Poor Stevie

Moving from the Central West to Sydney was always going to be pretty wack. You know, the electricity, the running water and the gays. But there are far more disturbing things…

- Kissing people as a greeting. This is a fabulous way to catch me off guard and make me far more awkward than I naturally am. And I am awkward. Say hello to me and I blush, cough and hide in the toilets breathing into my trusty paper bag. I don’t understand this greeting unless you are my family or boyfriend. I think there should be an unwritten law about this – unless you have seen me nude you do not get to touch any part of me with your lips. And yes, I hear you, my family have seen me nude. In the country that’s how we say hello.

- Seeing `live’ music played on a laptop. I like to call this `cheating’. I get that modern music these days is filled with robotic doo whoop a dops and I’ll admit I’m a fan. But it’s almost too much to bear when a musician is singing over pre-recorded vocals. I think if you’re a solo artist and you can’t recreate your sound live without the help of a Macbook you should go back to your toll booth operating career. Or at least get a friend to pretend to play a synthesiser or something. Even that would be more impressive than launching Garage Band. I’d rather sit at the Vic in Orange and listen to someone play Lithium by Nirvana or Disarm by Smashing Pumpkins. Again.

- Lunch hour. Since the beginning of 2007 I’ve been under the impression that no one actually worked in the city except for I. I’m lucky enough to work staggered hours and so I rarely ever see anyone when I go out and get my reasonably priced $15.50 salad. Yesterday I didn’t work and was in Pitt St at 1pm. And ohmigod why would anyone ever live in Sydney? You can’t fling a second-hand purse without hitting two businesswoman, a CEO, a cleaner, a homeless man, a child in a pram, a group of emo schoolkids, a nun, a man with dreadlocks painting bad portraits, two secretaries in high-waisted polyester skirts and the woman behind the Chanel counter. As my mum likes to note in large crowds – `imagine all those poos!’

As it becomes more apparent that I am not career-driven I’ve turned my focus to other things. Namely, being a housewife. There are so many benefits – cooking for my boyfriend, scrubbing my boyfriend’s underpants, folding my boyfriend’s clothes and waiting for my boyfriend to get home. Other perks include watching Oprah, crying and spying on neighbours. This is all likely to end in the birth of child named something like Dorito Daisy Connolly – and that’s just the first son.

I thought I’d share with you my blooming collection of domestic items. I look at these things and I just think – ‘this is what life is all about mother’uckas’:

Here’s a bunch of flowers half tulips, half lilies. I like to think they represent me – pretty but just about to die having been plucked out of the garden of life.

Here’s a clock I bought myself. I watch every excruciating moment tick by.

Here’s where I keep my dry ingredients for sweet cakes. I twitch slightly when I see the cursive labels on them which say ‘sugar’, ‘rice’, ‘tea’ and ‘coffee’ because actually what I keep in them is sugar, flour, brown sugar and teabags. But I can’t fix the injustices of the world can I?

Here’s my collection of champagne flutes and matching ice bucket. Sometimes I drink gin out of them when I’m alone watching David and Kim.

Here’s my pink teapot and knitted cosy. Once I found that Joel had hidden the cosy in the back of the cupboard and that’s why I threw him in the ocean wrapped in black plastic with rocks in his pocket.

And finally, a piece of tasteful craft that doesn’t need an introduction.