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.

Gut

I woke up yesterday to excrutiating back pain that shot from my coccyx to my neck that woke me up with a start, but rendered me immobile for several minutes. I managed to stir my body from semi-conscious purgatory to writhe and moan, finding no comfort in the foetal or stretching out. Dragging myself into the loungeroom, I bent myself backwards over the arm-rest of my bright purple sofa – CRACKCRACKCRACK! - the pain in my back immediately made its way into my stomach, and I called Jerkface – he needed to take The Kid to school and me to the hospital.

What is it about going to a medical centre or hospital that makes whatever agonising pain you were feeling go away that teeny-tiny bit so you feel like a guilty hypochondriac with neon arrow-lights shining down on you, screaming “IDIOT” in bright orange like an unholy, shameful aura? Whatever it is, I felt it. My heart felt heavier as I scanned Accident and Emergency; there were mangled men, wounded women, delirious delinquents, and most of them were alone. It was then that the doctor was called over, who decided to cut the shit and ask me relevant questions about my admission, rather than where I was born (I was asked twice) and if I was a citizen (twice). Yes Doctor, I’m in pain. Yes Doctor, I’ve pooped in the last 48 hours. Yes Doctor, I’ve eaten in the last 23 years. I think it was that last one that had me shown to a bed. With great urgency, at that.

I felt I had no business being there, wasting valuable resources in the way of staff and supply – my demand felt ridiculous. I felt someone else could’ve used my bed, my urine jar, my gown with one arse-tie that was missing a corresponding one so my back-end was feeling a draught from every which-way. I felt stupid and weak, until I doubled over in what felt like my stomach twisting.

Despite the tattoos and piercings I’ve had over the years, I have never had a good working relationship with needles for blood collection. While I have the utmost faith in both public and private healthcare systems and even more for those qualified to collect blood, it’s become apparent over the years that my veins have fear of their own – every time I’ve ever had to have a cannula inserted into my veins, they’ve hidden like cockroaches when the light goes on. This time, I was jabbed seven (7) times over two arms and the back of my right hand in an attempt to find a vein. All seven (7) times, their attempts were unsuccessful. The nurses and doctors did, however, manage to burst four (4) of my veins, leaving me to look like a jonesing smack addict writhing in agony and covered in bruises. Fantastic. Despite the glorified bliss of a horse-drawn (non)existence so loosely documented by William S. Burroughs, I knew there was another reason I didn’t pursue a junky life.

Later, I was wheeled into X-Ray, where I was left to wait alongside an elderly gentleman who occasionally forgot who he was, where he was, and who everyone was. Including his faithful and terrified wife, who never left his side. Before we found ourselves next to each other awaiting our turn with the x-rays, he drifted in and out of sleep, snoring like a tranquilised boar. Funnily enough, whenever he woke up and his wife had nodded off, he’d grab her head and shake it around a bit, just to ask who she/everyone was.

X-Ray in every hospital is a funny place to be. They ask you to remove all jewellery, as they say it could interfere with your health and/or scan. You say you have non-negotiable jewellery like piercings, they shrug. They say it’s a harmless procedure, but they run like the wind behind what looks like bulletproof glass windows to peek in at you laying there, pathetic, so they don’t get exposed to radiation. Important to note also – they’re always run by one x-ray “specialist” who’s got an over-inflated ego because he/she is surrounded by medical students who are nervous, clumsy, and so goddamned cute like an abandoned puppy in a skip bin that you can’t help but be sympathetic and help them out when they can’t figure out left from right.

Six hours later, I was well over it. As surprisingly efficient as this particular hospital was, I wasn’t prepared to lose any more time for inconclusive tests. I called for the doctor, who was tending to an emo kid who got some waterproof mascara in his eye. She said that was fine, my blood tests were all within normal limits, my x-rays were showing up fine, and all she had to do was draw up my discharge letter. She asked that I keep my robe on, as she had one more test her boss wanted her to perform – something about fingers and KY Jelly and making sure that nothing was blocking my innards…

Ultrasound? Yeah, she did mention that before. Sure, why not? I’d wait around for that.

She came in with a box of tissues, industrial-sized KY Jelly, and gloves on. I was to lay on the tissue she laid down at the edge of my bed with my knickers down and facing away from her. The rest was a bit of a blur, but it sounded eerily similar to a veteran cop reading Miranda Rights to a career criminal he’d arrested one too many times on Law & Order, whilst thinking about what to order for lunch. The words “non-invasive compared to” and “not as bad as you think” came up, but I was busy trying to channel ALF’s “No Problem!” attitude despite my bed’s obvious butt-overhang.

It wasn’t exactly an in-and-out procedure… more like an in-out-a-bit-pad-around-in-a-bit-more-out-a-bit-more-turn-in-as-far-as-I-can-without-looking-like-I-enjoy-it-then-all-the-way-out procedure. I’m not going to argue with a doctor when she’s closer to accessing my giblets than anybody has ever been, ever. It only took about a minute, and I was left with the box of tissues to wipe myself down like the scum I am.

Good news: I don’t have prostate cancer.

Bad news: I didn’t get so much as a kiss on the back of the neck, or an encouraging tap on the fanny for a colonic job well done. Team work makes the dream work, you know.

Good news: I think Doctor still respects me.

Bad news: I may have first-stage Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I’ve been ordered to do a C14 Urea Breath Test for Helicobacter Pylori, and get a referral to see a Gastroenterologist. Best case scenario is Coeliac Disease (gluten-free, aka DELICIOUS-FREE), worse case is IBS.

Despite the buzzwords, both are quite manageable and nowhere near as bad as they sound. It’s almost as if you have to become ill as a rite of passage to get well. My diet got its overhaul from crap to quite healthy when I started this job in November last year, preventative and conscious-driven (avoid She-Wang!), but it’s been headache after headache since I found out I was lactose intolerant and cut the dairy completely out of my diet (yay, Soy.) in April. Sorry, I digress.

I was ordered to have an ECG to double-check my heartstrings:

“Your heart rate’s a bit on the upper range, but your blood pressure’s fine. Maybe today was a bit of a scare. Hahaha!”

Well, Nurse. Not five minutes ago, I was made to wipe myself down after having your good doctor fist me when I thought I was going to have an ultrasound. I’d say that qualifies as a bit of a scare, ya.

Finally, Doctor came back with my discharge letter and four sachets of Movicol. Movicol is a hard-core diuretic to flush out my system. Yayyyy. I am to go on four days of this (anti)shit. She did the Miranda Rights-esque talk again, and said the Ultrasound will wait until I return if I should need to because that would have been too invasive, and I've been through enough.

... riiiight.


With that, I said my thanks and left.





I returned to work the next day where our kind Naturopaths decided to lovingly call me Lil’ Smacky for the bruises. I floated in and out of awareness (thanks, Endone), working toward the end of the day where I had the second round of Prolotherapy on my foot to go... surprise, I wasn’t really feeling fearful of needles this time around.

Sosued

I can remember the days when I called a jihad on nightclubs – the music was far too loud to engage in decent conversation, it’s far too dark to figure out where walls end and hidden stairwells begin, and it’s far too crowded and sweaty to figure out if you’re standing in spilt beer or piss. As far as I was concerned back then, there was no reason for me to ever find myself in a club – if you wanted to find me, you looked in bars and pubs close to public transport, and if I wasn’t with Misha or Nailpolishneurosis, I was alone.

Some things never change. Some are slightly altered.

I really do owe my ex-boyfriend (the “thespian” who can’t let Ice and one mildly successful acting stint 15+ years ago go) a thankyou, as the gentlemen who run Sosueme have become some of my dearest friends in Sydney. With several successful nights under their belt, I have seen their joy as well as their stress. I remember arriving in town at 3pm on the afternoon of the very first Sosueme – I rocked up to Clubhaus and was promptly left alone to wait for one of their girlfriends. Luckily, we were well-acquainted and she didn’t have that annoying inherent girlfriend trait of hating every woman who was close to their boyfriends. We ate cheesecake, talked about life, then headed to The Fringe around 6pm where I was faced with an unspoken and unexpected maternal obligation to almost force-feed Lady Sosueme, who had a not-so-secret eating disorder and addiction to binge drinking. Whew.

I’ve never been much of a social butterfly so found myself behind the scenes, helping out. Crashing at Clubhaus at about 5am, I woke up at 9am and had the other maternal non-surprise task of waking the dead so they could get all their staging gear returned by 11.30am. Aside from the foray into club management, the boys all have a hand in The Religion (one is the manager, two are musicians, and one is a long-time friend, collaborator, theatre actor) and are all individually intelligent, ambitious and oblivious of the hilarity that comes from moments of ego. It’s almost like watching Entourage, but the main character is rotated. They are friends, and my help was voluntary – a favour to friends who were very much aware that the bulk of the support shown had its limits. Nobody wants to deal with the bullshit you can’t see if there’s sex, drugs, and disco balls around. Admittedly, I wasn’t expecting anything from it aside from a thankyou in the way of free drinks and lunch.

Now I’m on Sosueme’s payroll as the VIP doorbitch. I think Blogger can only handle highlights, so.

As queried in previous comments, I (thankfully) have no say in who comes in or goes. If they’re on the list and are wearing their armbands, I let them in. When they start to get sloppy, that’s where I start up. The Sosueme before this, I had a radio direct to the front door and security. I didn’t get one this time because the last one was peaceful and well-organised. That, and those radios are useless.

The VIP room – even when empty - is cramped. I was prepared for a busy evening knowing that the room was accidentally double-booked with a goodbye party and a quarter-life bash. What I wasn’t expecting was a DJ double-booking AND another birthday party… the birthday party OF DOOM! This BPOD belonged to a poor(?) Birthday Girl who walked into a karmic blitzkrieg, the ghost of promiscuity past – in amongst the undulating flesh-wave of triple-booking, seven (7) previous lovers had attended, and all seven (7) had buddied up to exchange stories about Birthday Girl.

HA.
HA.
HA.


HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHA.


Even without the ghosts and double-bookings, unless you’re there to pull strings or hold everything together, I think almost everyone starts to turn into a gremlin after midnight. There’s been time to have that five-too-many bevvies, chugged down with whatever little self-respect you had to begin with. Chivalry, etiquette, common decency, and basic vocabulary all give way to bullying, verbal abuse, physical abuse, leaning against walls, and lazy eyes. The beautiful get ugly and I swing between delight and depression.

People get fucking stupid when they hear “VIP”. They don’t care so much when it’s “Private Function.” I had several non-banded Actually, just writing about the evening is starting to piss me off again, so here are some lowlights.

“Armband or not, I don’t give a fuck. It’s over capacity, and once you walk out you cannot come back in. I’m now under Fringe orders, not Sosueme orders. Deal with it, or deal with security.”

That didn’t go down too well with the crowd. During the enforced exodus, I had a drink thrown at me and a woman call me a bitch when I tried to push her away from the wall candle she was nodding off dangerously close to. I had a “DONYOUKNUHOOAHHAMMMM” suit tell me that he owned the bar (lie), and that because I wasn’t listening to him (there wasn’t even a request or coherent dialogue, to my knowledge), he was going to piss on me. He got as far as leaning his forehead against the wall and half-undid his zipper before security booted him out.

Then there was Drunky. I saw Drunky several hours before, grinding against the smoke machine and making drunky-eyes in my general direction. Now here he was, in all his drunky glory. Sonofabitch. He stumbled down the stairs. He either grinned or vomitted a little into his mouth, then stood up straight and weaved his way towards me. Somewhere in the weaving, he seemed to realise that he was obviously stinking drunk and decided to change his tactic from trying to romance his way in to just shouldercharging his 6’ frame through me.

It’s amazing how my sober 4’10” can feel like a brick wall when his 6’ is quivering, drunken (but impressively pert!) mancan.

“Armband?”

“Ngughhhh.”

“Sorry mate, that’s a stamp. Armband’s an armband. Private function.”

“Nguggggggghhhhhh. Come on, Love.”

“Take it up with the guys at the front door or fuck off. You’re pissed as a fart and I’ve the right mind to call security.”

“Ngugh! Cunting cunt!”

“Fuck off.”

A mate of mine, Guy, tried to extract Drunky. Drunky reacted by punching him in the head and attempting to punch me. Security (bless, timing!) found him and threw him out. I later overheard Guy lean over to one of the Sosueme Gents and yell something about Drunky giving me a hard time.

“What, Miss Q? Fuck, she’ll chew him up and spit him out. She’s alright – she’s a fucking bulldog, man.”

Yeah!


VIP was eventually closed at 3am, so I had an hour to drink and socialise, which is what I did. I got to say goodbye to Kim, who was leaving to join the Circe de Soleil to be a carney, and extend my congrats and happy birthdays to Hutch and Birthday Girl. I danced for a bit (funny how these things find their way onto Facebook), and spent the rest of my hour sitting with a friend and laughing at the terrifyingly trashed dancers who had broken their “Off” switches, with big thanks to amphetamines. Apparently, if you haven’t shelved, you haven’t lived.

.

I stepped outside for a smoke, and found myself surrounded by couples alternating between making out and feeling each other’s faces. I assured the couple closest to me that there were no visible pustules on their faces, then decreed a jihad on public affection.

I was well over the evening. I helped a Sosueme Guy and Fringe staff clean up after closing time, then we went back to Clubhaus at 5am where I took position on my favourite blue sofa until 9am.

Lighting a fag in the Clubhaus courtyard after a much-needed shower, I rang my ex-husband to see how things were with The Kid. He handed the phone over to her, and my heart ached as she stuttered with excitement, telling me how she and Daddy met Grandma at the airport with a bunch of flowers (returning from a work stint in India, bless outsourcing), and that Daddy was going to take her to see “Surf’s Up” at the movies.

“I love you, Mummy.”

“I love you too, Monkey.”

“Kbye!”

I ended the call with my ex-husband, stepped out of the courtyard into the alley where none of the terraces had windows, and cried.


Sosueme’s once a month, and as much as I love seeing my friends and telling arseholes to piss off, motherhood is easily the best decision I’ve ever made. A few hours of idiots is fine for decent tax-free money in hand, but that’s it for me - I’m happy where I am.


In other news, I am in the process of organizing a photoshoot with a new photographer. His angle is capturing the personality and character of the model, and his current portfolio is wicked – there’s a lot of playfulness in the shoots. I guess women can be playful... I’m more socially inept than playful, and my goofiness or “playfulness” comes out of a neurotic desire to fill awkward silences, so I don’t know about that theme. Woooo, creative control.

Prolotherafuckthathurts

So. I have a massive lateral tear in my right ankle that is just flat-out refusing to regenerate, so I've succumbed to prolotherapy. It's 1/2 glucose, 1/2 saline and supposed to help with the healing process... I fell off the bike on the 19th of July and my ankle still buckles after about two steps in a pair of sensible heels. Balls to that.

1. It hurts. It will for the next 24-48 hours, and once home, I'm not supposed to move it.
2. My ankle is swollen with the solution - it looks like there's a cock growing in my foot.

Cockfoot is pained and sad. :(

Good news: Should have time to write about stuff.

Bangs

Well.

That’s more than enough of a grieving period, I think. Perhaps it’s too mechanical and impersonal, but I firmly stand behind setting a time-limit on mourning – we only live once and it’s a waste of my time to be feeling sorry for myself. Surprise, the world hasn’t ended.

I’m doorbitching at The Fringe this Friday night and I intend on remaining awake and sober for the evening. Last time I committed myself to security, I spent my energies knocking back VIP access to a drunk member of some “huge” Melbourne band, and half of Craig Wing’s self-important entourage. Yes indeedy-do, they really do use “DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!” and resort to calling me all sorts of derogatory and depressingly base names. It’s actually far easier to deal with The Kid throwing a tantrum, but it’s nice to exercise my mettle amongst pompous arseholes. Anyway. After the fracii, I promptly passed over security duties to part-owner of the club night and had myself a lovely little nap next to the VIP room DJ. Not my finest moment, but cut me some slack – I’d been up since 5.30am to tend to a grizzly Kid, and came straight from work.

I must admit, the fun is in knocking back the ugly beautiful. Perhaps I’m betraying some sort of socialite etiquette by not recognizing the Who’s Who of Sydneytown’s elite, but I revel in those that think they are above the rules of this particular club night’s VIP rules – no armband, no entry. Come on – I spend 29-30 days of the month feeling socially inept and awkward! If I’m given the chance to be an openly hostile (door)bitch, then I’m going to bloody well take it. It’s no-tax-cash-in-hand-guilt-free fun.

You’d best bet that I’m going to be relentless this month – I’ve got to work off that surplus negative energy, yo.

Snow

I never had a problem with Doug. In fact, I quite liked his gruff and aloof disposition both in and away from the lab. One of the best veterinarians in his field, he had a “don’t give a fuck” attitude to maintaining his beard as well as maintaining relations with both colleagues and laboratory staff. His tasteless t-shirt gags at corporate Christmas parties never failed to amuse, and I regret that I was no longer working for the company when he decided to wear flesh-coloured bike-pants and successfully offended the Medical Liaison officer with his shimmying.

The last time I saw him was at his beloved wife’s funeral. Lynne was his One, and when you saw them together, it all made sense. They had a unique passion for animal welfare, conservation, and their story is one that I would consider a fairytale. He came from England to America’s deep south, where the accents were as thick as mud, as were the antideluvian ideals of a society that couldn’t keep up with the rest of the world. He was there for only a short while, requested specifically to do equine check-ups on an old man’s stud. That old man’s daughter was Lynne, and she was taken by Doug. Now, Doug being Doug, he had no idea and went back to England to do his thing.

A couple of months later, he answered the door to find Lynne, who had come to England for him. She eventually proposed after many threats to and as soon as he accepted, she threatened to leave him if he ever shaved his beard. He never did, and cried inconsolably throughout his 15-minute eulogy. They had devoted their lives to each other and traveled the world enjoying the fruits of their labour together.

My time with her was brief, but I had dined with them often. My connection was my ex-mother-in-law who I consider my own, and my ex-sister-in-law who has since become a veterinarian in her own right with unwavering support from both Doug and Lynne. I nearly always forgot that Lynne was nearly-completely deaf in one ear and nearly always sat on that side of her so we’d end up laughing and yelling at each other. I loved the incredibly racist all-(white)American memorabilia and old advertisements she had littered around the house; while she herself didn’t believe in it, that was her heritage and she was mighty proud of where she came from. I have a bit of an obsession with golliwogs and love all things inflammatory to current social graces, so it was almost inevitable that we’d get on like a house on fire.

I remember the first time I had visited their home. A massive painting of a regal-looking Rottweiler graced the main wall of their home, and Lynne proudly told me its story. I was looking at Doug’s very first loyal companion, aptly named Winnie Mandela.

“She was a black bitch who didn’t take any shit from anyone!”

I remember Lynne’s raucous laugh and my discomfort at not really knowing how to react, especially as I was greeted shortly afterwards by the painter’s muse, hobbling but still quite energetic for an old dog. Unfortunately, Winnie died of cancer after a long and brutal struggle that had seen her spend the last few years of her life an amputee.

I had never seen Doug so upset, and it broke my heart. My current employer saw absolutely no problem in giving me the day off to attend Lynne’s funeral, and I am so thankful. His beautiful angel, the light of his life, his one and only, she succumbed to Multiple Sclerosis after an 11-year battle and it was no surprise that the church was packed to the rafters. During those 11 years, he wasn’t able to hug her because the pain in her body was excruciating. After falling down the stairs one night, he carried her upstairs to their bedroom to rest and recover. She never woke up, passing peacefully in her sleep from a massive brain haemorrhage.

I found myself feeling not only incredibly sad, but also incredibly angry at some of the people who attended Lynne’s funeral. Despite the Who’s Who of medical and veterinary science attending, there were a few there who have taken great pleasure in making fun of him behind his back. Many had turned down his many personal invitations to have lunch or dinner at his home with Lynne for no reason but to enjoy each other’s company. He was nearly always aloof, abrupt and awkward, sure – but when he was with Lynne, that gave way to a caring husband and host who did everything he could to make sure that everybody was entertained, well-fed, and comfortable.

When my ex-mother-in-law dropped The Kid off on Saturday afternoon, she gave me a bag full of cigarettes. Being the only smoker he knew other than Lynne, he thought that I should have them so they didn’t go to waste, that Lynne looked forward to me coming over because she had someone to smoke with. I felt a bit morbid accepting them, but what do you do?

We should all be so lucky to find a happiness like theirs.