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.