Me: (answers phone) Hello, how can I help you?
My mum: Oh, hello! It’s your mum!
Me: Oh, hi! How’s it going!
My mum: Good! Just calling to say that we’ll meet you outside your work tonight, when you finish. We just arrived in Sydney from our Brisbane holiday.
Me: Um… weren’t you supposed to be visiting tomorrow night?
My mum: No? I told you we were going to go out and have dinner with you tonight.
Me: Um… um… Sure. Er, sure. That’s great. I’ll see you tonight.
My mum: Okay. Bye! (hangs up)
Me: Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! (hastily calls Adam’s mobile – he’s not answering. I quickly send a text message: ‘Parents visiting us TONIGHT, *NOT TOMORROW*!! QUICKLY MOVE BED INTO MY ROOM!!!’)
Adam thought up a great plan to fool my parents into thinking I have my own bed, when in fact Adam and I share the one bed. We just shoved the double bed in my room, and decided they wouldn’t be allowed into Adam’s room. I couldn’t believe I’d stuffed up the dates.
So I met them after work, and nothing had changed. They’re still my same old parents. It was great to see them again.
We ended up at Sizzler. As we were served the nice parmesean cheese melty bread stuff, my mum sprouted forth with a theory which shows where my genes come from.
My mum: This bread, it really fills you up. It’s so spongy. In fact, it’s almost as if it’s designed to expand in your stomach like some giant sponge. Can you feel it expanding in your stomach?
I was getting myself some salad from the salad bar, when:
Large man: Excuse me.
Me: Uh… yes?
Large man: Can I have another basket of fries please?
Me: Er…
Large man: We’re sitting right over there.
Me: Uh… I don’t work here, you know.
Large man: Oh. Don’t you? Sorry.
I then realised that the clothes I’d worn to work that day were exactly the same as the Sizzler uniform – a very light blue shirt and dark blue pants. The only thing seperating me from the Sizzler denizens was a gold name badge (and in my case, an Employee Of The Month iron-on transfer – because I’d make kick-ass fries).
We then drove further on to my home. I prayed to every God I could remember that Adam had moved the bed into my room. I wasn’t sure if he was home or not as I unlocked the door, but there he was. Sitting right next to his new set of nunchukas. I’m not sure what my parents thought of that. I’m glad that none of our knives were just sitting around the place – we’ve got them here and there throughout the unit for self defence (or something or other). I’m not sure why we have so many but we just do.
There was polite small talk, then my parents unloaded some stuff out of their car that they’d driven up to give me; including a second fan-forced heater. Woohoo! Now the bathroom is warm every morning. The humidity will probably result in a terrible case of moss or mildew eventually, but I’m sure our lease will have run out by the time it starts to develop properly.
After they left, I checked my room. Adam had done a brilliantly convincing job of turning my room into a ‘bedroom’. I checked his room as well – although our original plan had involved my parents not seeing his room, he’d tidied it up and put a bed in his room as well.
Hang on. A bed in his room? We only have one bed. But after close inspection, it was revealed Adam’s ‘bed’ was a bunch of boxes with a doona cover on the top. I would have liked to see him sleep on it. It was all very creative, in a Play School kind of way.
The gig wasn’t up yet, though. My parents were going to have dinner with me again the next night.
I noticed a giant sign on a North Sydney apartment building the next day that read ‘Why not live here?’ with a phone number underneath. I felt like ringing up the phone number and screaming BECAUSE I CAN’T BLOODY AFFORD IT YOU BASTARDS!
My mum had bought me a new shirt while she went shopping yesterday, so I wore it to work. It’s a black shirt – I’ve always wanted a black shirt. I was a bit worried as I went to work that day, though. I didn’t see one other person in the city of Sydney wearing a black shirt. I was the only one. Black shirts are good though! You can go to work on a Friday then just go straight to the pub and still look stylish! I wasn’t sure if the black shirt was such a good idea or not.
But when I arrived at work, I was the centre of attention; and I decided that the black shirt was good – but maybe I should only save it for days when I need an ego boost, so everyone can ooh and ahh over it again.
Actually, people weren’t really oohing and ahhing over the shirt because it was black. It was when Scooter grabbed my arm to tell me something and he realised the shirt was made of some weird stretchy material. It wasn’t quite cotton, but it wasn’t quite elastic, either. So then everyone, including all eight of the temps, had to have a tug at me.
(‘Everyone had to have a tug at me?’ Oh dear. Time for a re-write.)
Most of the temps left on Friday – they were only there for a two-week term. Scooter, however, is going to stay on for a month or so, which is good. The Mail Girl arrived back on Monday too which is great. They’re actually going to move our department to a different floor on the building, and the new area is fantastic. Mostly because Slow Sally and the DJ Accountant are as far away from everyone else as possible (and believe me, this is no coincidence).
That Fabian temp who’s been freaking me out all week – I can’t really put my finger on why – he left on Friday, too. I was sort of glad to see him go. He’s just… freaky. He looks like the kind of guy that would thrive on incest.
Fabian: Well, it’s been nice working here. Thanks for all your help.
Me: Yep, it’s been great working with you, too. (thinking: and your nineteen other personalities, too)
Me and Scooter were talking about how Tony Blair’s son got arrested last week for being drunk in Leicester Square. Apparently the charge laid against him was being ‘drunk and incapable’. Incapable of what? Succesfully winning his fight against terminal syphilis?
*****
Today I heard one of the funniest things on Triple J I’ve heard in a long time. Surprisingly, it was from the newsreader, when he was reading out the story about Tony Blair’s son:
Newsreader: A spokesman for the Blair family said that Tony Blair was spewing… but not as much as his son.
I think Triple J are using that for a promo now. Their newsreader should host the whole breakfast show. Actually, have you noticed how sexy radio newsreaders voices are? I bet they have a part-time job in phone sex as well.
*****
Jen’s re-writing her resume, because she leaves us in two weeks. I’m going to miss having a Token Lesbian at my work – nearly every place I’ve worked at, there’s been some sort of Token Lesbian I can talk to. I noticed that she was writing her work history, and it reminded me of when I moved up to Sydney earlier on this year.
I was going for an interview with a temp agency, and I’d just typed up my resume, including my work history. Unfortunately, I’d listed my jobs from oldest to most recent – which is not the conventional manner. You’re supposed to list your jobs from most recent to oldes. The way the interviewer read it, I was going from bad jobs to terrible jobs.
Interviewer: So you left your marketing job at a uni… so you could do sweeping at your father’s work?
Me: Yeah, the position was just there, so I took it. It was only a couple of nights a week though. I did that job a few years ago though.
Inteviewer: (makes lots of notes on paper) Um… right. And then you wre doing a newspaper delivery round?
Me: That was great fun at the time. It only paid $28 a week though! Ha ha ha!
She thought the last job I had before I moved up to Sydney was the paper delivery job.
*****
Someone asked me in an email this week if the soft drink ‘Torquay’ was actually made in my home town, Torquay. It’s actually not, which is all rather misleading. I once had a friend who travelled from the other side of Australia to visit Victoria, and she visited me in Torquay on her travels. She was absolutely mortified to discover that the drink Torquay wasn’t actually made in Torquay. (It’s actually manufactured at the Schweppes factory in the industrial area of Tullamarine in Melbourne – right next to a noisy airport. Amusingly enough, the Schweppes factory is located in Beverage Drive). Naming a soft drink after a town is a bit of a risky business, though, isn’t it? For example, I don’t really see a drink named ‘Echuca’ wiping Coca Cola off the map (except, perhaps, in certain hick towns near the Victoria/New South Wales border).
*****
That night, it was time for dinner with my parents again. This time we decided to go somewhere a bit nicer than Sizzler, a steak restaraunt (which in retrospect isn’t that far from Sizzler – in fact, the only thing seperating Sizzler from a regular steak restaraunt is the supiciously sticky floor and people sneezing all over the salad bar). On our way to the restaraunt, my parents were telling me what they’d been doing on their holiday in Queensland.
My sister: It was really good. We watched a dolphin show while we had lunch.
Me: Sounds great.
My mum: Yes, the fish they served us was superb.
Me: Hang on. Hang on.
My mum: What?
Me: You watched a dolphin show – and ate fish for lunch at the same time?
My mum: Yes?
Me: I mean, I’m no vegeterian, but… that’s just not quite right.
My sister: It was good fish.
Me: But the dolphins!
My mum: I’m not sure I understand you.
Me: Don’t worry.
After a short wait, we were seated in a cramped cubicle at the restaraunt. I looked thumbed through the large menu a few times – everything seemed so expensive. Then I found a chicken dish that was considerably cheaper than most of the other stuff on the menu, so I ordered that.
It was when the meal was delivered to us that I realised my mistake.
My parents and my sister: (start eating their meals)
Me: (staring at my plate) Um…
My dad: What’s wrong?
Me: I think I ordered an entree by mistake.
My dad: Well, you can still eat it can’t you?
Me: Yeah, but I feel like a knob. People will walk past and look at the knob eating an entree all to himself.
My mum: Are you sure it’s an entree?
Me: Little crispy bits of chicken, 5 mini corn cobs, strange potato things and a dipping sauce – all for one person? I don’t think so.
My dad: Well, there’s nothing actually WRONG with it.
Me: There’s no salad or anything.
My mum: You’ve got corn.
Me: Yeah, but that’s not enough vegetableness for a meal.
My dad: Would you like me to eat it?
Me: No! I’ll just have this… hmm, entree for dinner.
By this stage I’d started to have a headache, because I’d been awake for so long all day. My mum said she had a pack of Herron headache tablets she could give me, except she called them ‘Heroin’ tablets. We’ve always called Herron tablets ‘Heroin’ in our family.
Then my parents drove me home again, and who was peering out through his window as we pulled up, but Wezza. My parents immediately started worrying that I was living in a neighbourhood of psychos (well… I am). He didn’t even try to conceal himself at all. He just squashed himself up against the window to see what was going on outside.
It was when we were walking past Wezza’s window that my mum exclaimed ‘Oh! I forgot your heroin’ and rushed back to the car. I grimaced at what Wezza must be thinking.
I unlocked the unit – Adam was nowhere to be seen. I figured he was either at his brothers’ place or in his own room. Of course my mum wanted to see my bedroom – she can’t help poking around. She opened up my bedroom door, had a quick look around, then noticed there was another bedroom door (Adam’s).
My mum: Oh! Do you have two bedrooms here?
It was this statement alone which suggested to me that she’s more clued on about me and Adam than I thought she was. I think she probably knows by know – I mean hell, I haven’t gone out with a girl since I was 15 or something – but she’s just choosing not to talk about it until I bring up the subject. Which is fine, for now.
Later that night Adam stumbled into the door, drunker than I have ever, ever seen him before. He’d been drinking since 2pm that afternoon at his brothers’, and couldn’t even walk five metres without falling over. God knows how he made it upstairs from his brothers place. I put him in bed and lay there with him for a while, when I realised he was about to throw up.
You know you love someone when you’re happy to lie by their side, hold their hair back and pat their back reassuringly as they spew up everywhere. (Have you ever put your hand on someone’s back while they vomit? You can actually feel the spew travelling up their gullet a few seconds before they even know they’re about to spew!)
Adam then lay there for a while, in a state halfway between blind drunk and hung over. Suddenly he moaned:
Adam: Ohhhhh… I’m sick as a dog. (ten seconds pass) Woof woof!
He was fine when he woke up, but there’s this new creative addition to our carpet, where he missed the vomit bucket.
For some reason we were talking about ancestry this week. Adam said his family used to be in British royalty a long time ago, but apparently one of his ancestors totally screwed things up and basically outsed the family from royalty. I can just picture a medieval version of Adam doing something like that. Baron Von Adam, perhaps. In fact, it sounds like something that one of my ancestors would do – they were on a really good run, then suddenly they did something really crap. It’s all about a legacy of crap.
*****
My probationary driver’s licence expires next week because I turn 21, and I get a full licence. Finally, I can get rid of that horrible photo on my driver’s licence of me in high school.
We saw a funny sight on the way to the supermarket this week. A stupid little Barina pulled up next to us, but the guy driving it looked like he’d be far more at home behind a truck. We weren’t sure if we should laugh out loud at him or not, because he was a tough guy… but it was a Barina!
I arrived home from the shops some time on the weekend to find Wezza standing at the base of the stairs in our block of units, looking up at the balcony of a unit upstairs. This little kid was standing up there throwing pop-gun caps at Wez, yelling insults at him. All Wez was doing was staring at him, leaning against a pole with his arms folded. He was fuming, and I’m not sure why he just kept standing there. I walked past him extra quick in case he finally snapped once and for all. He probably thinks there’s loads of heroin in our unit now, too.
*****
Adam had an interesting day at his bouncer job on Saturday, when there was a large wedding reception that just wouldn’t leave the function room of the hotel he worked at. I think it ended with some wedding attendants threatening to come back with guns or knives or something, so Adam’s all excited he might have some action next week.
After Adam finishes his bouncer job each Saturday night, he usually kills some time in a pub in the city until his train arrives. Apparently he drank a little too much last Saturday, because he was sitting on the train and was absolutely busting to go to the toilet. He was the only person on the train carriage, so after the guard walked through his carriage, Adam grabbed a nearby beer can and started wizzing into that. What’s most impressive is that his bladder was full of one and a half beer can’s worth of wee, and he managed to stop halfway through his wee when he’d filled up the can. I’m not sure I could just stop mid-stream like that, personally.
*****
On Sunday, I woke up to find my gargantuan tonsils returned. For some reason, every now and then my tonsils will swell up to huge proportions and it’s very difficult not to choke on them – I can’t talk or eat solid food while they’re like this. It’s not quite tonsillitis because it doesn’t really hurt a lot, but it’s a pain. I want to get my tonsils taken out but most doctors I have been to refuse to do it unless my tonsils start doing it every week or something. I once went to hospital in an ambulance because of my tonsils – I kept choking and couldn’t breathe because they were so big.
I just popped some Herron (Heroin?) and the tonsils went down really fast. That was easy. The only problem was that I seemed to have develop some sort of cold as well. I went up to the shops to buy some soup, and was really looking forward to it. I think I was looking forward to it too much and got a bit eager, because I burnt my tongue really badly when I ate it. Now everything tastes like Thai food, because I get a stinging sensation on my tongue when I eat absolutely anything at all.
I was going to stay up on Sunday night to watch Pat Rafter play in the Wimbledon men’s finals. What can I say about my Pat? He comes very, very close to Robb Flynn in the sex-o-rama ratings. I’ll be honest. I don’t really have any interest in tennis, but when Pat’s playing, I can get quite animated. I decided not to watch after all because it was on really late, and apparently it didn’t finish until 5am because of all the rain delays.
The next morning I awoke and realised we hadn’t done the washing. This resulted in what’s becoming a daily ritual: The Battle To Find A Sock Without A Hole. Personally, my sock of choice is a thin black sock, whereas Adam tends to wear thick white ones. The brand I usually buy is called Holeproof Socks, and let me tell you, they’re not very holeproof at all. In fact, they’re usually more air than sock by the time I’m finished with them. It’s getting to the stage where I’ll have to wear the same pair of socks for days. I should just do what my old druggo flatmate used to do: he knew it was time to change his socks when his feet got itchy.
When I got to work, Jen told me she’d made a decision.
Jen: I know what I want for my birthday.
Me: What’s that?
Jen: I want a Mini-Me.
Scooter: Actually, yeah. A Mini-Me version of you would be good to kick.
There’s this giant package that’s been sitting up the back of our office ever since I started working for my current employer. Nobody ever really questioned what it was, it was just always there. I think all workplaces have mysterious giant packages sitting around in storerooms that nobody knows what is inside. Seeing as not even Mr Marketing knew what it was, we decided to open it. What was inside, but a giant mirror. I have no idea how someone justified purchasing a mirror this big, nor a mirror in the first place. What’s even stranger is that the package just appeared one day. Nobody has even ever questioned it. I should see if I can steal it.
*****
I bought the new Filter single ‘The Best Things’ this week, mainly for the remixes of the song. One of the remixes amuses me, because Richard Patrick (singer of Filter) has one of the biggest rock star egos out (“I’ve got one of the best fuckin’ voices in rock and roll ever!”), yet one of the remixes is by The Humble Brothers. Perhaps this is a side project of his?
*****
My work is helping to organise a conference which is being held soon – I was asked to call people who had been sent invitations to see if they were coming along.
Gravelvoice man: (picks up phone) ‘Ello?
Me: Oh, hi. Could I please speak to Mr Miller? We sent him an invitation to a conference we’re holding and are just wondering if he’s coming along.
Gravelvoice man: (sounds of paper being shuffled around) Miller eh?
Me: Yes.
Gravelvoice man: (more shuffling) There’s a lot of Millers here.
Me: Right… um…
Gravelvoice man: Do you know which division he’s in?
Me: No, I’m not sure. Sorry.
Gravelvoice man: Do you know how long he’s been here then?
Me: No, um… I’m not sure of that at all.
Gravelvoice man: What did he get put in here for? I might know him.
Me: Um… have I called (name of company)?
Gravelvoice man: No. This is a prison.
Me: Oh… wrong number. Sorry.
Gravelvoice man: I’m sure Mr Miller would love to come along but he’s probably a bit busy here, if you get my drift.
I learnt a new lesson this week at work. If Parappa the Rapper leaves the room really suddenly, you do too. He’s farted.
Our office at work isn’t the only thing that smells lately. I’ve noticed one of the lifts smells a bit strange, and I just realised what it was yesterday. It smells like RAT! What the hell are rats doing in the lifts system anyway?!
Then there’s the slow-opening doors at the entry to the building where our company is. They’re notoriously slow-opening sliding doors. There used to be a message stuck on the door warning people that they’re really slow to open, but it’s disappeared. It’s funny when you see people who are visiting the building smack their face into the doors as they walk too quickly into it. I bet the people who run the security department deliberately took the warning sign down, so they could collect video footage of people hurting themselves and win a prize in Australia’s Funniest Home Videos.
My workplace offers free massages, so I thought I should take advantage of it this week. They’re only short 15 minute massages, but it’s 15 minutes away from my desk, plus around 10 minutes dawdle time.
The woman was really friendly, and even was forgiving when I lay down on the massage table the wrong way around. Ohhh, you put your head IN the little hole on the bed, not on it…
The hole you stick your head through was lined with tissues, which was a little scratchy on my face, but manageable. She wasn’t saying much, so I tried to initiate conversation with her. After all, I’d heard her chatting away to the guy before me. But she wouldn’t respond to anything I said with little more than an ‘ugh’ or ‘uhuh’!
I then realised that my ticklishness could prove to be a problem – she was poking me in places where all I could do to stop laughing was clench my buttocks. She was poking me in so many tickly spots that I was glad my face was hidden down a hole at the time.
Then as I stifled a laugh, I realised my nose was starting to run because of my cold. Bad, bad, bad! Do I stop the process and wipe my nose? Oh, shit. Too late. I was already getting snot on the tissues surrounding the face-hole on the massage table. This could prove to be a mess when the massage ended.
She was massaging my lower back when I heard a strange rumbling noise. I thought it was my stomach at first, then it went away. Oh, there it is again. It almost sounds like… it sounds like someone with really bad gas. Christ, the massage woman is farting! What’s worse is that she’s trying to disguse it by letting it out slowly! The slow rumbling emissions continued for a little while, when I heard someone breathing over my head. Was it my imagination that someone else was in the room, or was the massage woman just extremely flexible?
And whoa – should she be touching my ass in such a way? I wasn’t informed that bum groping was part of the massage! My bum doesn’t even NEED a massage! It’s quite fine as it is! Maybe she thought it was tense because I was squeezing it when I was trying not to laugh.
Okay. There’s DEFINITELY someone else in the room. I swear I heard a Nokia mobile phone beeping. But then:
Massage woman: Okay, all done!
I then rose up from the bed with a ring around my face from where it was stuck in the hole in the table. I sat up really quick, and then fell off the table because the light hurt my eyes so much.
I’m not sure if I’ll go back next week yet.
*****
I got an email from Paul:
I was reading about your whacky vagina dream and it reminded me of something a friend told me about once. Supposedly there’s this big (really disputed) freudian thing called Vagina Dentata. On some deep subconscious level thing most men are secretly afraid of putting their dicks into a vagina. You know, in case there’s a bear trap inside or it has teeth or something.
Wasn’t that a song in The Lion King? ‘Vagina Dentata’?
*****
I braved the cafeteria for lunch and luckily Cafeteria Woman was not present. There was some sort of creamy chicken dish being served. A little sign stuck into the chicken dish announced ‘All natural!’ Can I just point out how un-natural a creamy chicken is? I mean, a chicken (a real, bok-bok-bok chicken) from the farm isn’t self saucing. It’s not creamy. It’s just not right.
I arrived back from lunch and Slow Sally announced she’d had Chinese for lunch.
Slow Sally: I had loads of fried rice!
Me: Good for you.
Slow Sally: Do you remember that story from a few years ago how that guy died of fried rice from a Chinese restaraunt?
Me: …
Slow Sally: Do you remember it?
Me: …
Slow Sally: Oi. Do you remember how that guy died of fried rice?
Me: Oh? Sorry. I lost interest when I stopped talking.
Slow Sally: Apparently some guy died a few years ago from fried rice.
Me: How could you die from it? Did it have glass instead of prawns in it or something?
Slow Sally: They did a forensic, and they found out there was semen in the rice.
Me: But you can’t die from semen! People eat semen all the time!
Slow Sally: Well, that was what killed him, apparently.
Me: And what are Chinese restaraunt chefs doing, going around tossing off into fried rice?
*****
As of yesterday, I started doing exercise with Adam. The plan is to do it every night. I’m aching so much I’m not sure how long this will continue, but the only way for me to get fit will be if someone disciplines me.
So on the first night of Adam’s House Of Pain we did sit ups (well, about 8); push ups (I had to do them the dumb way because I don’t know how to do them properly); boxing (that bit was good, although I had to stick my hands in a pair of boxing gloves that had collected about 7 years of sweat); some ninja moves which were cool, and them an attempt at more sit ups.
Me: Okay. That’s enough. That’s enough. I’m in too much pain.
Adam: Oh, soon you’ll learn to enjoy the pain. And when you enjoy the pain, you’ll start wearing leather.
Me: EWWWW!
*****
Parappa the Rapper took his girlfriend out to see a movie on the weekend.
Parappa the Rapper: We saw Gone in 60 Seconds. It was pretty good.
Mr Marketing: Your girlfriend must be pretty used to that, then.
Parappa the Rapper: What do you mean?
Mr Marketing: Well, that’s your love life in a nutshell – ‘Gone in 60 Seconds’, isn’t it?