsurprisingly, in a dull as dishwater discussion.

It turns out that she is actually a Ship Broker, but I still didn't really know what that entails and when I found out I realised that I didn't care.

The next day, I had a hangover. If you want an idea of what it felt like, then listen to Germany's entry for Eurovision from the weekend (I'd link it, but I'm not that cruel).

Untitled

I just got this email:


The University's Equity and Diversity Committee is seeking 5 students to represent the following equity target groups:
1. Women
2. Australian Indigenous People
3. People with Language Background other than English (LBOTE)
4. People with Disabilities
5. Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender and Intersex People (GLBTI)


If you are interested in becoming a student representative on this Committee, please submit your nomination, and brief (max 250 words each) statements on a) why you feel you can represent the particular group you are nominating yourself for, and b) what you hope to gain through your participation on the Equity and Diversity Committee.

Dear Equity and Diversity Committee,
I am nominating myself as a candidate to represent group #1 (women) on your list. I feel that, as a woman, I am able to represent this particular group for which I am nominating myself, because I am one.
If you have already got someone for that, I could have a go at #2 because, as Meatloaf said, "two out of three ain't bad". I am Australian and I am also a person. Similarly, if you are having trouble finding an Equitable and Diverse Person for #3 I could totally be that person, as long as you take out the words "other than".
As for the second bit, what I hope to gain is a position on the committee.
Cheers, Felix for Zosia

Tales From The PG Room

As mentioned previously, there are several oddball characters in my life that I cannot avoid having to deal with from time to time. Shopping Trolley Lady is really getting on my nerves. The trolley is long gone, but my contempt for her isn't. Today I was attempting to have a personal and private crisis as I anxiously awaited my review. I wasn't bothering anyone, I was quietly rocking back and forth in panic in an out-of-the-way corner of the room. I wasn't asking for attention, and I certainly wasn't interested in giving anyone else attention either. Alas, it was not to be.

Shopping Trolley Lady is one of those people who makes you do all the work in a conversation. She is always trying to get conversations started, probably because she doesn't have very many because people get tired of the effort once they realise the single talking point (shopping trolleys for instance) has worn thin. So there I am, rocking back and forth in the foetal position, and there she is, muttering and exclaiming to herself as she reads her emails. "Oh no!!" "Tut, tut. That is unbelievable". "That woman can't do anything for herself!". It is excruciating. You eventually give in and end up saying "What is it?" and then suddenly you are stuck in conversation with her. This week it was something about essays. Last week the family cat had been run over. The only thing these two pieces of conversational material have in common is that I couldn't give rat's left bollock about either one of them.

EDIT: WEDNESDAY 9.30AM: I'm back at uni again and, out of nowhere, she has just uttered "Yep. I really want to feel more manly".

Spin Cycle

I think I mentioned a while back that I was going to take up another thesis project, so that my main one became a source of procrastination, thereby getting more time spent on it. I have a progress review tomorrow and I'm all excited to go in there and announce my new project. I have decided to switch my thesis topic to write about laundry. I want to examine why it is that CC needs to do six loads of washing every fortnight, while I only do about two and a half in the same time frame. At this early stage in the project, my preliminary research suggests it has to do with the surface area of our respective clothes. A further possible contributing factor to this phenomenon is that I may in fact put a larger volume of fabric in each machine, but this theory is as yet entirely untested and purely conjecture. At this stage, the plans are in the air somewhat, but I am quite sure I will include a chapter on handwashing. Background research into why women's clothing often requires handwashing while men's clothing seldom (if never) does will be a foundation of this proposed chapter.

Idiot Box

"If everybody looked the same,
we'd get tired of looking at each other"
- Groove Armada

Last night, after a hard day spent watching DVDs of Love My Way in bed, I turned on the telly in order to relax and rest my brain from all the soap opera antics it had been keeping up. I really didn't care what I was watching, which was fortunate because it happened to be during that black spot where the choice you make is ultimately between Dismal and Crap. So I thought I'd give Gladiators a bit of a go. It was so bad that I didn't even make it through the introductions of all the contestants, let alone to the bit where they start hitting each other with oversized versions of things that little boys get for Christmas (which, in turn, are foam versions of things people get arrested for owning without a license).

Anyhoon, CC walked in to the room in time to see the two white-toothed cocktail-party-appropriatly attired hosts framed by the shiny red set and said "Is this Dancing with the Stars?"

I think there's something in that for all of us.

This is What I Think About When I Close My Eyes

Are there blind racist people?
Can blind people feel someone looking at them?
Do they get seeing drunk?
Or perhaps they get robbed deaf?

Actor Boy and The Word Of God

I was so inspired by everyone's responses to my confession story that I would like to continue the religious theme and tell the tale of Actor Boy, who I used to work with in a bookshop. The bookshop was (and still is) run by a couple of very left-wing broad minded non-religious types. We stocked the Bible, but were always running out of copies because KI (the buyer) couldn't get her head around the fact that anyone would ever contemplate buying one, so she never re-ordered it.

One day, when our shop was Bible-less, a customer came in and asked AB if we had a copy of the Bible.

AB stepped out from behind the counter and went to the religion shelf to have a look. He pulled a book from the shelf while saying "No, I'm sorry. I'm afraid we don't. But we do have something else by the same author". He triumphantly handed a copy of the Koran to the horrified customer.

Tag Hag Dag

I hope the whole meme thing is not too self indulgent twice in a row. However, I was tagged by The Fabulous Jo. If I ever decide to stalk someone it would be her. Many is the day that I have contemplated cruising around on a Tuesday evening, peeking into restaurants and bars in the hope that I will casually happen upon one of her famous Steak and Chips Tuesdays. As a potential stalkee, I could hardly back away from acknowledging communication, so here is the challenge:

1) Write my own six word memoir
2) Post it on my blog and include a visual illustration
3) Link to the person that tagged me in my post
4) Tag at least five more blogs with links.

I kept putting off asking if it was against the rules to use the same word more than once... so I hope I did it right. Please read the memoir to the tune of La Cucaracha:

"Procrastination, procrastination. Lala lala lala la"







As for the tagging... I tag Juicebar, NerdGirl, Arian Dalliancer, Rosie and This Lovely Lass

Tag Hag

Okely dokely... here are five things about me (just read the bold if you're pressed for time):
1. The most interesting thing about me is that I was once diagnosed with boredom.
I was working in a cd shop at the time, and among other things, discovered that it is possible to literally be bored to tears. It was pretty hideous, so I bought a one way ticket to find myself and...

2. I found myself in Tasmania.
I spent two months walking a dog, reading books and going to at least one different cafe or pub every day.

3. I once saw a man get arrested by the fashion police.
He was standing next to a group of police officers and tried to slink off a board and bus when they dashed after him. The only crime he appeared to be committing as far as I could see was that he was wearing dirty trackie dacks and a flannie with holes in it. So I assume that is what he was being arrested for.

4. My view on Nudist beaches is - I can't think of anything worse... except paintballing
That says it all really.

5. I used to lie in confession.
I had two lies that I told every time. Well, they were stretches of the truth I suppose. The first was when you were supposed to say to the priest "it's been ___ days/weeks/whatever since my last confession". I never knew how long it had been but it always felt like ages (and in kid time it had been) so I would always say "it's been... um... a while since my last confession" because I though the priest would get cross that I hadn't been often enough. The second lie was when you had to confess something. Most 10 year olds don't know how to sin, and I was no exception. I could never think of anything I'd done, so I always said "I've been mean to my sister" because I figured that even if I couldn't remember a specific incident, I probably had been at some stage.

2020 Summit

My brilliant idea for the 2020 Summit, the meeting of Australia's best and brightest minds, has not had any coverage in the press this week, despite the fact that I contacted several individuals and community groups and asked them to consider it. What is my fantastically clever idea? Make standard drink sizes bigger. There is so much hoo-ha at the moment about binge drinking, and how people need to drink less for their health - well if the standard size was bigger, then I am sure most people wouldn't mind nearly as much all of a sudden only being allowed to have two standard drinks a night.

Thanks For Not Bothering to Save My Life

"Thanks for not bothering to save my life"

I found this in the musty drafts section of my blog. I cannot for the life of me remember what it was supposed to be about, but I rather like the emotion behind the sentiment. Somehow, even though it is basically nonsensical, it manages to perfectly express my feelings.

F is for Fumes

Public transport can be a nasty way to spend you time. It is often crowded and noisy. Buses are usually the worst, and there has been research done that proves people on buses are 20% uglier than people on trains*. In the days of yore, when I lived in Adelaide, I used to catch a free loop bus called the Bee Line# but my friends and I always referred to it as the BO line because a disproportionately high number of people apparently can't afford bus tickets OR deodorant.

That little nostalgic trip has been in aid of me explaining the following event that I witnessed last week. While on the bus, the man sitting in front of me gave himself a dose of spray-on deodorant; one under each arm. For the love of Dylan Moran** it was disgusting.




*I heard a stand up comedian say that, so it must be true. I'm sure such public figures back up their comments with research.
# I know, it's hilarious. I am in stitches just thinking about the brilliance of the pun.
**Dylan Moran is God

Who Said Men Can't Multi Task?

Last night as I was walking home from the train, I could hear someone talking around the corner as I approached the pub I pass on my way home. I didn't really understand why he was huddled away in the corner like that because he was talking quite loudly. Then I realised that he was talking on the phone and pissing at the same time. Into someone's garden.

E is for Eeewwww

Did anyone happen to miss that story about the father and daughter who had a baby and live together as husband and wife?

I just don't think it was particularly bright of them to name their baby Celeste, since it rhymes with incest.

Top 5...

... Things Mischa Barton is good at:

1. Flicking her hair

2. Using movements of her neck and her chin to express emotion

3. Being skinny

... sorry, I can't think of anything else.

Top 5...

... People Who Could Have Done a Better Acting Job Than Keanu Reeves in Speed:

1. Stephen Fry

2. Bernie from Weekend at Bernie's

3. Maggie Smith

4. Any one of the Oompah-Loompahs

5. My cardboard cutout of Steve Waugh

Tell it Like it is Tuesday

As a little homage to the Triple J radio segment of days gone by, here is my "Tell it Like it is Tuesday":

There is NOTHING more annoying and frigging pointless in the whole wide world than sports tribunals. I'm sure you know what I mean - various sports codes have set up their own little kangaroo courts to defend and accuse and prosecute charges such as "hitting" and "biting". Bring me the smelling salts Mavis, I am going to faint due to the overpowering scent of RIDICULOUSNESS. It is just a game kids. As in not real life. If you want to hit someone, or perhaps glass them in the face, do it on your own time like Wayne Carey, because then you get to go to the Big Person courtroom.

I suppose if they want to keep playing grownups after the final siren has blasted each week, that's ok, but I don't want to hear about it. I hate the way 5 minutes of news time is devoted to the reportage of this mind-numbing dross as though it actually mattered. I'm sorry but "football players display violence and aggression" is not exactly news, is it?

There are important events happening in the world all the time, but they don't get reported on because the reporter who would otherwise be free to cover the story is busy at a press conference being held by people who have a poor to dismal grasp of the English language, and talk in more cliches than a greeting card. For instance, I am going to do a load of washing today and it is a BIG DEAL, which I am currently mentally preparing myself for. Is there someone around to interview me about it? No. Should there be? I don't see why not.

Why Research?

Why research indeed?

Apparently, you can dance your PhD. The writing up of the damn thing is so 2007.

The winner of the postdoc section is nothing on my rendition - famous in pubs and dinner party venues across the country - of The 1929 Stockmarket Crash in New York Interpretive Dance. I thought the student winner was pretty good, but that might have been due to the loincloth.

Food For Thought #2

Why research when saying it is so much quicker?

D is for Drunkard

Possible titles for a PhD dissertation on drugs and alcohol:

Citizen (co)Kane: Orson Welles and the Hollywood Years, 1939-1948

Journeys on the Porcelain Bus: Health Implications of Binge Drinking in Teenagers

Scotch on the Rocks: The Precarious Position of the Scottish Centre for Drugs and Alcohol, and Political Implications of its Potential Demise

Castle GraySKULL: Juvenile Drinking Chants and Games, A History

Pissed As A Newt: Comparing The Effects of Sustained Alcohol Consumption on Mammals and Amphibians

Snow White, Happy, Dopey, and Doc: An Investigation of Systemic Drug Use in the Disney Company

C is for Cnut

This is a short post, because I don't have much time. I am very busy with all my procrastinating and whatnot. As a matter of fact, someone asked me today if I would like a cup of tea, and here is what I said, in a panicked tone "Quickly! I have to translate the koran into Icelandic by bedtime."



A confession: I didn't really say that, Quadruple Professor Adonis Cnut, (aka Rik Mayall) did. It's my very lame attempt at making the post connect to the title, which I thought up the other day and determined to use no matter what.

B is for Biatch

This is the story of how I outsmarted a Biatch. In fact, I would go so far as to say that she is not a Biatch, she is La Biatch. La Biatch is one of those women you come across every now and then who hates all other women and sees them as competition. As a friend of both NLJ and GD (both male, and both my former flatmates) she was someone I tried to get along with initially, until her biatchiness and exclusion and attempt at snobe-ishness* all got too much.




This is an image of La Biatch. She is the pair of shoes at the front right of the picture.


The final straw was when I heard from LM (another male and therefore someone she liked, even though he didn't like her) that La Biatch was planning a surprise party for NLJ. I waited 3 days for an invitation, and when it didn't arrive I asked NLJ what he was doing the following Saturday (the night of the party). Since it was supposed to be a surprise, he had no idea about it, so he and I planned a wine and cheese night of adult conversation (to counteract the gleefully childish behaviour I had exhibited). Even if La Biatch suspected I had deliberately undermined her plans, she couldn't do anything about it because she would be forced to admit that she had snubbed me on the invitation.
Score? Zosia = 1, La Biatch = nil.


*A difficult term to define, since I just made it up then, but it's worse than snobbishness and a bit like totally try-hard tragic

A is for Anarchy

I am allergic to things not being in alphabetical order. I was in a bookshop a few weekends ago, in the only instance I can think of when it is cool to be in a bookshop on a Saturday night - Gould's on King St in Newtown, because you are waiting for a gig to start at the Vanguard.

( I love and hate the Vanguard in equal measure. I love the flocked wallpaper, the feathers and beads on the little lamps, and the beautiful people who hang there. I hate the sound. It is the worst acoustic in the world. Singing into a paper bag full of mushrooms would produce a better sound, even if that singer happens to be tone deaf and suffering from a cold. And this is a real pity becasue the other cool thing about the Vanguard is that they attract lots of cool bands. So you end up being seduced by the name of the act into paying x amount for a ticket (unless you have a friend who reviews for street press), x amount for drinks, and then whining about the crap sound while sipping your French Sauvignon Blanc and gazing at the red and gold wallpaper... )

Anyway, so Gould's is basically next to the Vanguard, and open quite late, so it's the perfect place to waste some time before the gig starts. It is the kind of bookshop that you think only exists in 1980s made for TV movies - full of dusty piles of higgldy-piggldy books on all kinds of topics. It drives me nuts. Nothing is properly filed, and while I can see the charm in the idea of browsing through shelves bending under the weight of dusty books to find a long lost treasure, it is an idea that nauseates me. Literally.

For example, while I personally would separate the performing arts into separate sections, I can understand the notion that gripped the filer in about 1963 of putting them all in one spot. However, I'm adrift in a sea of confusion when it comes to the choice that led to linguistics, religion, psychology and reference all sharing a row. I had to leave before the dizzy spells got out of control.

I could go on and on about it all, but I am like the nameless children of the Dylan Moran sketch - lying listlessly on the lawn drinking a latte; disaffected, morose, and suffering from a migraine and the knowledge that I can dress myself up and do my hair, but no one will ever see the real me.

Off Her Trolley

I have this colleague. It is pretty well understood that she is not quite normal, but I always thought she was perhaps just very shy, and therefore a bit of a loner, and therefore a little bit strange in company but nothing more than odd yet harmless. It has come to my attention that she is not just odd, but in fact completely in-her-own-world-bonkers.

She recently arrived back in the country for some work, and went straight from the airport (East) to our uni (North West) with all her luggage, to use a computer in the postgrad room. Why she couldn't find an internet cafe is something only she knows the answer to. I first thought this was a little giggle story, but I now realise it was the warning clarion announcing the traveling freakshow to come.

I am a little unclear on exact dates and details, but apparently she currently has all her belongings in a shopping trolley in the postgrad room. Why? Well, because she has been sleeping there for the past three days.

I think we can all agree that this is beyond odd, and in a completely new category. There are several things that make this utterly creepy in its level of bizarreness.

1. When I say "postgrad" room, I am not talking about one of those common room deals with armchairs or a couch. There are desk chairs and desks and filing cabinets.
2. Perhaps I am being unfairly picky, but she isn't a postgrad anymore, so technically shouldn't be using the room for anything, let alone a bedroom.
3. It's a shopping trolley.

I talked this over with Juicebar, who offered some excellent tips on squatting, none of which she seems to be aware of (not only is this strange behaviour, this is strange squatting behaviour):

a. There should be a certain amount of non shopping trolleyness
b. Find something disused or under construction, that is frequented by other squatters
c. You dress like you don't belong there so people don't attack you
d. Don't share the alcohol on offer, BYO beer
e. Brick yourself in for the night


Question: Is she a suitable nemesis for me, or is "Looney" not an adequate category? Please share your thoughts.

Food For Thought

I know that the VPL (Visible Panty Line) is a fashion no-no, but is it really that bad? Socks and sandals are clearly a crime, as are numerous other things like denim shirts with jeans and denim jackets. I'm sorry, but I still hate crocs, and I am not a fan of plumber's crack. I think there are far worse fashion crimes to be worrying about.

I was walking behind a rather large and very unattractively dressed person the other day, and quite frankly, I was glad to know that she wasn't walking about commando style. My thought for the day is this: Sometimes, a VPL can be a community service announcement.

In Celebration of Other People

Highlights from the past week's reading and watching, with Felix and Zosia.

Favourite blog moments:

"Having testicles is like being chained to the village idiot" (chasemeladies.blogspot.com).

"I did two AFD last week. Wasn't that bad. On the third day, I had a six pack of Coopers to celebrate my sobriety". (Femikneesm in OMel's comments).

Favourite TV quote:
"I'm so excited. I have no idea what it means but I'm thrilled". - David Stratton from The Movie Show on the news that The Movie Show is now available as a podcast.

Worst Final Line in an Academic Book:
"Since that is pretty much the position from which I started this book, I think I should conclude right here" (Dunne, Michael, American Film Musical Themes and Forms).

Best Final Line in an Academic Book:
"men are crap" *(ed Bennet, Shank, Toynbee, The Popular Music Studies Reader)

*Disclaimer: The author of this blog wishes to inform readers that the above quote may not necessarily apply arbitrarily to ALL men, although it is intended to express what the author will refer to (in drawing on the work of Stewart) as "truthiness". Depending on your own particular model of man, results may vary.

Old vs New

Is it wrong to compare people? If it is, bad luck. Here is a brief list of the old versus the new flatmate
GD= old, CC = new).

Conversation:

I can tell CC is going to be fantastic blog fodder (in a good way). He is very quotable. For example:
"What's the girl with the bears? Is it Goldilocks?"

vs.

Me: "I find your homophobic comments very difficult and upsetting to deal with"
GD: (perplexed) " but you like Will and Grace!"

Me: "Can you please pull your weight and wash the dishes more often?"
GD: "But you work from home so you can use washing the dishes as a procrastination technique"

Entertainment:

CC spontaneously breaks out singing a song and clicking his fingers like a Jet or a Shark from West Side Story. This comes amidst a discussion of the relative merits of Leonard Bernstein as composer, and Stephen Sondheim as composer/lyricist.

vs.

GD likes to throw things off the balcony and watch them drop.

Considerateness:

CC offers to switch gender on occasion if necessary in order to become a girly shoulder to cry on

vs.

GD leaves furniture in the apartment after he has stopped paying rent, and is indignant when he is informed that it has been moved.

Final Results:

This clearly demonstrates CC is the winner. Yay!

One Ish, Two Ish. Red Ish, Blue Ish

My friend had a Polynesian themed party a little while ago. Since she has postgraduate qualifications in Party Organisation, and a graduate diploma in Use of Food Colouring among her achievements, it was great. Plus, there was a pool. But the theme, I have to admit, was really Polynesian-ish. As well as grass skirts, and lots of pineapple and sweet potato, the key points of the theme slid into other areas. There were pina coladas which I think are really Hispanic-ish. Somewhat inexplicably, there was a rousing rendition of that Aqua classic "Barbie Girl" sung in Dutch, to the delight and amusement of the crowd. But the point of all this dissection is that I have a question, only mildy related to the example of the Polynesian-ish party that I provided mostly because I can write about anything I want to and that seemed as good a topic as any. My question is this:

If you're Jewish does that mean you are sort of Jew? The same goes for Swedish, although that gets trickier. Are you sort of Swede, meaning a bit like a turnip, or sort of Swed, which means something else but I have no idea what.

Ok, maybe I have more than one question here. If we take "ish" to mean "sort of", does that mean you could safely say you are Swedish because you have watched a lot of Ingmar Bergman films and you are quite tall with a bit of a tan?

And what on earth to make of the word "fetish"? Oh, crumbs!

Dysfunctional Bands

I have a nemesis.

Although I don't particularly like him (that sort of being the point with nemeses), I do rather like that fact that I have one.
Why is he my nemesis?
Because he is my antagonistic opposite - in some ways we are similar and in others we are totally different. We started our PhDs at the same time, but the big difference there is that he had a scholarship and I did not. Although I had less money than him, he complained about being poor and I did not (Well, ok, I did complain, but whatever. Not as much as he did). The point is, he is annoying. But in a rather funny way, which I will now demonstrate with this little story.

Nemesis was in a band, and was telling me in the postgrad room one day how he had been recently ejected from the band. He was quite pissed off. What he found most galling was the fact that he had only ever joined the band to begin with as a favour to his friend. This apparently meant that his level of commitment needn't be as high as the other members, because they were lucky to have him!

I asked Nemesis what reason they had given for kicking him out, and he said that one of the complaints the band members had was that he arrived late and left early to rehearsals. This is something that would probably really annoy me if I were in a band, so at this point in the conversation I said something thoughtful yet noncommittal like "Oh" . Nemesis, however, had a water tight reason for this behaviour: "I live the furtherest away! That's why I leave early"... Like it was the most obvious thing in the world...

I really didn't know what to add at this point, so we turned back to our computers, but Nemesis was thinking of other things, because a moment later, he turned to me and said, in a thoughtful tone "You know something? That is actually the fourth dysfunctional band that I have been kicked out of." Wow, fancy that.

Wrongo Bongo

According to music top ten reviews website, Jack Costanza's album Mr Bongo is rated 365,332 of 454,843. I quite like a bit of bongo in its place. Its place, however, never was and never will be anywhere near the building in which I live. This is unfortunate, because one of my nbeighbours clearly has different ideas. Which would be ok if this neighbour happened to be "Mr Bongo himself - Jack Constanza". Alas, no.

According to me, my neighbour's live rendition of traditional and contemporary bongo ballads is 454,843 of 454,843. Given that the bongo only has two pitches available to this mystery player, it is a little difficult to tell what the songs are that he is playing. However, due to my very mild super power in musical abilities, I am able to tell that what might sound like "ti ti ta ta, ti ti ta ta" to the average listener is, in fact, "Lady in Red". Similarly, "ta ta ti ti ta ta ta" is actually a badly rendered version of "Oops, I Did It Again".

Oh no, what fresh hell is this? S/he has just launched into what - going on last night's antics - will be a complete run through of Sergio Mendes and Brasil 66's Beatles covers.

.....EDIT: Aaaaaigghh - the theme from Friends!!!

My Favourite Skanky Quotes From Movies and TV; One For Every Occasion

Need clarification on the weather? Try this quote on for size:

[Girls of the Playboy Mansion]
"It feels extra Versaille-ish because the weather doesn't feel like California right now"

Tired of the same old insults? How about a new one:

[Flavor of Love 2]
"Nibbelz is dirty, she's trashy, she's slutty. There's something really, really... gutterbutt about Nibbelz.

Looking to justify domestic violence? Go no further than this 1956 marvel of the silver screen:

[Carousel]
“He’s unhappy ‘cause he ain’t workin’. That’s why he hit me on Monday”

Or how about a justification for bigamy, based mostly on geography:

[Paint Your Wagon]
"And if two partners want to share the same wife, why not? This aint Michigan, it's gold country."

En-Thai-cing

Names For Thai Restaurants You Probably Won't See Any Thaim Soon:

Thaim Management

Thailed Floor

Thait Ass

Too Thaird To Cook

Rubber Thair

You're Not My Thaip

Thaiping Pool

Thaid Down

Thaiphoid

I Have a Low Spam Count

There seems to be no rhyme or reason to it, but I have never received much spam in my email accounts. I currently get on average one a week, or less, which is a huge jump from one every 6 months which was normal for a long time. So it was with great excitement that I checked my junk folder this morning to discover a message from Xiang Fritchley. Mr Fritchley is something I have heard a lot about but never experienced for myself - a man offering to enlarge my "d1ck to unprecedented lengths". I don't have a d1ck, otherwise I would certainly take him up on his offer. I wonder if he offers the same service for brea5t5.