Up. Down. Up, up, down, up. Down. Down. Up, up… DOWN! DOWN DOWN DOWN DOWN! …DOWN!
No, this is not a line graph of the collective careers of the Gladiators after their show was cancelled. It’s a timeline of my job satisfaction.
DOWN! DOWN! DOWN!
I had one of the worst meetings ever with Mr Marketing yesterday. When he wants to be a nice guy, he’s okay. But when he wants to be an arsehole, you don’t go near him. Unfortunately myself and the DJ Accountant were in his office while he blasted us for our ‘poor performance’. I’m not the kind of person to half-heartedly ramble through my job, I do take it quite seriously – but after this particular meeting, I’ve had enough.
Sure, I’m getting this new position in 2 weeks where I only work 5 hours a day… but it’s such a step backwards, careerwise. It will make getting another job a bit tricky. I’ve taken today off work and I’m handing in my resignation tomorrow. My temp agency left a message on the phone today which isn’t a good sign – often when Mr Marketing is really pissed off with someone he’ll get the relevant temp agency to fire them. If I have been fired, I’d prefer to walk in there and give him my resignation before he can fire me.
So yes. I need a new job now! I need to decide what I want to do first. And quickly.
The saga of the DJ Accountant’s love life continues. He’s definitely in his girlfriend’s bad books at the moment, to the stage where they actually rent two units. This way, it’s easier for one of them to sleep somewhere else for the night when they argue.
He had his big chance to make it all up to her on Friday – he’d hired a limo to take her to work. This was his little forgive-me present. She was all excited because I think it was something she’d wanted for a long time.
Problem was, the limo never appeared. Neither did his girlfriend’s forgiveness. The battle continues.
I’ve noticed that tech-heads at my work have this dirty habit of pretending they’re on Star Trek. Instead of conversing in regular, everyday language, they first have to turn what they want to say over in their heads. Once they’ve managed to substitute every word for a similar one which has more syllables, they will reply to you in their gobbledygook. I might just throw a thesarus at their heads next time.
Because I’m a temp on a contract and not full time, I get half an hour lunch – full time staff get an hour. Most of the staff casually amble down to the local shopping centre for lunch – it’s about a 10 minute walk. But because I’m slightly restricted in the time department, it’s all rush rush powerwalk wolf down food rush rush powerwalk back to work. Usually I end up back at the office looking and smelling like I’ve run a short marathon.
Whenever I get back in the office and roll up my sleeves, I can hear the voices of my grandparents scolding me as a child. ‘Oh, put some clothes on. You could catch a chill!’ So it’s either a chill, or heat exhuastion. I understand.
*****
Addition to the dictionary: anti-shower. When someone steps out of a shower (for example’s sake, let’s say… Adam) and realises that a certain someone chucked the towels in the washing machine but didn’t wash them (for example’s sake, let’s say… me); and is subsequently forced to dry themselves with a stinky towel and ends up smelling stinkier than before they showered.
*****
When I compiled my list of interesting people I know who are all named Mark a few journal entries ago, I forgot to include Walking Mark. Walking Mark’s a temp as well, so he often joins me for lunch.
I first met Walking Mark when I was sitting outside my work and he approached me.
Walking Mark: Can you settle an argument for me please?
Me: Sure.
Walking Mark: Do you think if someone can put a lit match in their mouth and stuff, does that count as fire eating?
Me: Hmm. I’m not sure.
Walking Mark: I think it does.
Me: It depends on what sort of matches we’re talking about here.
Walking Mark: Just regular matches.
Me: Oh. I was hoping for something like, you know, those extra long matches.
Walking Mark: No, no. Nothing like that. But I hope to be able to do that soon.
Me: That’s okay then. As long as you’re building yourself up and stuff.
Walking Mark: That’s the plan.
Me: You’ll be swallowing Jiffy firelighters in no time.
Then he asked me if I wanted to jump in his car and go to the shops for lunch, and it’s become a semi-regular arrangement. It’s so much easier being driven down to the shops for lunch – no powerwalking rubbish at all. Plus we get time to walk around and look at shops and stuff – hence his name, Walking Mark.
Both Walking Mark and myself have noticed the increasing about of walk-and-readers on the pavements of Sydney lately. I know people don’t have as much time to themselves as they used to, but this is taking things to the ridiculous. It irritates me when people read newspapers or books as they read – usually without even a look in front of them every few seconds to make sure they’re not about to crash into someone. I walked into someone deliberately last week just to prove a point, and then it became a game to see how many read-and-walk people didn’t get out of our way due to their own distractedness. I won with 2 crashes, Walking Mark only managed 1. It’s fairly obvious I have a lot more time on my hands for lunch now, isn’t it?
Since the advent of my new black shirt and also some new black pants I got on the weekend, I’m quickly realising the downfalls of washing black clothing. The lint factor is rising every time I wash my black clothes and I get little bits and pieces of cotton all over them. I need a lint remover brush!
I told Walking Mark that we were going to find a lint remover brush. I wasn’t sure where we’d find one – I thought maybe a supermarket or a chemist or something? I emailed a friend and she seemed to think those were good places to start, although she also suggested I try stickytape instead of a lint remover brush.
We started off with the supermarket. A quick inspection of the relevant aisles proved that clothing care was not a highly stocked area of the supermarket. Walking Mark felt obliged to buy something, and he bought a box of tissues. It’s true, too – you don’t really walk into a supermarket just to browse. I, however, could have walked away from that supermarket quite comfortably without purchasing anything, but Walking Mark is obviously a weaker man than I.
We decided to give some chemists a try. We tried three chemists, and not one of them had a lint remover brush. The third chemist was the scariest of all – they actually had sales people roaming around. Since when did chemists have salespeople? I always thought they were there for prescriptions, hair dyes, film processing, baby toys and very little else.
This particular chemist was quite keen to sell us something, even if it wasn’t a lint remover brush. Apparently she thought I really needed a loofah – a face scrubbing thing. I always thought that Loofah was an R&B artist, but I’ve been proved otherwise.
She was so adamant on showing me how to use this loofah that I couldn’t get a word in edgewise to tell her I wasn’t interested in loofahs at all. Walking Mark was no help – he simply encouraged the situation by saying he thought I should pick the big blue loofah.
Chemist salesperson: You have to EX – FO – LI – ATE with the LOOO – FAHHHHH.
After five minutes I managed to explain that I wasn’t interested in exfoliating any part of my body. I don’t think my body is comfortable with the concept of exfoliation, loofah or no loofah. Walking Mark still thought this was all rather amusing, so to amplify the situation:
Walking Mark: Hey, Jeb, didn’t you say you needed a toothbrush? (sly grin)
Chemist salesperson: We have so MANY toothbrushes – come this way.
Since I got an electric toothbrush for Christmas, I haven’t bought a toothbrush for a while. And whoa, talk about technology. I never realised how complicated toothbrushes could be. They’re even getting aerodynamic. Nike is probably working on a line of toothbrushes as I type this. It all makes sense now – so often you see on the news of some technological breakthrough that doesn’t really seem that important. You know it’ll end up making a better toothbrush and nothing else.
So we failed on our mission for a lint remover brush and I still don’t know where to get one from. I even had to endure being educated on ex – fo – li – ating.
As Walking Mark and I strolled further down the street, we noticed that the local McDonalds had won the regional Business Of The Year award.
Me: How can they win that?
Walking Mark: Are they even eligible?
Me: They should have Australian-only guidelines or something.
Walking Mark: No, what you’re trying to say is that you want to ban McDonalds from the contest.
Me: Well… yes.
Walking Mark: I see your point though.
Me: Are they even classifiable as a business in the first place?
We ended up poking around a second hand book store for a while. The pressure might be slightly on in a supermarket to purchase something, but that’s nothing compared to the crushing glare of a used bookstore owner. These people will come close to locking you inside the store unless you purchase something. There’s also that feeling of being able to treat the books a little rougher than a regular bookstore, simply because they’re second hand. I was worried that Walking Mark would walk out with a book he didn’t really need to accompany his tissues, but he somehow managed.
After we drove back and started walking back to the office, one of our workmates suddenly rolled out of some shrubbery on an embankment to our left, and tumbled to a sudden stop on the pavement. He blinked confusedly, stood up, pulled the grass out of his hair, straightened his tie and cleared his throat.
Me: Hello there.
Man who had just fallen down embankment: Um… ahem. (adjusts shirt) Hello.
Walking Mark: Are you… um…
Man who had just fallen down embankment: What?
Me: Are you okay?
Man who had just fallen down embankment: Yes. I just tripped, that’s all.
Walking Mark: It looked like you were rolling to me.
Man who had just fallen down embankment: That was because of when I tripped.
Me: What were you doing in that shrubbery?
Man who had just fallen down embankment: I wasn’t in the shrubbery.
Me: Yes you were. You just rolled out of it. The grass stains on your pants are evidence of that.
Walking Mark: Plus you almost knocked me over.
Man who had just fallen down embankment: (deep sigh) We’re playing frisbee up there. (motions with thumb towards embankment)
Me: What’s up there?
Man who had just fallen down embankment: A park.
Walking Mark: Why on Earth would you play frisbee in your lunch break?
Man who had just fallen down embankment: I don’t plan on playing it any more.
Me: Is that because you fell down the emb-
Man who had just fallen down embankment: Yes it’s because I fell down the fucking embankment.
(long pause – we all stand around looking awkwardly at the ground)
Walking Mark: (in attempt to break the silence) Is there anything I can do?
Man who had just fallen down embankment: You could fuck off.
Me: Rightey oh. (walks off)
Man who had just fallen down embankment: (climbs back through shrubbery in search of frisbee)
*****
Things I Will Endeavour To Work Out:
1: How to fill out my tax return. My parents have always done my tax for me, but I figure now I’ve moved out of home I’ll have to figure it out sometime soon. I don’t think I’d be bothered doing this if I couldn’t do it over the net, though. (See? The information age DOES make you lazy. At least I can blame my man boobs on the internet or something)
2: How to blow my nose properly. I can do silent sniffs and dab delicately at my nose with a tissue, but I’d really love to be able to do big honking noises with my nose. I’ve been practising in the shower.
*****
Walking Mark and I have been eating Subway a lot lately. It’s terribly addictive. It’s fast food, but it’s not! So I plan to introduce my own similar line of outlets…
Basically, exactly the same service as you’d expect from Subway staff (sorry, that should be ‘Sandwich Artist’). That means:
* We put salt and pepper on your sandwich when you specifically ask us not to!
* After you tell us your order, we repeat back something completely wrong!
* We give you the wrong sauce!
* No matter which cookie you ask for, we’ll give you a choc chip one!
* Even if you say four times you don’t want onion, we’ll give you onion, and you’ll damn well like your onion!
Jebway: coming soon to an extremely small shop with only eight seats near you.
*****
Before I moved up to Sydney, I was quite good with small change. I never accumulated any, I spent it all, there was a flow happening. But since I moved in with Adam and his jar-o-coins, I’ve slipped into his habits. At the end of the day, anything below a 50 cent coin gets thrown in the jar. I take this coin jar every now and then to the bank, to get it changed into notes.
Lately I’ve been fishing out 20 cent coins from the jar. The food machines at work are mechanical, so they only accept a set combination of coins (two 20c coins and one $1 coin). The hunt for a 20c coin is always on at my work – people absent mindedly wandering around cubicles, begging like a person on the street – all for a fix of barbeque chips.
I decided to bank the coin jar on Monday, and tried to make it look like I didn’t have a shitload of coins in my bag when I went to work that day. I don’t think it looked like there were coins, but the loud jangling each time I took a step forward may have given the game away.
Walking Mark didn’t want to go to the shopping centre on Monday so I was forced to walk there. When I arrived at the bank, I realised that Monday was a bank holiday. I don’t know why all banks, and banks only, get this day off. I had thought it would perhaps be for the purpose of them catching up on paperwork or something, but there was nobody to be seen. So I was forced to bring in my bag-o-coins the next day.
Turns out I really needed the coins to get cashed in that day, too. We were running extremely low on cash yesterday, and I didn’t get paid until today. Adam and I split our money evenly and we had $4.35 each to get through the day. It was almost like that $20 Challenge show that’s on Channel 10 at the moment, but we’re more hardcore because we survived on less. (That show looked quite interesting in the ads – AND THEN IT HAD TIM BAILEY HOSTING IT! Perfect way to ruin a good show, with that tryhard going through a surfie-mid-life-crisis on camera).
As I powerwalked back to the office (I kept my sleeves rolled down – you know, could catch a chill etc) and arrived at the traffic lights. One of the secretaries from work was standing there, and almost started to walk right into traffic.
Me: Whoa, whoa!
Secretary: Oh shit!
Me: That was close!
Secretary: I thought the little man went green.
Me: Not just yet.
Secretary: Lucky you were here.
Me: And it’s not necessarily a little MAN, you know.
Secretary: What do you mean?
Me: The little green and red person on the traffic lights.
Secretary: Oh, that’s a man.
Me: No, look carefully. It’s very asexual, that person.
Secretary: You don’t need to look at that to figure out that it’s a man.
Me: Oh?
Secretary: Listen to the beeping noise of the crossing indicators.
Me: Um…
Secretary: It goes BEEP… BEEP… BEEP… and then when it’s okay to cross it goes BEOWWW-BOOP-BOOP-BOOP-BOOP!
Me: So how does that make the little green person a man?
Secretary: Because that is such a MALE sound.
Me: How would it sound if it was a female?
Secretary: Something like… BOO BOO BOOP BA BOOP BEOWWW BOOP BEEP BEOWW BEOWW.
*****
On Saturday night, I thought I could smell something burning in our unit. The first thing I checked was our non-ironing iron. Once I came home from work and realised the iron had been on all day. I also noticed that because it was so hot, it actually IRONED. Which is what it’s designed to do, but rarely does.
So after I’d made sure I hadn’t left the iron on again, I checked the heater. It seemed fine as well. The only other thing I could think of was the clothes drier, but that was okay as well.
I opened the front door to see if the smell was coming from outside, and was greeted with smoke billowing from somewhere downstairs. My immediate thought was that the Crazy Italian Woman from downstairs was still having problems with her heater and had decided to fix it herself, but after further investigation it appeared to be coming from Wezza’s unit. He had all his windows and doors open to let out all the smoke. Obviously I’ve truly underestimated his dope consumption.
*****
I spotted this sign out the front of a Chinese restaraunt on the weekend:
Eat in or take away – it’s your choice!
I’m bloody glad it’s my choice. Picture it:
Me: …and beef with black bean sauce, to take away thanks.
Chef: No, you will EAT IN!
Me: I want to take it away though!
Chef: THIS IS NOT YOUR CHOICE!
Not that it really matters, because I’m likely to be fired tomorrow, but I’ve been having problems with a company I’ve ordered some software from. They just can’t seem to get what I’m after. Apparently what I’ve ordered is an unusual request but they’re “doing their best”. Late last week they finally made their delivery to me, except when I opened the package, instead of the software I’d ordered they had given me ten copies of ‘Reader Rabbit’. Which as far as I can gather is some sort of learn-to-read software. Mr Marketing blamed me for this and started making jokes about the literary capabilities of the population of western Sydney to boot.
But I do know how to read. I read a lot nowadays. I used to read shitloads as a kid, but since around my last year of high school things slowed down somewhat (I can blame drugs for that, I think). Only since late last year have I started reading again on a committed basis. I’ve also found it’s much more fun to buy books than visit the library. Library books come with a due date, which directly interprets into stress and pressure. I have enough pressure in my life without being told when I have to finish reading a book by. I never make the deadline, beacuse when I visit a library I go overboard and end up taking out more books than I could possibly read. So I’m not going to even dare take out a library membership in Sydney – besides, once you’ve bought a book you feel endebted to yourself to actually read it, to get your money’s worth.
*****
I wouldn’t do something as sacreligious as criticise Cadbury, but it’s the label that puzzles me. I know it’s the universal symbol for ‘put your crap in the bin’, but take a look at the ‘Please don’t litter symbol’.
It looks like the person has been half-disemboweled at the waist. As if someone’s hacked at him with an axe or something. (Beware, this is what could happen if you litter!)
Also on the Cadbury chocolate wrapper is a warning that it ‘may contain traces of nuts’. Almost everything you buy nowadays ‘may contain traces of nuts’. That’s probably their explanation whenever someone tries to sue them for things that shouldn’t be in their food.
Irate customer: I found a piece of metal in my chocolate!
Cadbury complaints person: Did you read the wrapper?
Irate customer: Yes! But it’d take an idiot to shrug this off as being okay! I can’t believe this!
Cadbury complaints person: No, I think you’re misinterpreting the label.
Irate customer: What do you mean?
Cadbury complaints person: Do you see the message about ‘traces of nuts’?
Irate customer: Yes…?
Cadbury complaints person: That doesn’t mean the hazelnut or peanut type of nut. It refers to the nuts and bolts type of nut.
Irate customer: Oh… silly me! So sorry to have bothered you.
*****
Adam is paid monthly with his new job, and he gets his first pay packet next week. This will be so much fun, finally ALL of our bills will be wiped out in one swipe. I’ll be able to give Telstra, Optus, Rentlo, our real estate agent, Dun and Bradstreet (yes, unfortunately some bills are at the debt collection stage) and a few others the collective finger.
Telstra especially deserve the finger for that patronising woman they have on their *10# service. For those non-Australians reading this, the *10# combination lets you know the number of your last missed call. Most of the time when I check there haven’t been any missed calls, but the woman is so SNIDE when she tells you this.
Snide Telstra cow: There are NO unanswered calls. You have NOT been charged for this call.
This directly interprets to:
Snide Telstra cow: You have NO friends. You should be glad we’re not charging you for this call because you have NO money.
*****
I had an idea today for Felt Beer Coasters (so they don’t stick to your glass) but I’m not sure that your average Aussie beer drinker is ready for felt just yet.
Hell, I could be Australia’s Richard Branson. For a while a few months ago I was considering growing a beard, but thought better of it. Still, Richard Branson and his VirginBeard are pretty cool.
My spiffy new MP3 player has a voice recording function which I’ve been playing with. I’ve been putting it in my shirt pocket and walking around places trying to record dumb conversations to put on here, but I’ve been leaving the recording level up too loud – everything gets distorted. I’m on the case though.
Meanwhile, good old Torana has been on an MP3 rampage since I introduced him to Napster. Adam and I visited him on Sunday, and he was all excited because he’d figured out how to change colour schemes. He was showing me and Adam how he did it, when I noticed he had Tina Turner MP3′s on his computer. He vigorously denied ownership of these, first claiming his girlfriend was responsible, and later blaming his sister – so it’s all rather suspicious.
We decided to go out to one of the local clubs. When you arrive at this particular club you have to show ID to get in. I used my driver’s license as ID, but I totally forgot that it expired a few weeks ago.
Bouncer: Could I draw your attention to rule number five on that sign over there?
Me: Which sign?
Bouncer: The one that says you must produce a CURRENT form of identification.
Me: Oh.
Bouncer: Perhaps I should draw your attention to it as well. (pointing at Adam)
Adam: (looks confusedly at bouncer, as he had already produced a current form of ID)
While we were there, they announced the winners of some contest. The prize was a $10,000 wedding. What if you won it and you didn’t want to get married? Worse still, if you weren’t even going out with anyone at the time?
The thing that made me laugh most was that the woman who won it was a Mrs – and it’s a fairly safe bet to that a Mrs is married.
We wandered around for a while before we decided to go and get some lunch at a nearby food court. Well, it barely scrapes into the food court category… there were only 5 take away outlets. Isn’t there some sort of minimum before we can define a collection of food outlets a ‘food court’?
*****
Log of this week’s situations which could easily have become very embarassing:
1: When I was at the train station, this pigeon kept flapping around my head. It shit right in front of me, so I was very lucky not to get hit.
2: I almost walked straight into a speeding car. The only thing that stopped me was Adam yelling out at me. He reckons I didn’t look, but I’m blaming my blind right eye. (That is SUCH a convenient excuse)
*****
A gay guy who emails me has declared he’s going to enter a talent quest in next year’s Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. He’s not even sure if there’s a talent quest in there, but he plans to enter if there is one.
I’ve only ever witnessed one gay talent quest, and that was a music one at Midsumma in Melbourne a few years back. To save you from actually enduring one, let me advise you of the three sole categories of gay musical talent quests.
1. A group of four guys around 25 trying to look 16, all with peroxided hair, doing their best at being a boy band.
2. A drag queen miming with a DJ.
3. A fucking angry lesbian acoustic guitarist.
*****
Parappa the Rapper: (unfolds poster) This is what the logo will be for our new product.
Everyone: (looks at it from different angles, twisting their heads around)
Me: Um… it looks like a platypus head.
DJ Accountant: What’s it supposed to be?
Mr Marketing: I think it looks more like a pair of tongs than a platypus.
Me: I think it’s some sort of tongs/platypus hybrid.
DJ Accountant: I thought it was an oven mitt.
Parappa the Rapper: That is SO not an oven mitt.
Me: So what do you think it is?
Parappa the Rapper: Well… do you want my honest opinion?
Me: Yep.
Parapa the Rapper: It looks like a dildo with a clitor…
Me: Okayokayokayokay.
DJ Accountant: Oooh, it does too!
Parappa the Rapper: I think the top bit still looks like a platypus head, but look down there, that bit… it looks like a really skinny human head.
Mr Marketing: Hey, it does too.
Me: Heh, it almost looks like Jack from Dispatch’s head if you look at it sideways.
Parappa the Rapper: It works the other way around too. I never realised how much Jack’s head looked like a sideways platypus head.
DJ Accountant: I always thought Jack from Dispatch had a head shaped like a dildo with a cl…
Jack from Dispatch: (walks in room – everyone shuts up)