There are few things in life that annoy the absolute shit out of me, excuse my language.
* Bad driving (namely those over the age of 80)
* Slow driving (if there is an angry blonde on your tail in a small white car it could very well be me)
* Bad grammar, deliberate misspellings of words and excessive emoticon usage unless the emoticon is amusing in appearance.
* When the Coffee Club near work doesn't put the requested one sugar into my coffee
* Customers at work in general, particularly those after a 'brand' for less than $30, or those who ask if the products are real. No, no they're not. Would you believe it, the entire company is based on counterfeit stock, all 62 stores. And no consumer authority ever says anything. Amazing huh?
* Bert Newton
* Teenagers (particularly around the 17/18 mark)
* People (read: teenagers) who think having their photo taken by creepy photographers at various Sydney establishments means they are in fact de facto celebrities and therefore must pose in a knock-kneed, hip jutting fashion that makes them look like knobs. Perhaps even more annoying than this occurrence is the posting of said photos on various Myspaces and Facebooks with captions such as 'sexy bitch!' or 'munted!' beneath them.
So a long list, I suppose. Add to that list, one Samantha Brett. Now, I cannot lie, I have ranted about this woman before and I will continue to until people realise (and when I say people I mean more than the 5 people who I complain to on a daily basis who are all but forced to smooth my ruffled feathers by agreeing) the girls is the stupidest, most stale example of Australian journalism in existence. I cannot imagine she got her job through any other measure except stripping for her editor every night for a year because it simply is not possible she got it any other way. She can't write. She cannot come up with any idea that hasn't been dragged out time and time again in movies, television and bad literature (of which Sam herself is an author) and dealt with so thoroughly it has since ceased to be a social issue. I cannot say that today's effort is any worse than any of her previous ones and thus prompted this diatribe - it's just that having been absent from this fair country for the past 6 months I haven't been subject to her horsey mug leering at me from smh.com.au - and so upon seeing it today, my resentment came flooding back in a most uncontrollable fashion. Flicking back through the past few 'columns' which I am sure she wrote whilst wearing men's underwear and a vest and staring out her window a la the inimitable Carrie, it is plain to see Sam has not, as I had hoped, matured as a people watcher, nor improved as a writer. She remains mind bogglingly boring and so cunningly superficial you could almost think she actually researches her subjects. Almost.
I am both horrified and utterly baffled as to how Samantha Brett continues to build any sort of career.
On the topic of all things cyber, I am going to briefly touch on a current fascination of mine, and source of much curiosity - and that is Facebook applications. Now, I am not averse to the odd Facebook application - on my site you can give me a Christmas present, buy me a drink, see what countries I have visited, give me a flower, send me a gift, nominate me for a superlative, note I have manipulated a questionaire to get the result of being The Most Like Carrie Bradshaw, and learn I use the right side of my brain more than I do the left. It could be said I search for my soul within the quasi-reality confines of the Facebook world. And for this reason I must point out that a lot can be ascertained about someone by what applications they add to their facebook. What kind of lover are you, the daily bible verse (a personal fave), compliments (potentially a disaster if no one compliments you) what is your stripper name (only genuinely funny 2% of the time) ... all of these things you can do either point out a dire need to compensate for something, prove something or receive constant and most probably undue adulation - which in itself points to a rather fragile self esteem if Facebook love is its main compass.
All of that being said, please feel free to nominate me for a superlative. I am eyeing off Hottest Girl on Facebook.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Envy Me
Another Saturday night, the third once since I have been to be precise, and I find myself with a five year old curled on my lap singing heartily along to Delta's In This Life. On repeat. Reliving all our favourite scenes of the clip (five year old's favourite is where she does a faux I'm-losing-control head shake) time and time again. This is post desecration of December's Instyle so we can cut up all the pretty jewels and summer dresses for a massive collage with more paste than is strictly necessary. In fact I think I just ate paste unwittingly.
So today I exercised my democratic right and cast my vote in an election that has failed to inspire, although has managed to polarise (take your pick, it's the lesser of two doddering old men) and galvanised only 13 million people of this fair nation to actually have a say in the future of their country. Although I will not disclose who I voted for, I will say upon hearing Kevin Rudd's searingly boring final press conference address in which he used the analogy of him and Howard climbing Mt Everest, stretching it out into a painful extended metaphor involving cunning references to weather and snow, I vowed never to let a man as insipid and irritating run the country I live in.
And, according to the live coverage, he will be.
Great.
Howard's fantasy of a fifth term has been shot, and mine of a Prime Minister who can address the public without sounding like the school geek with a secret has just exploded in my face.
Speaking of extended metaphors, tonight's story book was My Body Encyclopaedia. Five year old's chapter choice was The Life Cycle of a Baby. Starting from conception. In a clear, concise voice, the blurb beneath an artist's depiction of glowing parents cradling a baby, was read - 'It takes a man and a woman to make a baby, they are called the baby's parents.' Pause. Then, 'hang on, what does the man do to make a baby?'
And so an analogy was called for. A cake. A baby is like a cake. It needs two ingredients and an oven. The Dad has an ingredient, the Mum has an ingredient, then the baby bakes in the oven, which is the mother's belly. 'Oh,' said the little one, 'like an incubator.' Exactly. Pause. 'Tell me more about this ... cake.' It was an almost knowing tone - I had to remind myself she is only 5 and must genuinely be curious as opposed to setting me up. We followed the cake through its 9 month gestation period, all the way up until it had its umbilical cord removed. Following the ingestion of a rather graphic depiction of the four possible types of belly buttons that result from said cord removal, she then went on to inform me babies are born through a whole 'this big' and that when she had her baby, she was going to make sure she was asleep.
Is it just me or are kids far too cluey these days?
Although, children will always be children and ET will always be there to terrify them. In an effort to banish before-bed thoughts of ET riding in a bicycle basket (an image that has provoked nightmares for the past few nights) I told an elaborate tale involving a fairy called Suki who spends her days eating cupcakes and picking flowers. I realised just how bad a story teller I am when put on the spot. Thank God she was too tired to shame me, which she would have had she been more alert, with a cutting remark regarding my inability to think on my feet. (She had no qualms in asking me to stop singing last week whilst she performed her jazz routine to Blame it on the Boogie) I even had to appeal for help in naming Suki's best friend, who got the rather less fantastical name of Amy and didn't possess the same shimmering mane of golden curls (a point of much envy as the fairies age, I am sure).
My Saturday night. Jealous?
So today I exercised my democratic right and cast my vote in an election that has failed to inspire, although has managed to polarise (take your pick, it's the lesser of two doddering old men) and galvanised only 13 million people of this fair nation to actually have a say in the future of their country. Although I will not disclose who I voted for, I will say upon hearing Kevin Rudd's searingly boring final press conference address in which he used the analogy of him and Howard climbing Mt Everest, stretching it out into a painful extended metaphor involving cunning references to weather and snow, I vowed never to let a man as insipid and irritating run the country I live in.
And, according to the live coverage, he will be.
Great.
Howard's fantasy of a fifth term has been shot, and mine of a Prime Minister who can address the public without sounding like the school geek with a secret has just exploded in my face.
Speaking of extended metaphors, tonight's story book was My Body Encyclopaedia. Five year old's chapter choice was The Life Cycle of a Baby. Starting from conception. In a clear, concise voice, the blurb beneath an artist's depiction of glowing parents cradling a baby, was read - 'It takes a man and a woman to make a baby, they are called the baby's parents.' Pause. Then, 'hang on, what does the man do to make a baby?'
And so an analogy was called for. A cake. A baby is like a cake. It needs two ingredients and an oven. The Dad has an ingredient, the Mum has an ingredient, then the baby bakes in the oven, which is the mother's belly. 'Oh,' said the little one, 'like an incubator.' Exactly. Pause. 'Tell me more about this ... cake.' It was an almost knowing tone - I had to remind myself she is only 5 and must genuinely be curious as opposed to setting me up. We followed the cake through its 9 month gestation period, all the way up until it had its umbilical cord removed. Following the ingestion of a rather graphic depiction of the four possible types of belly buttons that result from said cord removal, she then went on to inform me babies are born through a whole 'this big' and that when she had her baby, she was going to make sure she was asleep.
Is it just me or are kids far too cluey these days?
Although, children will always be children and ET will always be there to terrify them. In an effort to banish before-bed thoughts of ET riding in a bicycle basket (an image that has provoked nightmares for the past few nights) I told an elaborate tale involving a fairy called Suki who spends her days eating cupcakes and picking flowers. I realised just how bad a story teller I am when put on the spot. Thank God she was too tired to shame me, which she would have had she been more alert, with a cutting remark regarding my inability to think on my feet. (She had no qualms in asking me to stop singing last week whilst she performed her jazz routine to Blame it on the Boogie) I even had to appeal for help in naming Suki's best friend, who got the rather less fantastical name of Amy and didn't possess the same shimmering mane of golden curls (a point of much envy as the fairies age, I am sure).
My Saturday night. Jealous?
Friday, November 23, 2007
Intimately Liv
At some point, perhaps as I was strolling past the monstrosity that is Hornsby Westfield’s fountain, clutching a Starbucks I had spent my last $3.55 (usually $4.25 but I’d had to skimp on the vanilla syrup) I realised I am in a Rut. And, that to list my life, as it stands, is to sound like one is reading the blurb of a farce film starring someone famed for playing utterly hopeless women time after time.
I mean,
I’m 22.
I have returned to my job in retail for the Christmas period, after vowing never to work another Christmas retail.
I live at home, albeit in a beautiful home with no restrictions imposed, but at my age the Olsen Twins were in a Manhattan penthouse apartment. Oh that’s right, they’re not my age yet.
I don’t have a ‘real job’ (one that involves donning a suit and prancing around Argyle on a Thursday night braying about how much I am dreading being back in the office the next morning).
Which brings me to my final point, I want to write but no one will publish me, well not what I want to write about – I will spare you the Andie Anderton diatribe on wanting to write about politics (because I don’t, really) but I will pretend I look as good as Andie Anderton whilst ranting.
Today both my credit cards were taken off me by an overly zealous bank worker who shall remain nameless – however let it be said when the Faceless Bank Person on The Phone told her to take my cards and cut them up, her eyes lit up with excitement and she regarded me furtively, as if I may suddenly snatch them back and run away laughing maniacally. Which I was tempted to, I cannot lie.
So, add to the list, my credit cards have been cut up – and soon Tiffany* will be calling to set up an appointment to see if she can give me a quote on car insurance that will ‘match up’ with my current one.
En route to work, where an entire day with my Regional Manager awaited, I got stuck in traffic. And when I say traffic, I mean namely a barrage of silver foxes manning various beige cars and sporting well and truly expired licences. In fact, I seem to be finding myself fighting this battle on the roads on a daily basis. It is this face off between me and any driver over 70 who cares to beetle across my path at the pace of a snail. I arrived at work later than planned but earlier than my Regional Manager who we shall call Seth, having used the f-word ten or so times, ‘twat’ thrice and knob countless. And it was only 8.30am. And most of these words had been directed at people four times my age which makes me a very bad person with a very crude mouth.
So I swear at old people. Add that to the list.
Clearly, I have a sad fixation on coffee chains, as evidenced in my purchase out of the dwindling coins in my (faux) Jimmy Choo wallet – and this is apparently just the worst possible thing for anyone who can even call themselves a coffee drinker because everyone knows Starbucks completely bastardises coffee. But I feel so much closer to Ashley Olsen with my tall vanilla latte (full fat, not skinny, I draw the line somewhere) and striding around clutching the tell tale green and white cup makes me feel like I am more in control of my life.
So, add to the list that I rely on bastardised coffee to give me a sense of self … and make me feel closer to being an Olsen Twin.
It gets sadder.
Two and a half weeks ago I returned home from a six month around-the-world-trip. This is why my credit cards are being shredded as we speak, this is why I have $6.43 in the bank (marginally better than last week’s 34 cents) and this is why I find myself wildly fantasising about yachting around the Mediterranean with Prince Harry. The Mediterranean would be the travel part, Prince Harry just happens to be my yachting partner.
Instead, I find myself helping people choose perfumes for their children’s Christmas presents, or helping old women on scooters choose between Youth Dew and Red Door (‘I mean I’ve worn White Linen for years, I just feel like a bit of a change’) whilst being treated to Seth’s daring harmonies to the store stereo system. Namely Daughtry’s ‘It’s Not Over’, in which he goes for the gentle unobtrusive harmonic undercurrent as opposed to the out and out show-stopping duet-esque version of Fergie’s ‘Glamorous.’
So I have royal fantasies and am intimately familiar with the subtle nuances of Red Door, White Linen and Youth Dew.
On the flip side, today I deposited a whole $45 into my travel savers account. One way ticket to London here I come.
I mean,
I’m 22.
I have returned to my job in retail for the Christmas period, after vowing never to work another Christmas retail.
I live at home, albeit in a beautiful home with no restrictions imposed, but at my age the Olsen Twins were in a Manhattan penthouse apartment. Oh that’s right, they’re not my age yet.
I don’t have a ‘real job’ (one that involves donning a suit and prancing around Argyle on a Thursday night braying about how much I am dreading being back in the office the next morning).
Which brings me to my final point, I want to write but no one will publish me, well not what I want to write about – I will spare you the Andie Anderton diatribe on wanting to write about politics (because I don’t, really) but I will pretend I look as good as Andie Anderton whilst ranting.
Today both my credit cards were taken off me by an overly zealous bank worker who shall remain nameless – however let it be said when the Faceless Bank Person on The Phone told her to take my cards and cut them up, her eyes lit up with excitement and she regarded me furtively, as if I may suddenly snatch them back and run away laughing maniacally. Which I was tempted to, I cannot lie.
So, add to the list, my credit cards have been cut up – and soon Tiffany* will be calling to set up an appointment to see if she can give me a quote on car insurance that will ‘match up’ with my current one.
En route to work, where an entire day with my Regional Manager awaited, I got stuck in traffic. And when I say traffic, I mean namely a barrage of silver foxes manning various beige cars and sporting well and truly expired licences. In fact, I seem to be finding myself fighting this battle on the roads on a daily basis. It is this face off between me and any driver over 70 who cares to beetle across my path at the pace of a snail. I arrived at work later than planned but earlier than my Regional Manager who we shall call Seth, having used the f-word ten or so times, ‘twat’ thrice and knob countless. And it was only 8.30am. And most of these words had been directed at people four times my age which makes me a very bad person with a very crude mouth.
So I swear at old people. Add that to the list.
Clearly, I have a sad fixation on coffee chains, as evidenced in my purchase out of the dwindling coins in my (faux) Jimmy Choo wallet – and this is apparently just the worst possible thing for anyone who can even call themselves a coffee drinker because everyone knows Starbucks completely bastardises coffee. But I feel so much closer to Ashley Olsen with my tall vanilla latte (full fat, not skinny, I draw the line somewhere) and striding around clutching the tell tale green and white cup makes me feel like I am more in control of my life.
So, add to the list that I rely on bastardised coffee to give me a sense of self … and make me feel closer to being an Olsen Twin.
It gets sadder.
Two and a half weeks ago I returned home from a six month around-the-world-trip. This is why my credit cards are being shredded as we speak, this is why I have $6.43 in the bank (marginally better than last week’s 34 cents) and this is why I find myself wildly fantasising about yachting around the Mediterranean with Prince Harry. The Mediterranean would be the travel part, Prince Harry just happens to be my yachting partner.
Instead, I find myself helping people choose perfumes for their children’s Christmas presents, or helping old women on scooters choose between Youth Dew and Red Door (‘I mean I’ve worn White Linen for years, I just feel like a bit of a change’) whilst being treated to Seth’s daring harmonies to the store stereo system. Namely Daughtry’s ‘It’s Not Over’, in which he goes for the gentle unobtrusive harmonic undercurrent as opposed to the out and out show-stopping duet-esque version of Fergie’s ‘Glamorous.’
So I have royal fantasies and am intimately familiar with the subtle nuances of Red Door, White Linen and Youth Dew.
On the flip side, today I deposited a whole $45 into my travel savers account. One way ticket to London here I come.
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