Poor Stevie

One of the fun things about my job is wandering around suburbs I wouldn’t usually visit. Today I went and did some hanging out in Kirribilli and my GOD, the people there live sweet lives.

Leafy streets and heritage-looking terraces done up beautifully, a fecking school with a harbour view. Kirribilli residents look as though they never fart, poop or pull on a cardigan they’ve had since year eight covered in moth holes. It took all my will power not to put some dog poop in a bag, set it alight and put it on someone’s door step. That’s right, try and scrape that turd from your Sofia Coppola for Louis Vuitton heel.

Yesterday I was in Roseville and had similar feelings of pure wealth-envy. Then I saw this piece of fun:

The world is awesome.

It’s really immature and narky of me but how the hell do I tell people to quit saying “Bless you!” after I sneeze. This seems like a small problem, and really it would be if I didn’t sneeze twice every five minutes. No, for real. I’m allergic to everything. My pillow, our blankets, the carpet, Joel’s manfume, Joel’s deodorant, my deodorant, the upholstery on bus seats, the Daily Telegraph, autumn leaves, the grey jumper I’m wearing today, my red bracelets, my office, the office fridge, the photocopier ink, my keyboard at work, the ABC AM program.

It sounds like I’m exaggerating, I know. But quit saying bless you. For one thing, I don’t need to be blessed. I am already – I have awesome Mississippi mud cake in my bag. For another thing, aren’t you bothering Jeebus who has to bless me every five minutes when he’d rather be watching The Sopranos?

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about what a 13 year Catholic education and a brief stint at being a believa has left on me. Let me just say first off, that my few months of being a hardcore Christian where in about year 4 or 5 when I thought god could deliver me a boyfriend or a pair of boobs. And my 13 year Catholic education was, I think, because my olds thought the Catholic schools in my hometown were the best ones.

I spent a lot of my late teens being very cynical about my Catholic teachers and my compulsory religious studies classes. I found it frustrating that my school played the Catholic card to harass girls about wearing makeup or jewellery or make boys cut their hair. I remember thinking that, for the most part, Catholic school teachers were total dumb-asses who only got the job because they’d been baptised. Also, sex education totally blew (ha!) Along with a bunch of other things, it made me resent religion.

But there were some things that I think back on very fondly. And one of those things is Easter time. I always loved Easter church services because by this time of year it would usually be chilly and I thought being huddled in a church with a bunch of glowing candles around was really cosy. Also on Good Friday there’s a fun service where they turn all the lights out, which gave way to the possibility that you could totally make out with someone while we all thought of Jeebus. Plus they always played us the Jesus movies at school, which because they spanned over the big guy’s entire life would block out at least half the day for about a week. In high school, we got to watch the one starring Jeremy Sisto as a mega hottie in robes.

So it’s left me with a real love of the Easter season. I’ve kind of wanted to wander into beautiful old churches and watch the sun stream in through the stained-glass windows and dye boiled eggs and perve on Sisto. I also love Easter at home because as always, my mum puts on a real show with gallons of red wine, warming dinners, good chocolate and candles.  My grandma used to do the same. I’ll try and re-create the awesome in the office on Easter Sunday. Sob.