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.