Update: Work

May was an awful month for work. My two favourite co-workers had put in notice, and while I knew it was coming, it was still a shock. One was leaving to work her dream job as a Funeral Director, and the other had gone to work for a Podiatrist. There's your usual bureaucratic bullshit, but it is a poncy surgery in a poncy suburb with poncy overheads and it was only a matter of time before the staff started asking the right questions... all of a sudden, there's an exodus.

Funero started her job at my current place of employment the day before me, and she became my partner in crime. It was pure happenstance that I was nearest when she found out she was possibly facing Cancer, when she found out she was both blessed and cursed to be able to cure it with invasive surgery, when her marriage started crumbling.

She needed to be near someone who didn't know her to empathise, just as I needed when my relationship at the time had fallen apart. She laughed with me when The Kid declined an offer of a crucifix from her Kid, not knowing what it was. She took me to Church when I was too proud to ask Funero for her religious company, if for a different angle. She made no fuss when I admitted that even though I was thankful for the experience, though I really believed that I needed to try it again, I was pretty pissed when I didn't feel the Jesus coursing through my veins. She sent me internal mail of cheesy lyrics from her courtship days, testing me. We would laugh about how she met her husband, and how their first date consisted of Romper Stomper-like delinquency, except it was towards skateboarders rather than anything racially motivated.

I would get in trouble for serenading her at her desk, which was nearly often accompanied with inappropriately close crumping/hip thrusting or my obscenely tender elbow-cupping that would stick even as she got up to walk away from me. She would get in trouble for cackling too loudly, for breaking the peace and tranquility that our surgery tries so hard to maintain. We covered for each other with work mistakes. She hid my sugar and coffee on top of the fridge so I couldn't see, nor reach. I would hide her patient files under the photocopier, where she couldn't see, nor reach. Each week, I would find random pictures of Lionel Richie (heart!), Scott Bakula, or Flock Of Seagulls. She would also leave me ridiculous weekly secret ingredients for Iron Chef. She was ridiculous with me because she couldn’t be anywhere else, and that was fine by me.


Footmo was a surprise. Of Filipino heritage, she was a banana just like me. You know, yellow on the outside, white on the inside. We would discuss the inherent psychopathy of Filipina women, Old Testament maternal terrorism, and how we are trying to break the cycle ourselves, with our children. Her eldest of three (her only daughter, seventeen years of age), was pretty much who I was when I was twelve - a screaming trainwreck that had just left the station, with nothing but a brick wall waiting at the end.

I listened quietly when she vented about all the separate marriage counselling she and her lawyer husband were having. I shook my head when she explained that her husband’s business partner was found for corrupt activity, which caused a massive investigation that still looms. When she needed validation on hypotheticals or just someone to offload on, I was there. Even though I couldn't understand why she never took the first tangible steps to get anything going, she was always asking me what I would do. Or more precisely, how I did it. As a token of her gratitude, she would bring home-cooked soul food for me. Before Footmo, I hadn't had Filipino food since I had lived at home, one of the few things I truly miss about that time in my life.

Perhaps it's cruel, but I admit that I needed to be there for myself just as they needed me. They're making their way in this world, fumbling just as I am. They've both been on this Earth almost twice as long as me but they're blind, too. Granted, I think I’ve spoken more intimately on my many blogs (God help me, that’s lame), but I was able to whinge about the... safer things. I’m easily the weirdest person in the office, but I’m also a hard-workin’, tax-payin’, single parent who is trying to figure out who she is. I don’t have the courage to open up completely to myself, let alone to co-workers, but at least I’m comfortable enough to let off some steam, which is far better than where I was a few years ago.

This is how it works. We will all sincerely try to keep in touch, but life will get in the way. It always does. I will sincerely hope that I will remember them like this for a long time, as they will become fond memories. But fond memories get fuzzy. I will sincerely try to remember, but I will forget. They will help me make decisions later on in life even after we've lost each other's numbers and addresses, and I will curse myself for not keeping in touch.

Does it make me a bad person to admit that I don't have the energy to keep up with anyone? I never have, and I doubt I ever will. It's not like I go out of my way (anymore) to disappear, but explaining your absence takes more effort than I can muster. People, like food, go off. I think that says more about me than anyone else, but I can deal with that. I am thankful for the time I had with them, but life goes on. I have to look after mine, first and foremost.

Right?

Whingy McFuckface

1. My boss is a pretentious twat, and while I would love to stab him in the wang with a skewer covered in wasabi, I can't help but feel a little twinge of sadness knowing that his family hate him, too. Different reasons, of course - he can't ponce around at home because his wife pwns him and she can't stand the fact that he doesn't have a spine. Ahh, affluence.
2. Two of my once-favourite co-workers are leaving. One is off to be a Funeral Director, and the other is weaning herself off full-time work to chillax with her newly adolescent offspring. They are now both officially lame.
3. Repeat first point x a million.
4. Repeat second point x 2. They're ok, I guess. At least they're not my boss.

How's your work situation going? It's been ages since I've actually cared asked. Sorry.

Look at banner, Michael!

Received this in my email from the ex-hub, Jerkface. His co-worker received this from an overseas client, and the request has absolutely nothing to do with what their company does. Being an avid Arrested Development fan, I couldn't help but laugh aloud.

"Hello customer, i will to make an enquiry of some Banner,the type of banner i will like from you is vinyl and the size i want is 32"x60" and what i want the banner to say is (Love one Another).The color of Background i want it to be Yellow and the text to be somehow Red.So can you please get me some price for a Quantity of 60 banners and please advise me the Payment method you do accept and also how long will it take you before getting me those banners for pickup to be Schedule.Please adivse to my email as soon as you recieved this email.Thank You Very Much.RegardsBishop. John"

Yep. This post is mostly for me. I'm off on school hols with The Kid, it's been a trip. Will post later.

FACTUN:

I am going to knit the biggest, fattest, most awesome scarf in all the land. When I am done, it will generate enough heat to melt both Antarctica's polar ice caps and hearts by the time I'm done with it.

FACT NUMBER DOS: I hate the cold. Fuck you, Holy Superfriends. You did not think of this jungle monkey. Or, if you did, you were powered by hate. I'm onto you.

Guess what's not awesome?

1) The Might Boosh. Yeah, not finding the funneh. The moon is indeed an alabaster retard, Nabu has abnormal lips that make me feel like I'm watching Amazing Medical Stories with no happy ending, and the gothy guy looks terminally ill. What the fuck sort of muppet are you to laugh at a terminally ill person? Look. I cannot, for the non-terminally-ill life of me, remember what his character's name is because I am far too busy being emotionally torn between weeping and vomiting. Aaaand, Old Gregg is heinous. Yes, that's a big FUCK YOU to Mighty Boosh fans.

There's nothing wrong with me. I just prefer Black Books and being alive.



2) Old people on stamps with no mention of Lady Sonia McMahon or Ita Buttrose. Received new boxes of postage stamps from Australia Post last week and had to wait until today to run out of the anatomically-creepeh stamps of orchids (tak, tak, vaginzzzz) before I got to open AUSTRALIAN LEGENDS OF PHILANTHROPY. This (stamps, not vagina) excites me because I am a nerd and thoroughly enjoy office-ness. So imagine my fuck-off surprise when I open the hotly anticipated AUSTRALIAN LEGENDS OF PHILANTHROPY box to find a grand total of FOUR (4) different stamps in ONE (1) box of ONE HUNDRED (100). Victor and Loti Smorgon have to share a stamp, so there could've been FIVE (5). What the hell? Now. Is it just me or are the numbers here pretty lame?

Psst. None of them are hot. Bring back the fuschia 'ginz. Lord knows Sonz McMah needs all the publicity she can get, just fluff her up and spray her with oil so she looks perpetually moist and puckery.

7

years is a long time. I spent most of today reflecting on who I was and what I believed in and it's the closest I feel to regret. It was also the second biggest thing to happen in my life and is almost a direct consequence of the first. Neither are hardly the best, but the best came out of them and everything I did, do, or will do is connected. Which is why I dedicate today to reflection. There is nothing else.

I thought I'd be able to deal with work if nobody new what today means to me, but I am finishing my shift now and can barely hold it together. I woke up happy and grateful, but snapped it at a patient who was too nosy. He's always nosy. I feel bad for telling him to piss off, but I don't feel like I should have to explain why I'm not smiling today. I really feel like I'm stuck in a Seven Stages washer/dryer. It's been manageable in parts, exhausting in some, but mainly painful.

I am thankful and I'm learning to let a lot of it go, but the hurt never goes away.

CUNT.

I am still embarrassed about spelling "division" incorrectly on my own damned blog. I'm an idiot, and if you spotted it before and didn't think to tell me, you're a cuntfuckingballsackface. I get excited about shit and miss words or letters or characters, and I nearly always start excited conversations mid-sentence as I deem it sufficient to start it in my head first. English second language, yo.

1) I politely told married dad to quit being an idiot and not fuck up the goodness he has around him. I doubt he thought twice about it other than to maybe consider that he got let off lightly. I'm many things, but Married Dad Thief is not one of those things.

2) I'm hanging out with a pretty cool dude. Mutual friends have been trying to set us up for ages which made us avoid each other all the more, but we went to dinner and watched The King of Kong and realised that we're pretty fucking hilarious. We hung out in a park and I kicked dandelions. We traipsed through a rainforest singing the themesong to Super Mario Bros. level 1 and both shifted to level 2 as soon as we got to jumping rocks over falls. We wrote "failed" on some rich kid's hand-drawn Learner plate and made future plans to burn down a thatched fence. He's very thin. It took me a while to realise that I can't force-feed the guy and taper jeans aren't always a choice. No clingy. Just hangy. Alright.

3) I am severely missing my best friend in the whole wide world.

4) I have rad friends. I am, in comparison, a pretty shit one. HOWEVER. If you're in my house, I will look after you. This makes me happy. I am, after all, a gent.

Fuck.

Honestly. I am so close to just cutting off my genitals and collecting terminally ill cats to replace my non-mound in protest of the severe lack of moral fibre in my general social area.

I'm not looking for much, but not (according to Facebook and photos) happily married to a stunning woman with two gorgeous infant children. I should've known when I openly rejected him and he backed down immediately, proceeding to engage me with superfriendly banter. Sonofabitch. I have not always been so ethically righteous, but that sort of duplicity seems so... evil.

I don't play sloppy seconds, ever. Unless it's Mark.

PS.

My wallet was found. In Concord. I haven't been to Concord in donkey's years!

I highly doubt my cashola is still there, but it's a nice story anyway:

One friendly-but-elderly Armaguard driver spotted a Vodafone bag sitting next to an ANZ EFTPOS terminal somewhere in Concord and took a look inside, finding my wallet with its cardological contents inside. He rang a local teller friend and asked her to contact me directly at work, as I am/was an ANZ customer.

She told me that while she worked in Concord she lived in Thornleigh, which is about a 5-minute drive from my 'hood. She offered to drive it over to me once she has the wallet in her possession. When I asked if there was any money inside, she apologised for not asking her friend but would let me know as soon as she could. I was advised not to cancel my cards, but it was too late. My phone's still missing but that's ok - the screen was cracked, I had no credit in it at the time it left me, and there were too many people I didn't like who knew the number and rang often.

I'm just happy to have my wallet found. Very pleased with ANZ customer service. The money probably won't be there, but shit - it beats having to line up at the RTA watching someone's zits erupt in front of me while red deli-numbers click by at the speed of a retiree on downers anyday.

Fuck bees!

On my chosen rapid-action bug-killy spray:

"DO NOT SPRAY ON BEES. HARMFUL TO BEES."

What the fuck? That makes about as much sense as Britney Spears in pants.

There's no place

my hate won't go.

Mama

She's either stupid as shit or especially crafty.

It's pre-Pixar Disneycute the way she looks up at everyone all doe-eyed. Everything that flows out of her cherry lips is a question, her head tilts gently while those eyes follow you until she gets an answer. Whether she absorbs is anybody's guess. For those that aren't swayed by aesthetic, she catches you on the back foot with upward inflection, a pert Plato of Sydneytown. Her eyeliner is bottom-heavy, which serves only to remind you that she is so incredibly new to this. The fondue bubbles and bursts in those eyes, serving as a warning that her soul is liquid fire, ready to devour all and sundry. You'd be a fool to take her for any less than she looks.

Oh! To be that green! To be that eighteen...

Tonight she's dressed to kill. A perfect pair of 501s were sacrificed to the God of Clubs to bolster her sly campaign to make herself Queen, cut just below the arse to show off assets the world didn't pay heed to the week before. The denim clings like the first fish caught by a boy on a hot summer's day at high noon. Desperation, a gasping that you can't help but watch. You can almost feel a tangible apathy, a lump in your throat that makes you want to beat the little fucker to death.

If it weren't for those thighs... God damn it, the girl's got pins.

The horrible thing is that she is just like every woman in the world. There are dimples. There are ripples. Bless her highest heels and cotton ankle-socks, she has hail damage. Granted, the damage is on par with taking a piss in the ocean, but it made me smile because she was the brave soul who took to working the Front Door under harsh streetlight and neon adverts plugging huge dicks and cheap tricks. Which makes it worse for the rest of us out there who aren't bouncy, wiggly, giggly Tens.

Of course, I immediately like her. She has been nothing but syrup since the moment I met her, and she takes notes. While I'm not surprised that she's no stranger to self-promotion and talking all things her, I am surprised that she knows that my amusement is held with more vital conversation than the labels she's wearing or the colour of her shadow. I am surprised that she starts talking about the property market, and am even more surprised that she knows her shit. I am not surprised that she supports property investment - but - only if mum and dad can front the deposit because God be damned if she can't have her social life and enjoy it. She reads the newspaper every day to keep in touch but her world consists of the city at night, the North Shore by day, and she wishes she could give the farmers some money but she needs to keep up herself. She has rules strictly laid out with a furrowed brow resolution and (often*) a pointed finger that both become as flexible as her lithe and supple frame when plied with alcohol, which is far more often than she'd ever admit to beyond a playful wink.

She doesn't know it but with what she's got, she's got the whole world sussed. She'll rely on those milky flanks until she finds a roid-powered hero who'll fuck what little brilliance she has and she will live her beautiful life.

That fucking bitch.







*Sobriety is depressing. Word-for-word, the conversations over, over, over, over, over...

As much as I love being a mum...

am I the only one who laughs like a retarded guinea pig being flung around in a sock against a brick wall when I find out a girl I hated through school has fallen pregnant out of wedlock? Again?

I know did too, but shit. I'm awesome.

Broke

but in a much better mood today. I've been a right bitch lately, and I've secretly felt bad about it. What made it better? This:

(walking to the shops, I'm dragging my feet)

Jerkface: "Tell mummy to pull her finger out."

The Kid: "Nonononono..."

Jerkface: "Why?"

The Kid: "I don't want to see mummy's blood."

Jerkface: "What?!"

The Kid: "Mummy, don't pull your finger off."


She's the rad, and she turns 5 on Monday.

"I miss your balls..."

... is what an old colleague told me over the phone today. I don't really know how to interpret that yet. I sort of responded with, "oh yeah..." I feel like I've missed something here.

Today, this hour, I feel horrible. I haven't taken any meds - I have been anti-depressant-free since October 2007, and it's been... ok. I haven't had a cigarette since last night. I could kick over a 2mo old infant if it was holding a cigarette. Through the course of this day, I have been surrounded by many infants. None of them have come bearing gifts of tobacco.

I bail on people. Not just friendships, but real romantic-like relationships. I really cock those last ones up. The connection that's supposed to make you feel something, the best I can manage is to build it up and then throw it away. I've done it once and I felt awful. I never said sorry, but I am. We've reconnected - purely as friends - and I feel like such a cunt because I can't put my apology into a coherent sentence because I can't think straight and I'm absolutely convinced that, at best, I'm an asshole.

I'm a really selfish person. That sucks to know.

I can't think straight. I'm stressed. I'm too proud and stubborn and I know I'm not making much sense which means (to me) that it's time to get some control and order in my life again. I don't know what that means... balls?

PS. I make half-apologies for the self-indulgent whingefest nature of this post. It's my blog, nyeh, and I feel like a wang that has been pulled wide open at the dickhole and stuffed with shell grit and lemonjuice. That's how horrible I feel inside and outside right now.