Famous

Gus and I are famous!

I searched for my address on Google Maps, clicked on 'street view', and there I was, riding down my driveway:








































What are the odds...

Holidays

I’m on two weeks holiday, starting today! YAAAY! I feel so… temporarily free. I’ve been engaging in all manner of uncharacteristic behaviour, like laughing spontaneously, smiling for no reason… just feeling happy in general really. I hardly recognise myself. K keeps looking at me with a quizzical expression, as though my personality is splitting right in front of his eyes. Never fear – I’ve got no doubt that my soul will be back to its regular shrivelled-prune state in a fortnight’s time.

Not that work has been that bad lately. We have a new staff member in the complaints… err… I mean accounts department. She’s not exactly Speedy Gonzales yet, but any work she does get done is work I don’t have to do myself. So I’ve been spending the last week at work doing those not-that-important-so-it’s-gonna-have-to-wait jobs. Like deleting old accounts. I printed out a giant list of businesses that have a thirty day account but haven’t used it for three years or more, and sat there methodically exterminating them, blasting their outdated zeroes and ones into oblivion. Bam! Pow! Like Space Invaders. But the Amstrad version, where you have to wait half an hour for the tape to load. Freakin archaic accounting system.

I could see why a lot of the businesses whose accounts I was disposing of probably didn’t last very long. Not that I know much about running a business, but even a dumbass like myself could tell that their scope was way too narrow. Of course the Cake Decorators Guild of Cressy was sent to the collection agency. I mean, geez. Were they really expecting to do well? Become a franchise, perhaps? Go global? Morons. So, to make the afternoon a little less mind numbing, I started my own Businesses Doomed for Failure list in my head. Like the Mobile Chihuahua Tail Clipping Service. Or the East Launceston Electric Toothbrush Repair Centre. Or the Over 70s Beach Volleyball Club of Liaweenie. Or the Penultimate Tuesday Morning Of The Month Walkie Talkie Association for Men Aged Between Forty Six and Forty Eight Who Also Happen To Really Like Crumpets And Have Problems Expressing Their Feelings And Who Always Wanted A Pet Labrador But Their Wife Wouldn’t Let Them And Their Wife Is Fat And Smells Bad.

I mean, you just never know.

Damn, I'm glad I'm on holidays.

Cold Shoulders

There are many things that I don’t, and will probably never, understand about the “yoof of today”. Most things I don’t really care to know. For instance, the specific yet rather oblique criteria one must meet to be considered ‘emo’. Or why great teenage oafs are riding around on those little clown bikes lately. What’s with that? Don’t they realise they look ridiculous? Anyway, one thing that I have wondered about in my vast amounts of spare time, is why my idea of being sufficiently clothed seems to differ so greatly from the idea of most young girls, particularly when going out for a night on the town.

I was driving through town on my way to pick up K from work the other night. It was bloody cold. The heater in the car was cranked, I had my puffy snowman jacket on, and my teeth were still chattering. So imagine my horror when I turned my head and saw a gaggle of girls on their way to Sporty’s, or Lonnie’s, or Gropey’s, or whatever meat-headed oonce-fest they were heading to, wearing nothing but a few strategically placed hankies. Seriously. One girl was wearing a see-through strapless dress, barely covering her boobs, and finishing up just under her butt cheeks. Another had on what I will tentatively term a ‘mini skirt’ (I’ve seen belts that are wider), a crop top and stilettos. All the girls had more skin showing than was covered. All the girls were shivering. All were struggling to walk in shoes that resembled Paddle Pop sticks with toothpicks glued on for heels.

I mean, I’ve never pretended to be a girly-girl. I’ve never really fit in with groups like that. But most groups that I don’t fit into, I can at least understand somewhat, if not appreciate. I don’t understand what they are hoping to achieve by dressing like that. No doubt they’re trying to attract attention from the opposite sex. But surely it’s possible to look nice and keep warm? And apart from being cold, they weren’t exactly leaving much to the imagination. I mean, I’m not a guy, so I don’t think like one, but surely part of the fun is wondering what someone is like underneath their clothes, rather than have all those interesting bits on display for the world to ogle (or wince) at. Do guys really like girls who dress like that? Are they rewarded for their discomfort? I guess they must be, otherwise they wouldn’t bother. Someone, please enlighten me.

Fuxake. IT'S WINTER, PEOPLE!

Church-A-Palooza

Hmmm. My relationship with church (the institution) has always been one of those love-hate things. Actually, that’s not quite accurate. I don’t love it or hate it. I nothing it. Before we moved to Launceston, I hadn’t been to church for ages, maybe a year or two. And that was damn fine with me. No early Sunday mornings, no wasting a quarter of my precious weekend sitting through services that would inevitably bore me to death, no pressure to join the music team, the prayer team, the morning tea roster, the cleaning roster, the missionary prayer group, the community care constituent, the finance committee, the Croquet for Jesus Club, the Ladies Coathanger-Knitting Guild, to lead the youth group (just because I seem to fit that ‘youth leader age group’, or image, or was seen in the hallway talking to a ‘yoof’, or was overheard accidentally saying the words “awesome” or “generation”), or anything else that’s gonna drain me of any life or energy or passion or personality I may have had when I first arrived. But then, we moved to Launceston, and out of nowhere this strange, almost foreign desire came over me – the desire to start attending somewhere again. I know – annoying – but I went with it anyway. I sussed out a few places, before settling on one in particular. Let’s call it, say, “Thump Plate”.

Originally, I went along to Thump Plate because my (then) boss invited me to. Then, I met some really cool people, and through those people became involved in the Group of Indeterminable Cause. It was those people who kept me going along to church. Then, a bunch of people at Thump Plate had a hissy fit about the pastor there – they wanted “good solid Bible teaching”, and he wanted them to get off their spiritually obese arses and actually do something constructive with their faith (I know – the nerve!) In the end, they ‘ran him out of town’ in the form of a pastoral feedback survey. So nearly all of the people that I’d become friends with there stopped attending. The only reason I’m still going at all is because in the midst of all this, I was coerced to play piano for the service occasionally. I enjoy playing piano, so I agreed – on the proviso that I wouldn’t be playing very often, and that there wouldn’t be too many rehearsals taking up my spare time. So now, a few months later, I find myself one of only two piano players in the whole church, rostered on to play at least every second Sunday, and spending most Saturday afternoons rehearsing. Fuxake. The only reason I’m still going to Thump Plate is because I enjoy playing piano. But I don’t have to be a prophet to see that it won’t be long before I’ll be tired of playing so often.

So for a while there, much to my disgust, I thought I was starting to turn from my church-whore ways, and settle into a long term monogamous relationship. But not for much longer, I fear. Now don’t get me wrong – when I started out on the seemingly futile venture of finding a church where I felt like I fit in, I was never searching for a place that offered interesting church services. I would have been foolish to set my standards that high. Interesting church services are on par with Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, unicorns, and church luncheons without egg sandwiches. Pure myth. Every service I’ve ever attended at any church has culminated in some form of church-coma – the only variation has been the depth. I’ve all but given up hope of ever reconciling the relationship I have with God to the outward appearance of religion that constitutes church as I’ve known it. (I’m totally willing to be proven wrong here. Please… someone? Anyone? I see that hand! Oh, you were just stretching? Okay…sorry). I guess ultimately what I’m searching for, in order of likelihood, is firstly to be able to connect with people, and secondly to be able to connect with God. Both of those things I find much easier to do outside of the church environment. So why go at all? I don’t know. Something just keeps drawing me. Boredom? Martyrdom? Dehydration? One of those giant hooks you get people off stage with? I’m not really sure.

Then, I had an idea. Pastor Beard, the ex-pastor, mentioned one day that there are over one hundred registered churches in Launceston. ONE HUNDRED. That’s a lot. Why would a population of 80,000, with an estimated percentage of church-going Christians of 9%, need ONE HUNDRED churches?! That’s one hundred buildings that are owned, mortgaged or rented. One hundred pastor’s wages. One hundred electricity bills. One hundred photocopiers that are on their last legs. What a waste of money. Surely there’s a better way? I suppose there probably is. But rather than ponder the answer to that, I got to wondering; is there a soul alive who has ever been to all of these churches? I doubt it. I am assuming that all but a handful are of the Christian persuasion, and probably most are of Protestant descent rather than Catholic, which means that the majority of the churches would be pretty similar. How different could they possibly be from each other? How could one small city need so many separate gatherings of believers?

So, I have set myself a challenge. I am going to try and attend one hundred churches in Launceston. No, really – I am. It will take years. But I will run the race. I will not rest until it is done. And I’m really really going to try not to be an utter shit about it. I don’t want to attend them all so that I can bag the crap out of them. I’m genuinely interested in why so damn many are necessary. (Disclaimer: I may at times lapse in this new-found earnestness – I’m not a freaking miracle-worker after all).

To make my goal seem slightly more achievable, here are some I prepared earlier:

• Thump Plate Christian Centre
• The Church Near Our House (aka “Elderly Men Have Wandering Hands”)
• The Church That Starts With Z (aka “Banner Betty and the Hearing Loss Posse meets Mr Shouty”)
• City Life Christian Community Life Family Life Church
• The Church Formerly Known As “Joey Jo Jo Shabadoo's church”
• Nude Erections (does that one count? I only went for five minutes… Please don’t make me go back… curls up in foetal position)

So that's six. Only ninety four to go. Achievable? Unlikely. Impossible? Maybe. Daring? Not really. Cup of tea and a biscuit? There'd better be.

Nanny

At the risk of ruining my carefully cultivated reputation of being a cynical shit who exudes about as much warmth as a brick in a freezer, I love my Nanny. She’s the matriarchal glue that holds the funny looking bits of our family together in all its dysfunctional glory. Without her, I doubt the rest of us would have much to do with each other. At any rate, we’d almost certainly have to give up our lifelong passive smoking habit. Anyway, Nanny’s great. Here are some reasons why:

• Upon taking me in as a wayward 16 year old, the price was set for my lodgement at $30 per week. Apart from the fact that that amount wouldn’t even begin to cover my hot water consumption alone (and I’m proud to say my habit for unbelievably lengthy showers is still alive and well, hallelujah), she would then give three dollars back to me every day for my school lunch. Any effort to deny this generosity was met with her adamant refusal. "What about the lunches? I always cut the lunches."
• Rules of lodgement: "I’ll do your washin’, and you can do the ironin’. I’ve always done the washin’. Matter of fact, I’ve always done everyone’s washin’." Of course, she then proceeds to do the washin’ and the ironin’, much to my chagrin as a 16 year old try-hard grunge wannabe who certainly did NOT want her oversized clothes ironed. Washing them was dorky enough.
• When I think of Nanny, I picture her kicking back in her recliner, engulfed in a cloud of cigarette smoke, in her favourite fuchsia leisure suit with matching fuchsia lipstick, with the fire going in the middle of summer, ranting about the Government, or dole bludgers, or what the Government aren’t doing about dole bludgers, or the price of any of the following: food, petrol, electricity, telephone, rates, water, registration, cat food, cigarettes, Austar, and… well… pretty much everything, really.
• She constantly has "one foot in the grave and one foot on a banana skin" – a precarious position indeed, but one she has claimed to be in for as long as I can remember
• I can hear her now, lamenting the demise of Wheel of Fortune, especially in its glory days. Apparently, Baby John Burgess was irreplaceable. (Personally, I’ve never seen anyone with quite the same inability to separate his head movements from the rest of his body. He reminds me of a paper puppet glued to a Paddle Pop stick). But never fear – whenever she pines for Wheel of Fortune, she can simply whip out one of the many episodes she still has on tape. I doubt that the solutions to the puzzles are all that surprising to her by now, but it’s the memories, gosh darn it.
• If she ever tires of the Wheel of Fortune tapes, there’s always the Deal or No Deal tapes to fall back on
• If you ask her how she is, you’d better make a cup of tea and have a seat – you’re in for a forty five minute health report, complete with gory details about seeping sores and runny eyes. And she’s always got "that damned cough again". It’s the dairy, you know. Nothing to do with the aforementioned cloud of cigarette smoke. No – it’s definitely the dairy. Come to think of it, the wad of butter that tends to accompany pretty much all five food groups would probably affect anyone’s health.
• The runny eye issue eventually led to an appointment at the hospital to have a cataract removed. After a hearty lunch, she turned up at the hospital, only to be told that she wasn’t supposed to have eaten anything. "No", argued Nanny, "They crossed that bit out in the letter – see, look!" She pulled the letter out from her bag. Upon closer inspection, someone pointed out that the part of the letter she was referring to was actually highlighted. Well! Nanny had never heard of a highlighter, had she! Evidently, if it’s not a pencil (for crosswords) or a bingo marker, it doesn’t rate a mention.
• Only Nanny could get lost in Westbury. With Daph and Elaine on the way back from the casino. I mean, Westbury…
• My brother suggested she program Consumer Affairs into the speed dial on her phone, rather than wearing out those particular numbers from repeated use.
• When asked if there are any plans for the next Christmas together, she always cheerfully replies, "Oh, I’ll be dead by then!"
• She refuses to get a CD player. She doesn’t need "one of those new fangled things"
• Anything that takes more than a passing thought is too much effort. She just "can’t be bothered". Yet she’ll be out of the recliner like a rocket if someone’s outside the house doing a U-turn in the cul-de-sac. Old people are so nosy.

Rock on, Nanny!

A Sermon Illustration

New Year's Resolution Haiku

Perhaps at age twelve
Hitchhiker's Guide's a good read
Twenty eight's too old.

Phone

My mobile phone died the other day. My trusty old black-and-white-screened monophonic-ring-toned bare-bones Nokia 1100. That phone was like a phone to me. I'm going to miss it and all its wonderful features, like… um… its ability to make and receive phone calls. Actually, come to think of it, I will miss the built in torch. And my Ernie and Bert phone cover. And Snake II.

So, seeing as I'm such a social butterfly, I needed a new phone quickly. I went to get one in my lunch hour, but ended up getting stuck in line waiting for lunch first, then I ran into someone I knew and yapped to them for a while (social butterfly, remember), so by the time I got into Wills and stood around waiting for a sales assistant to rouse from their slumber and come and serve me, I had precisely ten minutes before I had to be back at work. Luckily, I knew what I wanted and how much I wanted to pay. I wanted: a phone. Just a phone. I didn't want something that would make me a coffee in the morning or keep me constantly entertained. Just a phone. And I wanted one for under a hundred bucks.

Well, you sure do get more bang for your buck these days! (wtf does that mean, anyway?) You can't even GET 'just a phone' any more. My el-crappo Nokia 1100 cost me $89 three years ago. Pfft. PFFT, I say. The phone I hurriedly chose was $99 – one of those Nokia flip phones. It has a colour screen, plays MP3s and videos, has a camera and video function, surfs the internet, has bluetooth, a calendar, a stopwatch, a radio, a sound recorder, a converter, a memory card, a world clock, and Sudoku! SUDOKU! My life is complete. Sayonara, Snake II. You've been superseded.

So now that I've got a phone with a camera in it, I can take photos wherever I go (yes... it is I, Captain Obvious). So here's something I saw in a shop the other day that amused me:

Oh yeah, I bet you just can't shut her up. Life of the party, she is.

Aged Rage

My new job seems to be working out okay so far. Not that working in accounts is my dream career or anything, but it seems like a pretty cruisey place to work. Apart from the fact that it was like entering some sort of technology time warp. I mean, don't get me wrong – the good old days of CRT monitors, Office 97, dot matrix printers and DOS-based command prompt software were damn fine days indeed, but in this day and age I must admit I've gotten used to the finer things in life, like, oh I dunno, being able to email someone an invoice instead of faxing it. But the atmosphere there is a pretty good one, and that's the main thing. It seems like everyone who works there has been there for about twenty years, which is a good sign I guess. Either that or the place is like the employment equivalent of the Hotel California. Apparently on your 25th anniversary, employees are presented with a silver tray. On your 30th anniversary, you get a matching decanter. When I asked what you were supposed to do with the tray for five years while you waited for the decanter, they just laughed. Whether they were laughing at me, with me or near me, I'm still not sure.

This week, all the subscriber invoices went out with an error on them. Instead of the due amount being in the 'current – please pay in 30 days' box, the amount owing was printed in the 'overdue – please pay immediately' area. So all week I've been answering the phone to every damn Betty Jones in Launceston, demanding to know why their invoice says they are overdue when they know full well they aren't. Sigh. Needless to say, it's been a long week – one endless conversation with an irate elderly person. Elderly people aren't the only ones who subscribe, of course, but they certainly seem to be the only ones who complain. It wouldn't be so bad if they'd just tell me the problem, listen to my explanation and heartfelt apology, accept it, and hang up. But nooooo… First, they have to announce their age, the aeons they've been subscribing for, and make sure you're very clear on the fact that they have always paid on time. Then they have to tell you the whole long-winded story of how they came to discover the error on their invoice:

"Well! I woke up this morning, and after my cup of tea, I heard the mailman. And I thought to myself, 'There's the mailman. I might go and check the mail'. So, I went and checked the mail. I walked back inside with my letters, and I sat down to look at them, and I noticed there was a bill from you! So I opened it, and I had a look. And well! Imagine my shock when I saw that the bill said I was overdue! I have always paid on time, you know. I've never been overdue, and I've been subscribing for fifty years. I'm eighty six years old, you know!"

"Yes, I know Mrs Jones, I'm really very sorry. Our accounts were printed with an error on them. The amount that you owe is not overdue, it's in the wrong section. It should be in the 'current' section. You have until the end of the month to pay. I'm very sorry for the inconvenience. Please accept our apologies."

"Well! Yes! Because I'm not overdue, you know. I knew that was a mistake as soon as I saw it. I couldn't believe it! I mean, after I woke up and had my cup of tea, and heard the mailman, and went to the mail box, and came back inside, and opened the mail, and saw the bill from you, I was most unhappy! I've never been overdue. I have always paid on time, and I've been a subscriber for fifty years. I'm eighty six!"

"I'm really sorry, Mrs Jones. Hopefully the problem will be fixed by next month, so it shouldn't happen again."

"Well, I certainly hope not! I'm eighty six years old, you know! I've been subscribing for fifty years, and I've never been overdue!"

And so on. I finally get Betty off the phone, breathing a sigh of relief as I hang up the receiver. The phone rings again. This time, it's Wilfred Smith. He's ninety three years old. His mailman came before he'd had his morning cup of tea. He's got a good mind to cancel his subscription. He doesn't need this stress. He's ninety three years old. Next time I ring up to complain somewhere, I'm going to announce my age a few hundred thousand times and see if it makes a difference. Unfortunately, "I'm twenty eight! Give me a discount!" doesn't really have the same ring to it.

Work Schmerk

Lately I've been bounding out of bed every Saturday morning and racing down to the corner shop to get the paper to check the positions vacant. Okay, maybe not 'bounding'… probably more like 'ambling arthritically'. And maybe not 'racing' either… perhaps more like 'sauntering slothfully'. Anyway, checking the paper for a new job has become a highlight of my week. There's no need to tell me how sad-arsed this is – I'm fully aware.

A few weeks ago I saw a job that looked okay, as a credit clerk for a local publication. After five minutes and a few copy and pastes later, I had an application letter together. One interview and a medical later, I was offered the job! So, today was my last day at my current workplace, and I start my new job on Monday. I really really really really really really really hope I like it. I've had just about enough of shit work situations. New year, new job, new start, and all that glass-half-full kind of crap.

A few staff gathered around me at work today to say farewell. One of the partners of the firm asked me where my new job was. When I told him, and that it was in the accounts department, he screwed up his nose. "Ohhh… I hope you won't be in the debt collection part, ringing people up chasing payments. That would be awful. I had a friend who worked there and did that, and she lasted a whole three weeks before she quit. Horrible job, it was." He shook his head, evidently trying to clear it of the awful thought of what a horrendous job it would have been. I stared at him, instantly deciding that it would be best not to tell him that that was exactly what I'd be doing in my new job. Then, seeing the gigantic novelty farewell card I was given, he seized it from me, declaring that he'd forgotten to write in it. With tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth in concentration, he penned, "Have fun with Eb Hextall… hope you don't get stuck in the phone debt accounts collection".

Okay, first of all, who the fuck is Eb Hextall? And secondly, not only did he feel the need to verbally cast doubts on my future at a company I haven't even started working for yet, just in case that wasn't enough, he thought he'd do me a favour and put it in writing. In my farewell card. Ha! I suppose if I cared what he thought, I might be offended. Still, I hate to admit it, but I am slightly more worried about my new job than I was before. Damn.

I guess it could be worse. I could be starting a job as an accountant.

Obligatory Reminiscence

Where would any respectable blog be in a brand new year without some sort of half-arsed recap of the year just passed? Nowhere, that's where. I'm not scared to get all retrospective on yo ass. Nostalgia ain't what it used to be, you know.

When I think of how my life was exactly a year ago, I'm surprised at how much has changed. It doesn't really feel like we've done anything worth writing about, but when I think about it, I really am in a totally different place. A year ago, we were living in a flat in Ulverstone, having just bought our house in Launceston. We weren't going to church anywhere (unless you count my occasional sojourn to the Presbyterian down the road. Which I don't). I was working for AM in Devonport. In March we moved to Launceston – new house, new office. I began my career as a church hopper. I joined the Uni of Tas Symphonic Band. I auditioned for a musical. (Incidentally, I don't think I ever wrote about what actually happened there… well, if I may take the opportunity now… a couple of months went by and I didn't hear back from them, so I decided to call the director and ask him if I'd gotten a part or not. Well, he could find no record of me ever auditioning! Then he bluntly told me that it was too late now anyway, they'd started rehearsals. I was a bit disappointed – I was rather looking forward to "every single pastor in town coming along and critiquing my performance with ruthless honesty and bee-in-their-bonnet sensationalism". Oh well, maybe next time. In the meantime, this bracket is still open, and has just a few too many words within its confines to be considered grammatically correct, so I'd better rectify that now).

Where was I… oh yes… AM went belly up in June. K and I had our seven year anniversary in August, and celebrated with a trip to Melbourne. I got fired that same month (and, might I add, at the risk of creating another grammatically questionable diversion, I STILL HAVEN'T BEEN PAID MY STAFF ENTITLEMENTS! RAH!) Then, before you could even say "Job Seeker Diary", I was employed again. The excitement was short lived when I realised that most of my role there would involve finding new and interesting ways to prevent myself from nodding off at my desk. In October I applied for a job at a school that I desperately wanted. In November I got a rejection letter from them in the mail. That letter marked the beginning of a period of utter hopelessness that I'm only just emerging from. So yeah, I guess that's a fair bit of stuff really.

Also, here are some other little memorable things that I think of when I look back over the year just gone (in no particular order, and with no feeling of obligation on my part to explain any of the more ambiguous ones. So suffer in ya jocks.)

• lying in the hammock with K
• going for night walks and looking in people's windows to see what sort of lives they lead (mainly lots of TV watching, and a bit of ironing occasionally. Nice to know that everyone else is just as boring as I am)
• watching Australian Idol (go Carl!) and Fat People ("I know you're hurtin'… feels like you're lurnin…")
• listening to people's stories over a meal at the Group of Indeterminable Cause. Meeting some awesome people there
• Ladies Craft Group (bwahahahahaha!)
• getting braces on (again) and off (again)
• joining the Seedless Grapes Club
• meeting new friends at the pub
• Thursday night Bona Fide Born Again Believers Bible Study Brought to you By Ben and Barney
• playing in Uni of Tas Symphonic Band
• dyeing my hair black
• Hari's Curry, Thai takeaway and baked spuds from the van for lunch
• our sewerage being blocked for several weeks and K digging it up by hand
• taking a pillion passenger for the first time
• cups of tea with Rachel (Planet Organic Chai Spice to be precise)
• finding a new church that I might just possibly perhaps maybe feel like I could one day belong to (perchance)
• Watching The Simpsons movie at the Gold Class cinema at Crown Casino
• planting fruit trees and raspberries
• various creatures in our yard eating the aforementioned fruit trees and raspberries – wallabies, possums, frogs, blue tongue lizards, echidnas, bumblebees, and every freaking cat in Trevallyn
• playing Taboo on Christmas Day and Boxing Day
• Tuesday night production meetings
• reading the final Harry Potter book
• painting the lounge room & hall
• Ezzie's white whisker
• playing music in church again
• breaking into the old LGH (twice)
• Launceston and Burnie Carols by Candlelight

And finally, here are my New Years Resolutions for 2008:

1. Read "Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy"
2. Watch a Star Wars movie

I know. I like to aim high.

Dizzy

I was walking behind a couple of young mums in my lunch break the other day. The type that amble along at a snail's pace, content to take all the time in the world as well as all the available space on the footpath with their giant cow-catcher prams and their vast 'I-still-haven't-lost-all-my-baby-weight' bums wobbling back and forth, making it impossible for anyone else to pass. After hopping around in frustration for a while, I resigned myself to being stuck behind them, listening to their fascinating conversation. It went something like:
Mum 1 – "Yeah, well, y'know, after he turned around and said that to me, I turned around and told him he could stick it. What a bastard."
Mum 2 – "Yeah! I would've turned around and punched him if it was me!"
Mum 1 – "Well if he ever turns around and says anything like that again, I'm gonna turn around and take him for half!"
Mum 2 – "And so you should!"

And so on. I couldn't help being amused. There seemed to be a lot of turning around going on in the discussion she was recounting. Regular ballerinas, they were. I mean, did they actually pirouette on the spot, and then say their piece? Or were they facing away from each other, so that they had to physically rotate 180 degrees before they could converse face to face? I had images of two people standing back to back, the first one spinning around to give their side of the argument, then turning to face the other direction again to hear the reply. Seemed a waste of effort to me, when they could just remain looking at each other. Hmm.

Felt like turning around and suggesting that there might be a lot less vertigo if everyone involved could just stay facing the one direction. But then they might have turned around and punched me.

Quickie

Had a mini-church experience on Sunday night. I'd been meaning to visit a certain church, simply because of its name. Usually I don't like to mention names of churches specifically, but in this case I just have to make an exception – it's called Nude Erections. Okay, sure, it's spelt a little differently than that, but homophonic principles aside, that is the name they have chosen for their particular branch of the body of Christ. Which is cool – I'm all for naming churches after lewd images, if that's what floats your boat. After all, it was the novelty factor of the name that made me want to pay them a visit, so it must be achieving something. That, and the fact that a guy I was talking to this week told me he used to attend there regularly, and that now he considers it a cult. My interest was aroused immediately (so to speak). I was going to check out Nude Erections!

Rocked up to the night service to the new whizz-bang venue they've just built. The first thing I noticed was a huge sign in the foyer, clearly visible as you walk toward the building from the car park – "ATM HERE". I grinned. Funny how little things like that can create a mindset for the sort of church you're about to attend, even before you experience it for yourself. No cash for the offering? No worries, just pop out to the foyer! Credit card facilities also available for those who wish to give money they don't even have yet! I shouldn't jump to conclusions I suppose, but I was sure it was a sign. Well, it was a sign – it was on a little stand and everything.

Following the thump-thump-thump of the worship music I could hear emanating from the building, I walked through the doors and was greeted with a sight all church visitors dread – no more than twenty people, standing around a bunch of tables and chairs with pens and paper on them. Argh! Intimate contact with strangers! Run awaaay! It's one thing to be a casual observer in the back row, but it's quite another to sit awkwardly at a table with a bunch of bona fide born again bless-ed believers who are bending over backwards to make me (the potential convert) feel comfortable, and somehow managing through every action and deed to achieve the exact opposite.

I was just about to turn and escape when a lady approached me, wearing the all too familiar Frozen Welcome Expression. Standing about five millimetres away from my face, she proceeded to joyfully explain that this service was a 'little bit different' to the norm, with a more intimate time of connection and discussion. Hmm. I mustn't have looked too impressed, since she added, "It can be a little bit daunting for newcomers, can't it?"
"Just a bit" I replied, uncomfortably.
After giving me a reassuring pat on the arm, she pentecostal-hopped her way over to another uneasy looking guy, no doubt a fellow visitor. Seizing the opportunity, I quickly turned to leave. My movement must have caught her eye, as she turned back to me, gazing wide-eyed in confusion.
"Bye!" I called cheerfully, as I walked toward the exit.
"Wait!" she exclaimed, panicked. "Are you leaving?"
"Yep. See ya!"
She grabbed my arm, frantic. "Did I say something that offended you?"
I laughed. "No, of course not! How could you have? We had like a five word conversation. It's just a bit too… intimate for my liking."
The Frozen Welcome Expression quickly returned, and after squeezing my arm what felt like twenty times, I was finally able to leave.

Quite disappointed that I didn't see any actual nude erections during my time there – again, more for the novelty value than some sort of pervy voyeuristic tendency on my part. Nor did I see any evidence of cult activity, but it was a bit soon to tell I suppose. Perhaps I had a narrow escape.

Employable

Well, seeing as the myriads of people who read my blog (okay, maybe just the one) are clamouring for part two of the tale of my journey to the dole queue, I thought I'd better oblige with an update on what's been happening lately.

After the company I worked for gave me the right foot of fellowship, I was suddenly left with the task of finding a new job – and quickly. It's kind of weird actually. I'd become very attached to that company (even though things were pretty shit near the end there), and suddenly I was supposed to just get over it and move on to something else. This sounds a bit extreme, but it's kinda like, say if K died, it'd be like joining a dating agency the next day to try and find a new husband. There was no time to grieve for the chapter of my life that was closed forever – I needed to earn an income.

Luckily, all I had to do was sit on my vast acreage and wait for a job to fall in my lap. The day after my last day at AM, I got two phone calls from guys who worked at recruitment agencies who had heard my plight and wanted to put me on their books. Sounded good to me! However, I felt obliged to go to some sort of effort myself, so I went hunting on the Seek website and checked last Saturday's Examiner. To my surprise, there were heaps of admin jobs. Must be a skills shortage or something. The Seek website had one that closed the next day, as an MYOB assistant at an accounting firm in the city. I threw together an application and emailed it off. Exhausted from the effort of applying for one whole job, I decided to resume my search the next day.

Turns out there was no need. The next morning I got a phone call, inviting me to an interview with the recruitment agency for the job I'd applied for! So off I trundled. It went very well. They called me for a second interview – with my prospective employer. It went very well. That afternoon, the recruitment agency called me and informed me that they would like to offer me the position! Man, I thought, they sure don't waste time. So they sent me a letter of offer. I read through it – it was pretty standard, apart from the fact that I'd be taking a $5k per annum pay cut. Damn. Oh well, I thought, at least I'll have a job to go to. Any job is better than nothing.

Well, I've been there nearly four weeks now, and I have to say it's one of the most uninteresting jobs I've ever had. Don't get me wrong, the company seems really nice and all, and there are some great people that work there, but I just don't have anything to DO. It's driving me nuts. And when they do give me work to complete, it's like the accounting equivalent of cleaning the toilets. Like entering two years worth of transactions into an abandoned MYOB file with only bank statements to work from. It's really not something I can see myself doing long term. Plus, the work environment is much more restrictive than I'm used to. I have to timesheet every minute of my day. I have a swipe card that tracks my every movement in, out and throughout the building. The only websites I can view are work-related ones that have been whitelisted in the system. Email is tracked. Personal phone calls are forbidden. I mean, I understand that people need to keep on track and focus on work, but I'm not TWELVE, for crying out loud! I think that staff are much more likely to be loyal if they feel they are trusted by their employers. Sure, there will always be the odd one or two that take advantage of that trust, but you'll get them no matter what. I really don't want to work in an environment like that for much longer. I feel like my personality is slowly ebbing away, being drowned in a sea of conformity.

So that's where I stand at the moment. I know I should be grateful that I've even got a job at all. I dunno, I guess job satisfaction is important to me. Maybe my heart is still with the old company. Who knows. I'm keeping my eye out for somewhere I feel I could work long term. I've applied for a job in a school office, which I really hope I get. I've always wanted to work in a school office. Huge ambition I know, but at least it's achievable. My only concern is that the job I've applied for is with a school that is a client of the company that recently gave me the arse. All it would take is for someone to ask BJ about me, and my chances of getting the job are probably screwed. But I think it's worth a shot.

Bludger

I began this week with a job, and ended it without one.

At least I can stop worrying about what I should do now, I guess. No more whinging to God about it, trying to decide if I should stay or move on. But I wish it had've been my decision. It wasn't. I got fired.

Well, when I say 'fired', I should probably say that I wasn't given the option to stay. I had been back from holidays for a whole day and a half before the new 'general manager', BJ, asked me to go out for a coffee. Well, at least he asked my boss G to tell me that's what we were doing. So I reluctantly trudged down to the coffee shop with a sinking feeling in my heart. I said to G on the way down, "Is he gonna fire me?"
"He can't do that" said G, "he's not your boss."

We sat down at the table. BJ started by asking me if I was happy in my job. I replied by saying I had been very happy up until a few months ago, when the company had gone into administration and three new companies had started up. I told him it was a bit hard to answer that question until I was sure about what the new structure would look like. He tried another tack. "But you're not happy working under R, are you?" I said that admittedly it had come as quite a shock when I heard that G was leaving and that R would be my boss again, but I had had some time to think and gain perspective over my time off, and I'd come to a peace about working under R. This didn't seem to be the answer that BJ was expecting. "That's not what I've heard", he said, "I've heard differently. I've heard that you have issues working under R". I replied that sure, we'd had our ups and downs over the years, but I respected R and was happy to work under him.

BJ replied, "Well let me tell you, that won't be the case. R was confused when he said that he would be your boss. He won't be your boss. I will be. I'm the new General Manager. So that's not really going to work very well, is it? We don't really see eye to eye, do we?"
"No. We don't."
"I can't really see us working well together, can you?"
"Are you firing me?" I asked, dumbfounded.
"Well, you were never re-hired, Rebecca" replied BJ. "Your employment ended when the company went into administration last month. And you haven't been offered a new employment contract, have you?"
"No. I haven't. I'm guessing I won't be offered one, then?"
"Well, it wouldn't really work, would it? You don't want to work under me, do you?"
"No, I don't. Absolutely not. But I was told R would be my boss! I have no problem working under him!"
"Well, that isn't an option. I'm the new General Manager, and you and I can't work together. So we need to look at other options."

He then went on to tell me my 'options' – I could either leave immediately, or I could stay for two, three, four weeks, however long it took me to find another job, and that they would help me to find work, as long as I would help them in return. He said I could let him know which option I'd decided on in the next couple of days.

Wow. I was speechless. After all the hard work I'd put in over the years. All the stress. All for nothing. They were asking me to leave. I felt like someone had punched me in the guts. I decided to go home for the rest of the afternoon, seeing as I was in no fit state to concentrate anyway, and think about my decision. But I already knew that there was only one option really – there was no way I wanted to stick around in a work environment like that for the next few weeks. I didn't want to be there for one more second, knowing they wanted me gone. So the next morning I went and cleaned out my desk, gathered my stuff together, and said goodbye.

Being the third person to leave the company this month (with more departures looking likely very soon) speaks volumes, in my opinion. It hurts that I had to go out this way though. I would have preferred to leave on my own terms like the others, not in semi-disgrace. At least, that's what it felt like. I feel sorry for whoever replaces me. There was two weeks worth of backlog sitting in my in-tray, waiting for me to come back from my holidays. Anyone with half a brain would have sacked me after I'd at least gotten through the pile. Which reminds me – one point of interest is that the old company went into administration on July 13^th, and I got fired on 21^st August, over a month later – enough time to set up the MYOB files and stuff for the new companies. Coincidence? Hmm. The most hurtful thing of all though, is that my supposed boss, R, didn't even say goodbye. Didn't ring me, didn't talk to me. Didn't say thanks. I worked my butt off for his company for two years. Apparently, that's not even worth a phone call.

So… anyone got any jobs? Will drop pants for food.

Daffodil

I'm on holidays at the moment. This week I have done NOTHING. It's been fantastic – exactly what I needed. I was planning on doing some gardening and house type stuff, but the weather has been so totally shit I'm reluctant to go even as far as the carport to hop in the car and go anywhere. Let alone take Gus out for a ride. So instead I've been playing my Game Boy and reading the final Harry Potter book. If anyone spoils the ending for me before I'm finished, I swear I'll whop them over the head with it. It's quite a big book too, so nobody had better try anything.

Being on holiday has given me a little bit of perspective as far as work goes. Most other things in my life have been going great, but work has really been the pits these past couple of months, and I can't see it getting any better either. That's the worst thing – if I could see a light at the end of the tunnel, it would make it a lot easier to go through some of the things that are happening. But I can't see a light. Just an endless freaking tunnel.

So what should I do? Get another job? Stick it out? God seems characteristically silent on the matter. The only thing he has told me is to not hold my job in such a high regard. So what is that supposed to mean? Am I gonna get fired? Quit? I just don't want to make the wrong decision. I'm a loyal person really, so I'm reluctant to leave. But I can't go on the way I have been. Yesterday my boss asked me to fill out some form that needed to be done that day. I'd finally begun to relax and forget about work, but even him asking me to do such a tiny thing sent me into the spiral of work related panic that has become so familiar lately. I just can't go on like that any more. I feel like I'm going crazy. I wish I knew what to do about it. It's affecting other areas of my life, and I'm sick and tired of it.

I just looked out the window at the windy, rainy day, and felt depressed. So much for gardening. It's interesting to see what's popping up in the garden now that spring is near. Lots of bulbs are starting to poke through the dirt and show signs of sprouting flowers. I'm interested to see what sort they'll turn out to be. One of them tentatively started to open a couple of days ago, revealing himself as a bright yellow daffodil. But then the wind and the rain came, and when I looked out there this morning, the daffodil was lying on the ground, all blown and battered by the wind. It made my heart sad. It's just typical really – he finally got the courage to open up, thinking the weather would be kind to him. Instead, it turned on him, and now he's all crushed and broken.

I'm gonna go pick him and put him in a vase. At least then he'll brighten up my house. He'll have a purpose for existing.

Tobogganing

Went to Ben Lomond on Thursday with K, M and J. It was SO much fun! We went there to go tobogganing – I'm not quite game enough for skiing. It was M's idea, and she insisted that we all take a day off work to go. That particular part certainly didn't disappoint me – work is awful at the moment, so I was glad to get away. We borrowed M's mum's Land Rover and hired chains to put on the tyres. K and I bought some waterproof gear and thermals, then we were set. Yay! I was excited. I don't usually let myself get excited before an event, just so I can avoid disappointment in case it doesn't happen for some reason, but I was excited this time.

We arrived at the top of the mountain at about midday. I'd heard horror stories about Jacob's Ladder, but it wasn't that bad. I mean, it's a freaky road, but it's pretty wide, and there are railings on the corners, plus J is a very safe driver, so it was okay. We put on all our gear and waddled up to the shop to hire the toboggans. All the toboggans had names, and were in bright fluoro colours. I ended up with a bright pink toboggan named Brad. The lady behind the counter suggested that maybe Brad was a bit confused. I laughed. I'd never considered that a toboggan could be confused about its/his/her sexuality. Maybe having a girl riding him all day might clear things up for him.

Tobogganing was GREAT! We started on the weiner's slope, but soon gained confidence and moved to a better slope further down. There was tons of snow – I'd never seen so much snow in my whole life. Tobogganing wasn't that hard, but you were pretty much at the mercy of the slope – none of us managed to figure out how to steer the damn things, so we just held on and hoped for the best. I seemed to go a bit further than the others, maybe because I was the smallest. K definitely crashed his toboggan the most. He kept trying to go over jumps, and just end up axing himself. At one stage, we went around the corner and decided to try a very steep slope. It was fantastic the first few times, but the last time was interesting. A pile of snow had been building up about halfway down, probably from our footprints. The last time I went down, I hit the pile, went sailing through the air, and landed on my back with a thud. Cartoon birds flew around my head. Brad was nowhere to be seen – when the going got tough, he'd buggered off. I eventually spied him, cowering behind a bush. Pfft. What a wimp.

We went to the pub/café thing for lunch, after going to the drying room and toilets. That was an ordeal in itself – removing fifty layers and putting them back on again isn't easy. While I was zipping myself all watertight again, a sticker on the toilet cistern caught my eye. It said something like, "Please do not flush oil, fat, milk, paint, chemicals or harmful substances down this toilet. Launceston's water supply starts here!" Well! Launceston's water supply starts at the toilets at Ben Lomond? I felt both proud and disgusted that I'd just made a contribution to Launceston's water supply. It occurred to me that I could even be drinking my contribution by the time I got home.

After lunch and a few more runs down the hill, we decided to build a snowman. Well at least I decided to build a snowman – J and I put in all the hard yards, and we'd just got him to a decent size and I was about to go find him some stick arms, when suddenly everyone else wanted to put their two cents worth in. Looking back, the whole process was pretty funny, and seemed to reflect our different personalities perfectly – K was furrowing his brow in concentration as he painstakingly sculpted an arm out of snow. I was whining about how I didn't want snow arms for him, I wanted stick arms, and it was MY snowman, and now he'd come and taken over, and I didn't want snow arms, I wanted stick arms, and why wasn't he listening to me? J was hopping around with a grin on his face, trying to find an opportunity to knock the whole thing over when nobody was watching. M was sitting a little bit away from the rest of us, humming to herself, sculpting a smaller 'lady friend' for our big snowman, complete with intricate facial features and boobs. Then she set to work on the big snowman, and made his head look like a penis. So the snowman ended up with one snow arm, a penis for a head, and two sticks that would have been arms lying at his base. Oh well – it'll look intriguing to anyone else who gives it more than a passing glance I guess.

It started snowing pretty heavily after that, and got really windy, and we were all knackered, so we called it a day. I had the best time though. I felt so free, sliding down the hill on Brad. K and I were pretty sore the next day though. It was worth it! For one whole day, all my worries were gone.

Poos

Have been very unwell this last week. I'm not entirely sure of the difference between a cold and the flu, but if this was a cold, it was a killer mutant crazy one. I haven't felt so horrible in a long, long time. Normally I can drug myself up and just get on with things, but this had me flat on my back for nearly a week. It couldn't have come at a worse time, work-wise. I had so much to do this week, heaps of end of financial year and payroll stuff, and my boss was away all week so I was hoping to get it all done and dusted before he came back. No such luck – it's all still sitting there waiting for me, along with next week's work of course. Cry. Oh well. At least I got to watch Judge Judy. Judge Judy rocks.

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I love Pods. Those little wafer shell chocolate things – you can get Mars, Snickers, Dove, and maybe one other sort, I can't remember. My favourites are the Snickers ones. Not sure why, because I hate Snickers bars. Anyway, I was eating some Pods when I went to visit M & J the other day. I met Ted at the door, and offered him one. He looked at the bag I was holding out, and raised his eyebrow. "What are Poos?" he asked. I grinned. "They're not Poos! They're Pods!" He took the bag and turned it around so I could see the front. I laughed and laughed – I'd managed to open the bag so that the top of the 'D' had been cut off, so it really did look like I was eating a bag of Poos. Hahaha! Poos.

Needless to say, he still ate a handful. Can't have been too put off by the thought of eating excrement in a crispy wafer shell.

Disco Fingers

COULD IT BE ANY MORE FREAKIN COLD IN LAUNCESTON? Why didn't I just go the whole hog and move to Antarctica? Riding a motorbike to work in the morning is the pits in weather like this. I must look a sight to anyone waiting at the lights in the morning… hunched over the handlebars like a giant black foetus, the only sign of life being a puff of frosty air being emitted from beneath my visor every couple of seconds. I even walk to the post office to get the mail with my bike jacket and snowman pants still on. I get a few funny looks from the usual pantyhose-clad, high-heel-wearing, makeup-smeared office girls that usually show up there at that time of morning. They might look more 'shaggable-secretary' than me, but at least I'm warm.

I have heat grips on Gus, which helps a bit. Since it's been cold, I've noticed a strange riding habit of mine – on each hand I have three fingers and thumb firmly wrapped around the grips, but my index fingers stick out in front, pointing the way, like I'm some sort of deranged disco rider. I'd never noticed these stray digits before – now that it's freezing, all the rest of my fingers are nicely warmed by the heat grips, except for those two, protruding as though I'm some sort of human forklift. "Which way is that scooter going?" I can sense pedestrians thinking as I ride past. "That way! Straight ahead for me!" my fingers reply, removing all doubt from their minds. This inadvertent riding style of mine also has the potential to cause conflict whilst waiting at traffic lights. I can picture it – I'm at the front of the queue, waiting to take off. Across the intersection, the guy in the car facing me sees my wayward fingers. He looks confused at first, then agitated. "Me?" he mouths from behind the wheel. "Yes. YOU" reply my fingers menacingly. Before I know it, we're having fisticuffs in the middle of the intersection in Launceston peak hour traffic. The potential for this sort of misunderstanding is very real indeed. I'm just not sure what I can do about it.

Hmm. I'm sitting here, at nine o'clock on a Friday night, eating grated cheese and writing about my fingers. What a pathetic life I lead… bwahahaha.

Movies

Spent a fair bit of time watching DVDs this past weekend. I really don't enjoy movies that much, so it was a bit of a rare thing for me. It was day one of my period… felt like someone was repeatedly punching me in the uterus and kicking me in the vagina all at once. Amidst all that phantom pummelling of the reproductive organs, I thought a weekend on the couch was well deserved. Thought y'all might like a menstrual update there.

Went and hired Kenny, the one about the guy who manages a portaloo company. It was so good! I've heard some poo colloquialisms in my time, but "mud banana" is a new one on me. I laughed and laughed. What a great guy. I just wanted to take him out for a coffee and tell him what a fantastic job he was doing. He was treated like crap (and covered in it) over and over, but never lost his positive outlook. What a legend. I'd recommend this movie to anyone.

I got a free weekly movie with Kenny. Of course, I didn't know about the free weekly thing until I'd picked out my overnight movie, stood in line at the counter, and slowly inched my way to the front of the queue. I plonked the DVD on the counter, beaming with pride over the speed of my decision, thinking the transaction would soon be over and I could be on my way home. The video man beamed back. "We have an offer on at the moment, one free weekly with every overnight hired!" "Great!" I said, inwardly ambivalent – torn between marvelling at the generous offer, and frustrated at having to choose another movie when I thought I was finished with all that choosing business. I was soon to realise that it was all an evil ploy to get people to hire lame movies that you wouldn't normally watch. Went to select my weekly, as the video man watched me browse. Felt rather hurried. I like to either take my time choosing a movie, or know exactly what I want to hire, and get in and out as quickly as possible. I was after the quick option that day. Yet there I was, having to choose another film – with the added pressure of the video man waiting for me to make my selection, so he could go back to whatever it is video men do when they aren't serving customers. I hastily grabbed the first half decent looking movie on the shelf, and made my way back to the counter, hoping that spontaneity would pay off in this instance.

It didn't. The movie I selected was The Stepford Wives. Worst. Movie. EVER. Take my advice – don't even waste your time looking at the cover, let alone picking it up and reading the back of it, let alone (heaven forbid) actually hiring it. I cannot overemphasise how incredibly lame this movie is. Don't EVER watch it. It would be an hour and a half of your life completely wasted. Gone forever. You'll never get it back. In fact, don't even read this paragraph about me telling you how lame it is. Even reading about how crap it is would be a waste of your life. Writing about how crap it is is like wasting that hour and a half all over again. So I'll stop now before any more precious minutes go swirling down the drain of time, never to return.