At work on Wednesday:
Mr Marketing: Parappa, just to make sure you know, you’re not allowed to smoke outside this building, okay?
Parappa the Rapper: Well, I don’t smoke anyway, but why is that?
Mr Marketing: Apparently the boss thinks it’s a bad image for our company.
Jen: I heard he fired someone on the spot once when he caught them smoking out the front of the building.
Me: I’m almost tempted to wait outside the building with a bong until he walks past.
Mr Marketing: Oh, so you don’t mind a bit of the mull, do you?
Me: No, I don’t do that at all!
Jen: Oh, come on. Look at your eyes! You’ve been pulling cones before you came in to work!
Me: I did not! I only did that because… (at this point I realise I’m about to tell them I stopped smoking dope when I was at uni 2 years ago, and shut up. My unfinished sentence then makes it appear that I’m trying to cover up that I smoked dope before I came to work)
Mr Marketing, Parappa the Rapper and Jen: (all start laughing at me)
Me: Oh, Christ. I don’t smoke dope. Okay?
Mr Marketing: Oh, of courrrrrrrrse not. I mean, NOBODY in the Dodgy Western Suburbs smokes dope, do they?
Me: I don’t smoke dope!
Jen: (goes white and suddenly has a strange look on her face)
Me: What’s wrong, Jen?
Mr Marketing: (yelling and pointing finger at me) YOU ARE THE BIGGEST CHOOFER IN THIS ROOM! YOU CHOOF EVERY NIGHT! AHAHAHAH!!
Jen: (mouth drops open)
Me: Er… Jen?
Jen: Um… the boss just walked past then.
Me: Fuck. Did he hear us?
Jen: He stopped and listened.
Me: Fuckfuckfuck!
Mr Marketing: Ahhh, you’ve been caught out, mate!
Me: But I don’t even smoke d… oh, forget it…
I am currently known as The Choofer at work and I think Mr Marketing told some other members of staff, because they’re calling me The Choofer as well.
Jen’s going to give notice of her resignation next week – it’s time for her to move on. Jen and I going to plan a great way for her to leave on her last day because she hates the company.
Jen: I’m going to miss you. We’ll have to keep emailing each other at work.
Me: Definitely.
Jen: You’re so good with your fingers, too. I’ll really, really miss you.
Me: What?!
Jen: You know. You type fast and stuff.
Me: Oh. Er… phew.
I found out where the DJ Accountant (curse his stupid, stupid soul) works as a DJ. He asked Parappa the Rapper permission to make a personal call to the hotel he works at, because he hadn’t been paid on time. He then rang Directory Assistance and asked for the phone number for a particular hotel.
That night, I asked Adam about this pub, and it turns out it’s a gay pub! I must admit, my Gaydar ™ was picking up signals from the DJ Accountant, but he’s always talking about his “wife”. Maybe he’s just very gay friendly, but I have a feeling that he really is gay and is making up stories about an imaginary wife. Or maybe the wife is a man. Or maybe the wife is a man dressing up as… er, let’s not go there. I plan to ask the DJ Accountant what pub he DJ’s at, and then say ‘Isn’t that a gay club?’ He doesn’t know I’m gay, I’m just going to ask him because he’s such an arsehole to me.
Then again, maybe he IS straight and just works at a gay pub. I have conflicting evidence, you see. This week I caught him printing up girlie porn from his computer. Only the DJ Accountant would be as stupid to do this at work.
Me: Er… um, do you think you should print that up here?
DJ Accountant: Oh, it’s okay.
Me: I don’t know about that. What if Parappa the Rapper saw this?
DJ Accountant: Nah, he won’t catch me.
Me: I hope you know that the network administrators here can check anything you’ve looked at on the internet.
DJ Accountant: Oh this is okay. Someone sent these pictures to my Hotmail account, so they won’t be able to get into it.
Me: What makes you think that?
DJ Accountant: Well, they don’t know my Hotmail password, do they?
Me: No, but… (I wonder if I should tell him the network administrators can probably see any picture file that’s gone through the network regardless of if it’s in Hotmail or not, and decide to be an arsehole) …I see your point. They shouldn’t be able to find anything at all.
DJ Accountant: (deviously grins and starts thumbing through all the pictures he’s printed up)
I mentioned in my last entry that the DJ Accountant swears too much. I actually got yelled at as a result of his swearing this week. The DJ Accountant rang up one of his friends and started abusing the hell out of him, and I got a phone call.
Me: Hello, how can I help you?
Person on phone: Hello, I’d just like to enquire about… (line goes silent)
Me: Hello?
Person on phone: Who on Earth is that in the background?
Me: Um, that’s someone else who works here.
Person on phone: Do you all talk that filthily at your company?
Me: No, no, we don’t. Definitely not. I must apologise for his language.
Person on phone: If I’m going to have to put up with that foul language I don’t think I want to buy from your corporation at all, there are plenty of other people I can deal with. (hangs up)
Me: Bloody hell! (resists throwing phone at DJ Accountant)
I’ve learnt in my time that you don’t assume anything at all at your work. Nothing whatsoever. The moment you start to think you’re fitting into your new job and are getting the grips of everything you’re required to do, you start to notice little shortcuts. Quicker ways of doing things. You start to employ faster ways of doing things than what you were trained, and you’ll continue to do this for about three weeks until your supervisor notices, tells you that you’ve done things drastically wrong, and you’re forced to say ‘Well… I just assumed’.
I’m starting to learn that not assuming is applicable to many parts of life. Every day I’ve gone to work, the bus I catch has always stopped at my stop. On Tuesday the bus went straight past my stop, and I was about to complain to the bus driver when I realised it was my own fault – I hadn’t pulled the cord to stop the bus. It just happened that someone else had always gotten off at my stop every day until today.
Don’t assume! When you assume, you’re late to work. And don’t assume your boss will be okay with that.
*****
I think someone’s been fiddling with the settings of the elevators at my work. You need to scan your security card in the lift before it will go to any floor, and if you don’t scan it in time, the elevator will go down to Basement Level 3. You used to have a decent 10 seconds to scan your card, but now it seems there’s less than 2 seconds after the doors close before I go plummeting down into the carpark. Maybe if I was organised I’d have my card ready, but when you’re rushing into work half asleep you don’t think of things like this.
*****
My non-romance with Cafeteria Woman at work continues (see my previous journal entry). I’ll be honest: I can handle Cafeteria Woman having lunch with me once, but she continues to sit with me for lunch every day I go to the cafeteria. I even noticed one of the male cafeteria staff pointing at me when I walked in and she walked over to serve me, then to have lunch with me. And every time she sits with me, she eats exactly what I eat! What makes it worse is that our entire lunch together is consumed with the most awkward small talk. It’s the kind of conversation that you have with people in an elevator when you’re travelling more than 10 floors, and the silence gets too awkward. I have discussed the conditions of Sydney’s weather in excess of 30 minutes in total over the course of this week with her. At least.
So I decided on Tuesday to try and get the message across that I wasn’t interested. Maybe I should have said something like ‘me and my girlfriend are going to this nightclub on Saturday’, but that would probably have made things more awkward than what they already were. The whole reason Cafeteria Woman started talking to me and having lunch with me was because I was reading a book she had heard was interesting, so I decided to bring my book along to lunch on Wednesday. I had this fantastic plan in my head to open up my book when she sat down and read it in between the awkward small talk, so it would simply become a non-commital discussion, and I wouldn’t come out of the cafeteria feeling so guilty like I usually did.
On this particular day I’d ordered vegeterian lasagne. I quickly realised my reading-a-book plan was about to be defeated: how was I to hold the book? The book is a paperback, so I can’t really just leave it sitting on the table like a hardcover and read it. Normally I am able to eat something with one hand (like a hamburger) and hold the book with the other, but in this case I was having a knife-and-fork meal. Shit!
I tried to hold the book open by putting the plate on top of it, but the book kept slipping out and closing. The Cafeteria Woman was looking at me strangely as my lasagne slipped all over the plate while I vainly tried to keep my book in place. In the end I’d embarassed myself even more than usual and decided I’d give in to the embarassing small talk once more.
On Wednesday I decided to take a different course of action. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of the idea earlier: don’t go to the cafeteria for lunch. I decided to walk down to the shops for lunch. I knew that if I started having regular lunches with Cafeteria Woman it would become a daily ritual and I just don’t want to commit.
So off I trotted down the road to the shops to get a bite to eat. I noticed there was a hubcap in the middle of the road and all the cars were driving over it. It was a strange style of hubcap – all spikes, not round at all. It looked like some sort of medieval weapon. I was laughing to myself that it was only a matter of time before it punctured a tyre on a car, when a bus drove over the hubcap and send it flying out from under the rear wheels.
The hubcap flew across the road and launched itself into my shin. It hurt like buggery. It’s just my luck that if I had to get hit in the shin by a hubcap, it had to be an unnaturally spiky hubcap. Is this some sort of bad karma payback for not having lunch with Cafeteria Woman? Perhaps she’s more powerful than I first imagined. Perhaps her life extends beyond preparing vegetarian lasagne and small talk about the weather with a skinny gay guy to casting (very successful) curses on those who don’t treat her nicely. Or talk to her at lunch.
It’s unfortunate that some gay guys are pressured by their mates (who don’t know that they’re gay) to ‘get’ with girls. I haven’t been in this situation but I know more than a few gay guys who’ve been in situations where they’re basically forced to have sex with a girl or risk being labelled a ‘poof’ by their mates. The closest I’ve been to this was when I had a “girlfriend” in year 10. I think I only went out with her because (a) everyone was starting to go out at night as ‘couples’, and (b) she was the only girl who was ever interested in me. She actually wasn’t that bad looking I suppose, but the relationship was so painful. Every night she would ring me up and we’d talk for at least an hour. Actually, SHE would talk for an hour. I’d provide interjections such as ‘uh huh’, ‘ahh okay’ and ‘rightey oh then’.
I clearly remember when I first kissed her. It was on a school camp, and I’d never even kissed anyone on the mouth before. If you’ve ever kissed anyone who hasn’t been kissed before, their fish-like mouth motions can take some adjusting to. You have to politely guide them out of the fish-kissing stage to the more regular kiss. I don’t think she had kissed anyone before either because she was as fishy as I was.
When I went out with my first boyfriend in ’98, I still had the fish syndrome. I think said boyfriend was trying to politely point out I was kissing weird when he said ‘Oh, you kiss, er… differently to me. I’ll have to get used to that’.
I didn’t really have any feelings further than friendship for her. When we broke up I didn’t even care, and I think she was looking for an excuse to get rid of me. We’d been going out for about 6 months when it all ended in a Drama class at high school.
I used to find Drama class hilarious. Basically our teacher used to give us a subject for a play, everyone would split up into groups, make up a play, then perform it for everyone else at the end of the class. I really loved Drama, and everyone’s plays seemed so funny to me. I have no idea why. Even when they were tragically bad I used to piss myself. On this particular occasion I laughed so much I managed to piss myself quite literally and everyone pretended they didn’t notice, but after the class nobody would talk to me and I heard them making jokes about me. My girlfriend passed me a note later that day to let me know she didn’t want to go out with me anymore because I’d pissed myself. Can you imagine that applied to a relationship now that I’m older?
Adam: I don’t want to go out with you anymore.
Me: What? Why?
Adam: I heard that you wet your pants at work the other day. You big girl.
I mentioned in my last entry that I was going for a job interview on Thursday. Well, it’s certainly something that’s quite different, but it’s appealed to me for a long time: I want to work as a firefighter. I’ve been thinking about it for a while and I’m not really sure if I’ve thought it through properly or not, so I went and had a chat with this guy from the fire brigades to see if he thought I’d be suited to the work. We talked a bit about my level of fitness (what fitness?) and agreed that I’d probably fail the physical test, so I have to go and get fit before I get the job. He also added it’s quite difficult to get a firefighting job, I’ll have to apply a few times before I actually get a position. I think I still need to really think about if I want this job or not, so maybe I’ll leave it until next year or something and get fit in the meantime.
I noticed that for an organisation who are supposed to promote fire safety, the fact that they had a stack of paper right in front of two bar heaters may not be a good sign.
I took Thursday off work “sick” so I could go to the interview. I also took Friday off because… er, because I just did. At least I’m not like poor Parappa the Rapper – he seems to get sick every weekend but then gets better every Monday morning. I don’t think he’s had a non-sick weekend for the past three weeks.
Firefighters get pretty good money, too. I hope to eventually have a job where I earn so much money that I can personally fund a third series of Good Guys Bad Guys to be filmed. That was my favourite show in a long time (and Marcus Graham’s jawline had nothing to do with it).
*****
The company I work at is launching a big new product soon, and there’s this big product launch that’s being organised.
DJ Accountant: So what do they do at this product launch?
Mr Marketing: Oh, not a lot really. It’s just to get people in the industry on our good side. A bit of a wankfest really.
DJ Accountant: Oh, okay. Yeah, it sounds like a bit of a wankfest type thing.
Me: Yes, everyone literally sits around and pulls their penises.
Last month my parents told me they would be going on holiday to Brisbane, and on their way home they would visit me in Sydney. I honestly thought they told me they would visit in mid-July, because that’s when my birthday is. But no! They rang the other night and told me they would be visiting in a week and a half.
This creates a problem. My mum will want to see my bedroom (‘So, show me around!’) We have two bedrooms here but obviously we sleep in only one – we use the other bedroom for my computer. However, as far as other people are concerned, the room with my computer is my ‘bedroom’. We just always keep the door closed. Adam and I had planned to buy a new bed – we needed one anyway – and just stick the old bed in my ‘bedroom’. Unfortunately one and a half weeks isn’t a lot of time to get a new bed, but Adam’s thought of a good idea: just stick the bed in my ‘bedroom’ and leave Adam’s door closed. I hope my mum doesn’t get overly nosy and want to look in Adam’s room too, but… it’s seeming like it would almost be easier to just bloody tell my parents I’m gay already. I don’t know why I haven’t, I guess it’s just not the right time yet.
*****
More half-awake conversations while Adam and I were trying to get to sleep the other night:
Adam: I caaaaan’t get to sleeeeeeep.
Me: You drank too much Coke.
Adam: I might just sing myself to sleep.
Me: No! I’m not going to lie here while you sing.
Adam: Nah, I meant singing in my head.
Me: Oh. That’s okay then.
(ten seconds of silence)
Adam: (sings in falsetto at the top of his voice, to the tune of ‘Rhythm of the Night’ by Corona) THIS IS THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT… THE NIGHT… WOOO YEAH…
*****
To Adam’s defence of the bad breakfasts he eats, I must admit my favourite favourite cereal is pretty lame: Bran Flakes. Yes, I know it’s an old man cereal, but there’s a story behind it. I used to eat Sultana Bran, which is good, but it’s got sultanas in it. I then discovered Bran Flakes, which is basically Sultana Bran without those pesky sultanas. It can look sort of offputting though, they look like brown cornflakes. Or, as my sister once put it, yesterday’s cornflakes. Well, at least I’m not eating All-Bran! That’s SERIOUS senior citizen cereal territory.
*****
I had very little sleep on Tuesday night, so I used my old fallback trick to wake myself up in the morning: No-Doz. I heartily recommend No-Doz tablets – I think they’re just caffeine and a few other drug things, but man, are they good. A couple of those and I can speed through the day fine.
You have to exercise caution, though. A No-Doz state of awakeness is a very dangerous state of awakeness. It very much like skating on thin ice – as soon as the No-Doz starts to wear off, you become aware of how tired you actually are and almost collapse in a heap of exhaustation straight away. Who would have thought legal drugs could ever be so dangerous?
*****
Adam and I were watching the news, and for some reason I found it applicable to ask him:
Me: If you had to root a politician, who would it be?
Adam: I would never root any politician.
Me: No, you have to pick one. For the purpose of this situation you must root at least one politician.
Adam: I don’t think you understand. I would commit suicide to prevent myself from having sex with a politician.
*****
I was driving out of our driveway and waiting for a gap in the traffic so I could turn left.
Adam: Oh, you could have made that. There was a giant gap.
Me: Yes, but I have a crap car.
Adam: There was heaps of room between you and that automovehicle.
Me: ….”automovehicle”?
Adam: (realises he stuffed up when trying to say ‘motor vehicle’ and gets all defensive) Yes. Automovehicle.
Me: Hahahahahah!
That’s our new word for a car. An automovehicle.
*****
Dodgy John (the dodgiest guy I know – he looks like a pimp and all!) has moved in with Adam’s brothers because he broke up with his girlfriend, who as far as I could gather was more of a drugrunning partner than girlfriend anyway. Adam told me he was going to walk up to the shop to get some milk and bread, and that he’d say g’day to Dodgy John on his way past.
A good two hours passed before Adam got home. Adam walked back in – without any milk or bread – with an exhausted look on his face. Turns out that Dodgy John gave Adam a big outpouring on his version of events of breaking up with his girlfriend (not that Adam cared). They’d been talking for a good few hours – actually, it was just Dodgy John talking most likely. I’ve noticed you don’t have conversations with Dodgy John, you just listen to his monologues and interject with ‘right’, ‘okay’ and ‘no drugs today thankyou’ every now and then.
On Wednesday at my train station, the person who I was standing next to on the platform was a Male/Female person. One of those folks whose gender you can’t quite figure out. After a few minutes I was rather alarmed when I suddenly realised the person had a goatee – and I STILL couldn’t figure out if they were male or female.
There’s a new Australian drama series on SBS at the moment called Going Home. As far as I can gather, the only set they use is a train carriage, and it revolves around a group of people going home from work every night, and the conversations they have. Sounds riveting, doesn’t it? Ooh, but it gets better – you can vote on where you want the storylines to go via their website. I was talking about this with Adam:
Me: As far as I can gather, it’s just about people on the train going home each night and talking.
Adam: That’s so unrealistic.
Me: Why so?
Adam: If I made a show about people going home from work on a train, it’d be 30 minutes of footage of people sleeping.
*****
Actually, on my train ride home the other night, I noticed this really good looking guy. He wasn’t bad looking at all until he opened his mouth – at this point I realised his mouth was THE EXACT SHAPE OF AN EQUILATERAL TRIANGLE. Equilateral Triangle Mouth man freaked me out so bad. It looked like the mouth of a really badly designed sex doll (or a very cleverly designed sex doll for perverted people).
I went to Liquorland last night to get some alcohol. I was fumbling through my wallet to find my bank card – when I finally found it, I gave it to the cash register operator who gave me a strange look.
Liquorland woman: Um…
Me: What’s wrong?
Liquorland woman: This isn’t a bank card. It’s your Medicare card.
Me: Oh, whoops. I guess that’s where I go after I’ve been here.