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?
In Orange you rarely have to line up for anything except the dole and methylated spirits. Oh I’m too cynical – mostly it’s for clean syringes and bourbon.
Today I queued for nearly an hour to buy a Christmas present and even though it’s my second Christmas in Sydney, I knew what I was getting myself into by shopping on the last Thursday before Santa breaks into my house and drinks my boutique Japanese beers.
And holy feck, 99.9 per cent of people are whiners. One woman, about 46th in line, finally got to the counter and didn’t take her headphones out while she was served. And she only answered questions with a shake or nod of her head. And didn’t make eye contact when they gave her change and a receipt. Then when her moment of pure First World torture was finally over, she moped out of the shop like someone had just forced her to strip naked and top off the human pyramid in the corner while we all took photos.
Then some other feisty babe who dared to wear her sweaty gym leggings and headband in public demanded a terrified staff member named Connie TRAINEE to find her a particular product. So Connie TRAINEE, carrying boxes and answering inane questions from all angles, slinked off to the back room. This is a beautiful trick as a retail worker. People think there’s a magical back room with endless supplies of Barbie vans, the second season of Friends and that illusive carton of Winnie Blues. Get a clue – there’s nothing out the back except a dartboard with your face on it. So Connie TRAINEE emerged 30 seconds later with the news that no there was nothing out the back and no they were unlikely to get anything in before Christmas. Sweaty pants heard this, rolled her eyes and actually stamped her foot. Stamped. her. Nike. wearing. foot. Sheesh.
I hope the good lord audits the world soon, I really do.
Merry December 18 y’all.
This afternoon while walking towards my bus stop, a woman in a long floral skirt came running up behind another woman, stopped her and said: “You have the most radiant, beautiful face I have ever seen. I just thought you should know”.
I couldn’t help but look at the bus timetable and roll my eyes in disgust. I could just tell that this woman was a hippy-dippy jerk and thought she would make this other woman’s day by saying something semi-sensual and creepy in a really loud voice. When really, all she was achieving was making everyone involved feel awkward.
I went about my very merry business and went and bought a two pack of bread rolls from Coles to use as garlic bread tonight and wandered back to my bus stop. I hadn’t eaten much all day and started nibbling on the end on one of the rolls when I noticed the hippy-dippy woman doing some no-bra Woodstock dancing and delighting in the fact that commuters were looking at her like maybe she’d just eaten her own puke.
Unfortunately, I made brief eye contact with her male companion, who approached me and said: Excuse me, I was wondering if you would like to share your bread with us?
Okay, what? Would I like to share my bread with you?
I remained silent and widened my eyes in a way that should have suggested: Are you kidding me? One step closer and I’ll kick you in your Scientology nutsack.
But instead he said: Your bread just looks so beautiful and it made us all so hungry.
I was so flabbergasted, that instead of saying “two bucks. downstairs. not on my watch, L. Ron Hubbard.” I handed over my bread roll.
Him: “That’s so beautifully kind of you. thankyou.”
The thing is, I was thinking that I didn’t really even need the second roll when I bought the packet. So if I was a nice, sharing person I would have gladly handed over the roll, thinking the universe had taken the roll away and given it to someone more hungry because the universe knew I was probably going to freeze it for six months and then throw it out and the universe taketh and the universe giveth and the universe makes beautiful skirts in floral patterns for the whole universe to discover the beauty of dance and the universe is watching us all and will feed us when we’re hungry.
But no, the majority of my thoughts are more like: I can’t believe I have to share the universe people I hate.
When I was little I used to like twiddling my umbrella around like I was in Mary Poppins or some shit, but I’m well aware they can be freakin’ lethal weapons in Sydney.
I’m not giant tall, but lots of people walking along George Street seem to be teeny tiny and I have been semi-beheaded on several occasions.
The worst umbrella assault I have seen was when I was lining up for a bus in the rain recently.
This trendy little spiky haired teenager was in front of me, and a red-haired-toupee-wearing old dude was next to me holding a metal-tipped umby. What the old guy didn’t realise was that every time he stepped closer to the bus, while he was fiddling around trying to find his Travel Ten (I bet it was brown) he was ramming his umbrella up this poor kid’s rectum.
The kid didn’t know what to do, but the look on his face suggested that he was seriously considering reporting the old guy to the police.
And rightly so.
Right now, I would like to report Joel to the police.
About two weeks ago, Joel took me out on a hot date.
We were eating Thai in this incredibly romantic little place. Chatting and laughing away like our house was made of gold, probably angering fellow single diners. It was one of those dates where you maybe suck on the same piece of spaghetti, entwine your arms and drink wine, Joel might have pulled a rose out of his sleeve or put a diamond ring in my ice cream. One of those dates.
After consuming a whole bottle of wine – and feeling warm and tipsy, Joel looks deep into my eyes and says:
Steph: Yeah, it was great. Where does it come from?
Joel: It was left over from an event the other night.
Steph: Oh, that’s nice.
Joel: Yeah, we went around and emptied left over cups into the bottles
And he doesn’t understand my concern that I may now be pregnant to an unknown man. Or at least caught a bad case of herpes.
My lyric of the day: So my label would change my image, I’m a pink lipstick chick called dipstick, This ain’t on my wish list, Oh shit I’m in FHM posing in a bikini,Next to a Lamborghini. Lady Sov 9 to 5