Me: [after spending months battling my anxiety to get to this point] Hi. I had a mobile account with you guys, but it got disconnected because I couldn’t pay my final bill. I was wondering if I could get the same number reconnected and under the same plan? Or a similar plan?
Telstra ponytail dude: *tsk* When numbers are disconnected, it means they’re suspended for twelve months.
Me: Ok.
Telstra ponytail dude: …
Me: …
Telstra ponytail dude: Ok, well I’ll check the computer… yup. So your number’s goneski.
Me: Yup… [waiting for customer service, offer to start another account, anything at all]
Telstra ponytail dude: …
Me: …
Telstra ponytail dude: …
Me: …
Telstra ponytail dude: …
Me: ...
Telstra ponytail dude: ...
Me: …ok. Never mind. Bye.
Telstra ponytail dude: Bye bye!
And I backed away slowly.
Weird.
Showing posts with label real life shenanigans. Show all posts
Showing posts with label real life shenanigans. Show all posts
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Peeve #467: Nosy cab drivers.
Cab driver: So, you just finished work?
Me: No.
Cab driver: You had a night off?
Me: Yes.
Cab driver: You had a night off, because you had a date with this young man? [points to T, who had just escorted me into cab, kissed me goodnight, and was now crossing the road in front of us]
Me: ...yes.
Cab driver: First date?
Me: ...second.
Cab driver: Is he a pushy guy?
Me: ...
Cab driver: You know, does he push you to have sex?
Me: ...no...
Cab driver: Oh good. That means he's a nice guy.
Me: That's a relief.
Cab driver: Some guys are pushy, you know, and just want to have sex. [meaningful look in rear view mirror]
Me: ...uh huh.
IT WAS LIKE HE KNEW.
Except not.
Me: No.
Cab driver: You had a night off?
Me: Yes.
Cab driver: You had a night off, because you had a date with this young man? [points to T, who had just escorted me into cab, kissed me goodnight, and was now crossing the road in front of us]
Me: ...yes.
Cab driver: First date?
Me: ...second.
Cab driver: Is he a pushy guy?
Me: ...
Cab driver: You know, does he push you to have sex?
Me: ...no...
Cab driver: Oh good. That means he's a nice guy.
Me: That's a relief.
Cab driver: Some guys are pushy, you know, and just want to have sex. [meaningful look in rear view mirror]
Me: ...uh huh.
IT WAS LIKE HE KNEW.
Except not.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
WHERE IS MY- found it.
This blog is fast turning into a collection of drunken-night-out stories. Maybe not necessarily a bad thing?
On Friday night a group of us, including my Brazilian friends Brenda and Daniel, went to a Brazilian party at Number Five Bar. Really fun night. Towards 3am the bar closed, and a big group of revellers gathered out the front, partying with just a guitar and ourselves. After drunken conversations, pictures and loss-of-balance type mishaps, we called it a night and Brenda, Daniel and I started making our way across the river to Flinders Street (maybe stopping to have a pee under the bridge first I DUNNO SHUT UP).
That’s when Brenda realised all her money – a big wad of cash to the tune of $270, the pay check she'd recieved THAT NIGHT – was missing. We backtracked, stumbling back along the bridge, combing the street, retracing our steps, splitting up, checking the gutters, the railings, the water – not a single note was lying anywhere.
Brenda cried all the way home. I felt horrible since the poor thing works like a dog and in one moment a week’s worth of her money was gone. I managed to get us all a cab and arrange for us all to be dropped off. Once we pulled at my house, I rummaged in my bag for my money, secretly planning to pay for the entire fare, even though Daniel had loaned Brenda $50 of his own.
My wallet was gone.
I freaked out right there in the cab. The poor cab driver was probably thinking, “Not only do I have to deal with this crazy girl, she can’t pay me!” Brenda assured me she could pay, than rang Daniel sobbing, because for some fucked up reason she blamed herself for the whole night.
"I am so ashamed of my people!" she cried, "You've never even been to Brazil and all your shit got stolen!"
"Come on, Irmã, it could happen to anyone."
Having my money taken is one thing. Sure, it’s annoying, but cash is cash. I can pretend I spent it. Having my WALLET taken – my wallet has my fucking LIFE in it, my licence, my bankcards, student card, Myki, Priceline card, Myer one, Proof of Age (I always have a back-up ID, the perils of looking 16), Medicare card, ambulance membership…
The next day I got up, boiling with rage and barely having slept. I rang the club to see if the wallet was handed in. Nothing. So, I got ready for work, borrowed coins from Charm 'cos I didn't have a damn thing to enable me to get to work with all my money, bankcards and Myki card gone, and headed to the police station to report the thefts. I didn’t like our chances of anything being resolved, but I had to do something.
The officer was helpful, if a little unsure, and told me that although these things mostly went unsolved it was good to report the activity, and that the police could probably access security footage outside the club. So I was happy to wait fifteen minutes while he painstakingly completed the report. What does your wallet look like? How much cash was taken from your friend? Can you name as many items inside as possible? How much is the wallet itself worth? Between what hours did the thefts occur? Where were you at this time? What are your details? What’s your racial background? That one surprised me, actually.
Then he ducked inside to ring the club.
He came back out with a sort of patiently exasperated look. “Your wallet wasn’t stolen. It’s at the club, it was found on the floor. So you might want to go pick it up.” I didn’t even bother to defend myself by saying I’d already checked with the club and didn’t waste police time on purpose – I ran out of the station and all the way back to Number Five Bar to retrieve it.
“Thank God!” I thought, grinning while imaging the policeman shaking his head. “The cash will be long gone and I don’t give a fuck, I need all my cards!”
So I got to the club, a friendly bartender handed me my wallet back, and I strode out clutching it. Then I thought to myself, “Do I dare to dream?” and checked inside.
All my cash was still there. Every cent.
I have some damn good luck sometimes.
However, I left that last part when retelling the story to Brenda. I told her the wallet was handed in empty, and made up some shit about how they probably took the cash out and threw it on the ground. I feel so terrible about her lost money, I’ll just pretend I got robbed as well – at least she won't feel worse.
Close call, Cat.
On Friday night a group of us, including my Brazilian friends Brenda and Daniel, went to a Brazilian party at Number Five Bar. Really fun night. Towards 3am the bar closed, and a big group of revellers gathered out the front, partying with just a guitar and ourselves. After drunken conversations, pictures and loss-of-balance type mishaps, we called it a night and Brenda, Daniel and I started making our way across the river to Flinders Street (maybe stopping to have a pee under the bridge first I DUNNO SHUT UP).
That’s when Brenda realised all her money – a big wad of cash to the tune of $270, the pay check she'd recieved THAT NIGHT – was missing. We backtracked, stumbling back along the bridge, combing the street, retracing our steps, splitting up, checking the gutters, the railings, the water – not a single note was lying anywhere.
Brenda cried all the way home. I felt horrible since the poor thing works like a dog and in one moment a week’s worth of her money was gone. I managed to get us all a cab and arrange for us all to be dropped off. Once we pulled at my house, I rummaged in my bag for my money, secretly planning to pay for the entire fare, even though Daniel had loaned Brenda $50 of his own.
My wallet was gone.
I freaked out right there in the cab. The poor cab driver was probably thinking, “Not only do I have to deal with this crazy girl, she can’t pay me!” Brenda assured me she could pay, than rang Daniel sobbing, because for some fucked up reason she blamed herself for the whole night.
"I am so ashamed of my people!" she cried, "You've never even been to Brazil and all your shit got stolen!"
"Come on, Irmã, it could happen to anyone."
Having my money taken is one thing. Sure, it’s annoying, but cash is cash. I can pretend I spent it. Having my WALLET taken – my wallet has my fucking LIFE in it, my licence, my bankcards, student card, Myki, Priceline card, Myer one, Proof of Age (I always have a back-up ID, the perils of looking 16), Medicare card, ambulance membership…
The next day I got up, boiling with rage and barely having slept. I rang the club to see if the wallet was handed in. Nothing. So, I got ready for work, borrowed coins from Charm 'cos I didn't have a damn thing to enable me to get to work with all my money, bankcards and Myki card gone, and headed to the police station to report the thefts. I didn’t like our chances of anything being resolved, but I had to do something.
The officer was helpful, if a little unsure, and told me that although these things mostly went unsolved it was good to report the activity, and that the police could probably access security footage outside the club. So I was happy to wait fifteen minutes while he painstakingly completed the report. What does your wallet look like? How much cash was taken from your friend? Can you name as many items inside as possible? How much is the wallet itself worth? Between what hours did the thefts occur? Where were you at this time? What are your details? What’s your racial background? That one surprised me, actually.
Then he ducked inside to ring the club.
He came back out with a sort of patiently exasperated look. “Your wallet wasn’t stolen. It’s at the club, it was found on the floor. So you might want to go pick it up.” I didn’t even bother to defend myself by saying I’d already checked with the club and didn’t waste police time on purpose – I ran out of the station and all the way back to Number Five Bar to retrieve it.
“Thank God!” I thought, grinning while imaging the policeman shaking his head. “The cash will be long gone and I don’t give a fuck, I need all my cards!”
So I got to the club, a friendly bartender handed me my wallet back, and I strode out clutching it. Then I thought to myself, “Do I dare to dream?” and checked inside.
All my cash was still there. Every cent.
I have some damn good luck sometimes.
However, I left that last part when retelling the story to Brenda. I told her the wallet was handed in empty, and made up some shit about how they probably took the cash out and threw it on the ground. I feel so terrible about her lost money, I’ll just pretend I got robbed as well – at least she won't feel worse.
Close call, Cat.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Because they actually want to dance, not fuck
Lyk ZOMG can't she tell he's teh GAY????///??/?I always have an amazing time at the Night Cat - I love me some live salsa/reggae/funk beats. The only thing is, it can get awkward if I only go with one other girl; invariably some guy will jump in and grab one of us as a dance partner, leaving the other vulnerable. Or we’ll be targeted by college boys’ wingman routines.
So Brenda and I were warming up on the back dance floor, testing the salsa waters, when a young guy sidles up to Brenda and in a loud, aggressively Australian accent slurs, “I couldn’t help but notice you girls are pretty good. Would you mind giving us guys some lessons?”
I notice his friend skulking around to where I’m standing, and sigh. The old wingman routine. Guy #1 engages Brenda under the pretence of wanting to learn salsa steps - the urgency of which suddenly disappeared as he picked up her Brazilian accent and started trying to "get to know her" instead. Guy #2 made feeble attempts at small talk with me, which I am immediately bored by. “So what do you do? Yeah I’m doing my engineering degree. Do you study? What do you study? Where are you from? Where do you work? How do you two know each other? Yeah... nah... yeah...”
Oh, YAWN. I’m here to dance, not die of boredom reliving all my first-year-of-uni conversations.
The band starts up and we make an excuse to lose them, itching as we are to actually dance, as opposed to standing around nodding politely while being chatted up. Later as Brenda and I are in the bathroom she says, "The guy who liked you was cute, didn’t you like him?" I was hard-pressed to explain the whole “turned off by the obnoxious Aussie college boy vibe” to someone with English as a second language, and simply said, “Um, too young.”
Later on in the evening as Brenda is cutting up the floor with a bona fide salsa dancer I found myself flanked by the same two guys again, joined by a third who plonks himself down in the chair opposite to stare from a respectable distance at his mate’s attempted conquest. I grin to myself as I realise the trio are like a Melbourne version of JJ, Freddie and Cook from Skins – "Cook" the bold first guy who used salsa as a way to weedle a conversation out of us, "JJ" the shy but curious outsider, and "Freddie" the dark-haired one hitting on me.
Brenda is dancing with a campy (and holy FUCK he could salsa) guy wearing a beret and scarf with a tank top, and Freddie decides the best way to engage me in conversation is by being a homophobe and assigning me as the sole representative of all womankind everywhere and thus obligated to answer his stupid questions.
“Can I ask you a question?" he begins. "Do girls honestly find that-” pointing disdainfully at beret guy as he swayed against Brenda, “attractive? I mean, how is that attractive? What do you think, the hat, the scarf…” the offending guy broke away from Brenda and performed a spinning spot turn, “I mean, look at that!”
And he got up and performed his own spot turn, waving his arms in an exaggeratedly feminine manner as his mates laughed. “Isn’t that just gay?” Cook and Freddie continue to mock Brenda's partner, complete with hoots and shoulder wiggles as JJ spins his chair around and perches on the opposite side, legs straddling the back like twelve-year-olds do when they think it's cool.
I know this game. This is the part where I giggle insipidly at the boys' incomparable wit, join in making fun of gay guys, and roll my eyes over how stupid the girls who like them are (duh, can't their silly ladybrains recognise boys who wear berets as unsuitable breeding partners?), while also assuring some insecure kid of his superiority and thus encourage his advances. Hell no, Freddie, you’re not tricking me into reassuring you of your manhood. Times like this I wish I'd just pretended I didn’t speak English.
Suddenly, an equally “metrosexual” guy cut into our circle (I like to think he saw my frustration), complete with his own beret and a vest over his t-shirt. He held out a hand for me. “Want to dance?”
I grabbed him straight away with a relieved, “YES.”
And off we sambaed, leaving Freddie, JJ and Cook behind to ponder further why all the gay guys were getting the girls.
So Brenda and I were warming up on the back dance floor, testing the salsa waters, when a young guy sidles up to Brenda and in a loud, aggressively Australian accent slurs, “I couldn’t help but notice you girls are pretty good. Would you mind giving us guys some lessons?”
I notice his friend skulking around to where I’m standing, and sigh. The old wingman routine. Guy #1 engages Brenda under the pretence of wanting to learn salsa steps - the urgency of which suddenly disappeared as he picked up her Brazilian accent and started trying to "get to know her" instead. Guy #2 made feeble attempts at small talk with me, which I am immediately bored by. “So what do you do? Yeah I’m doing my engineering degree. Do you study? What do you study? Where are you from? Where do you work? How do you two know each other? Yeah... nah... yeah...”
Oh, YAWN. I’m here to dance, not die of boredom reliving all my first-year-of-uni conversations.
The band starts up and we make an excuse to lose them, itching as we are to actually dance, as opposed to standing around nodding politely while being chatted up. Later as Brenda and I are in the bathroom she says, "The guy who liked you was cute, didn’t you like him?" I was hard-pressed to explain the whole “turned off by the obnoxious Aussie college boy vibe” to someone with English as a second language, and simply said, “Um, too young.”
Later on in the evening as Brenda is cutting up the floor with a bona fide salsa dancer I found myself flanked by the same two guys again, joined by a third who plonks himself down in the chair opposite to stare from a respectable distance at his mate’s attempted conquest. I grin to myself as I realise the trio are like a Melbourne version of JJ, Freddie and Cook from Skins – "Cook" the bold first guy who used salsa as a way to weedle a conversation out of us, "JJ" the shy but curious outsider, and "Freddie" the dark-haired one hitting on me.
Brenda is dancing with a campy (and holy FUCK he could salsa) guy wearing a beret and scarf with a tank top, and Freddie decides the best way to engage me in conversation is by being a homophobe and assigning me as the sole representative of all womankind everywhere and thus obligated to answer his stupid questions.
“Can I ask you a question?" he begins. "Do girls honestly find that-” pointing disdainfully at beret guy as he swayed against Brenda, “attractive? I mean, how is that attractive? What do you think, the hat, the scarf…” the offending guy broke away from Brenda and performed a spinning spot turn, “I mean, look at that!”
And he got up and performed his own spot turn, waving his arms in an exaggeratedly feminine manner as his mates laughed. “Isn’t that just gay?” Cook and Freddie continue to mock Brenda's partner, complete with hoots and shoulder wiggles as JJ spins his chair around and perches on the opposite side, legs straddling the back like twelve-year-olds do when they think it's cool.
I know this game. This is the part where I giggle insipidly at the boys' incomparable wit, join in making fun of gay guys, and roll my eyes over how stupid the girls who like them are (duh, can't their silly ladybrains recognise boys who wear berets as unsuitable breeding partners?), while also assuring some insecure kid of his superiority and thus encourage his advances. Hell no, Freddie, you’re not tricking me into reassuring you of your manhood. Times like this I wish I'd just pretended I didn’t speak English.
Suddenly, an equally “metrosexual” guy cut into our circle (I like to think he saw my frustration), complete with his own beret and a vest over his t-shirt. He held out a hand for me. “Want to dance?”
I grabbed him straight away with a relieved, “YES.”
And off we sambaed, leaving Freddie, JJ and Cook behind to ponder further why all the gay guys were getting the girls.
(Psst, here's a clue: sometimes, when women go places, the things they want to do actually DON'T somehow revolve around your cock!)
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
No wonder my Running Man was particularly smooth
So there I was, busting a move on the dancefloor during a clubbing rampage over the weekend, drunkenly thinking, "Man, I'm dancing so well tonight, it's like I'm gliding across the floor!"
Then I looked down and realised I was slipping and sliding around in somebody's spilled drink. At least... I hope it was drink.
Then I looked down and realised I was slipping and sliding around in somebody's spilled drink. At least... I hope it was drink.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
That was close, Cat
So after work tonight, me, Charm and Mack were on the train without valid tickets, and lo and behold, there were ticket inspectors. "FUCK," we collectively thought. "But! It is 11:30pm on a Friday night and the train is filled to the brim with drunken idiots, surely they will go for them."
They did not! The four burly inspectors made a beeline for us girls, sitting innocently with our groceries (and our invalid Metcards). Each of us had a 10x 2-hour trip Metcard with an expiration date of some hours ago. If we had bothered to swipe our tickets before boarding the train, the machine would print an expiration time of two hours from now, thus proving our tickets were valid for that trip. But we had opted for saving $3.70 in the hope that inspectors would be scarce at this time of night. Oops.
As we presented our expired tickets for inspection, the leader puffed out his chest impressively.
"AHA! This expired at 7pm! So did yours, young lady! Why didn't you validate your tickets? Where did you get on? Where are you going?"
Mack and Charm were too terrified to answer, and I was panicking myself, but I took a stand (a stand filled with lies). "We DID validate them!" I claimed, fraudulently. "We just finished work and were running for the train so maybe it didn't scan properly! We just got on at South Yarra, and we're getting off at Flinders!"
Ringleader: "If you girls validate those tickets at Flinders and they print out new times [thus proving our tickets weren't valid for the current trip], you will each get a $178 fine."
Us: "FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK..."
The inspectors didn't traverse any of the train, choosing instead to hover threateningly behind our seats, and I heard a group of drunk boys snickering as they jumped off at the next station scot-free. Typical! As we arrive at Flinders St station the inspectors SURROUND us three small girls, and march us to the gates like criminals (which I suppose we were) while EVERY SINGLE OTHER PASSENGER runs like the wind laughing their arses off in their escape. Poor shy Mack by this stage is almost crying.
We get to the gates and I go first, swiping my Metcard. THE TIME DOESN'T PRINT.
Charm and Mack follow. THEIRS DON'T PRINT EITHER.
The ticket inspectors snatch my ticket away and are befuddled. "This isn’t valid! The time is expired!"
Suddenly, for some reason – possibly inebriation – I jump onto my high horse and cling for dear life. "My ticket IS valid, just like I told you! You SAW me walk through the gate and validate it, for God's sake. Here, want me to show you AGAIN?!"
And I snatch the ticket back, swipe it, and the time doesn’t print.
The inspector starts to backpedal. "Well, sometimes the machine is faulty, perhaps YOUR ticket is faulty." He grabs Charm's Metcard and swipes it – the time doesn’t print.
I grin, sensing the tables turning. "I'd like to see each and every one of your colleagues' IDs, please. And what's YOUR name?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because you've unfairly set upon us, when we had valid tickets (LIES), and I have the right to know who I'm dealing with."
"...Donald."
"Is there a last name that goes with that or what?"
He grimaces. "Donald Johns. Look, we're just doing our jobs, going by what we see on the tickets."
Me: "Yes, that's perfectly understandable; however in this case, you're clearly mistaken." LIES!
The group backs off. "Look fine, next time if the ticket doesn't print, take it to the station and get a replacement."
"I wasn't aware you could do that, thank you. Although it IS a little impractical to do so at this time of night, wouldn't you say?"
Female inspector, trying to maintain a shred of authority: "Well, do you still want all our names too?"
Me, airily: "Oh, it was an honest mistake, I'll let you off this time." The NERVE of you, Black Cat - you, who didn't have a ticket in the first place!
We go our separate ways. Once the inspectors are out of earshot...
Charm and Mack, crying with laughter: "HOLY SHIT CAT, HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT WOULD HAPPEN?!"
FIN!
PS: Answer is, I didn't.
PPS: And I don’t condone being a smart-arse to ticket inspectors when you’re actually the one in the wrong. This was pure, unmitigated luck on my behalf. What was that about Black Cats and luck, again?
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Yoink!
After finishing her meal, the lady next to me at China Bar calmly asked a waiter for a small plastic container, then helped herself to ALL the tabletop sambal chili, oblivious to my stifled giggles as she noisily scraped the tin clean.
I didn't know you could do that! Free condiments, WHOOO! *steals soy sauce and cutlery*
I didn't know you could do that! Free condiments, WHOOO! *steals soy sauce and cutlery*
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
The fitting room
Man I hate getting bra fittings.
I hate talking to the sales assistants, for starters – I can’t stand my body being scrutinised by a stranger, let alone a stranger who’s trying to sell me shit.
But the reason I hate bra shopping so much is because women at lingerie stores get my body wrong.
I’m a very petite person – tiny body, skinny limbs, short legs, small waist. It’s probably the Filipino in me. But I also have big boobs. Until recently I refused to buy new bras 1. Because I wasn’t sure if I was buying the correct size and didn’t want to waste money on ill-fitting bras, and 2. Because I was loath to seek help from fitting room ladies who acted like I didn’t know my own breasts.
A few years ago when the much-hyped U Plunge bras bandwagon rolled by, I jumped right on it and I eagerly went into Bras N’ Things to buy one. I have a few low-cut dresses where it’s not ideal to wear a bra underneath, but going braless isn’t really an option for me either. Those things get heavy, y’all.
So I picked the 10C and 12C out, and went into the fitting room where the salesgirl was alternating between myself and another woman next to me. She glanced at the bras I had selected – I explained the need for that particular style – then glanced at my size six body as I turned to face the mirror.
“Um,” she began loudly, eyes taking in my small frame with a smirk, “I’ll get you the B. I don’t think you’re that big.”
I cringed as she disappeared, wondering if the woman in the other stall was laughing at me. I outgrew a B-cup when I was thirteen, but I figured the salesgirl knew what she was doing. Maybe this bra style was designed with bigger cup sizes? How would I know?
I tried on the 10C and it didn’t feel comfortable. The salesgirl popped her head back in with the 10B, saying, “Yeah, it’s not supposed to sit like that. Try this one.”
I squeezed myself into the 10B and stifled a giggle. Now half my damn breast was hanging out each side, like someone had just slapped black duct tape over my nipples. The salesgirl looked in, and was just about to nod her head with approval when I turned and gestured at the unholy amount of side-boob. “I think it’s too small,” I announced drily.
I grudgingly changed into the 12C, but the bra itself (and the style is quite large anyway) was way too big and didn’t fit my body properly. The salesgirl came inside again and concluded with a frown, “You know, I just don’t think this kind of bra is made for you!”
She didn’t elaborate any further – like, why was this bra made for anybody with breasts except me? Were we perhaps getting the sizes wrong? Maybe she should actually step inside and measure me instead of snorting at me from beside the open door? But no, the gal was completely devoid of any helpful recommendations besides sighing and shrugging her shoulders at my amazing uncontrollable breasts. I thanked her and walked out, taking this message with me: There’s nothing wrong with the bra sizes or our products or my assistance, there’s something wrong with YOUR BODY.
And that’s about when I stopped buying new bras, instead wearing the same three favourites over and over again. But that kind of protest can’t last forever, and when those loyal old bras fell apart recently I was forced to face a fitting room again.
At a different store I was served by an older woman, to whom I explained I didn’t know precisely what size I was and that I wasn’t comfortable in most of my bras. She smiled kindly and said, “Ok, pick out some bras to try on and I’ll see what I can do. Just looking at you now you’re a 10 – what – B?”
I rolled my eyes to myself, mentally preparing for a repeat of the oh, I don’t think this bra is MADE for you... and she added, “Unless you’re deceptive underneath that big coat!”
As she joined me in the change room and properly adjusted the bra I was wearing she remarked with a laugh, “Ah, deceptive you are – you're a 10D. I'll get you one.”
And so I bought the first bra that has actually supported my girls properly in a long time. This older saleslady advised me I should always try a bra on and get fitting room assistance before buying it. It's bad for your breasts and your back to be wearing the wrong size, she said. It's our job to make sure you're wearing the right fit, she said. Don't be shy, always try, she said with a grin.
Pass. I figure I’ll just stubbornly cling to my new bras until I outgrow them years from now and have to do this all over again.
I hate talking to the sales assistants, for starters – I can’t stand my body being scrutinised by a stranger, let alone a stranger who’s trying to sell me shit.
But the reason I hate bra shopping so much is because women at lingerie stores get my body wrong.
I’m a very petite person – tiny body, skinny limbs, short legs, small waist. It’s probably the Filipino in me. But I also have big boobs. Until recently I refused to buy new bras 1. Because I wasn’t sure if I was buying the correct size and didn’t want to waste money on ill-fitting bras, and 2. Because I was loath to seek help from fitting room ladies who acted like I didn’t know my own breasts.
A few years ago when the much-hyped U Plunge bras bandwagon rolled by, I jumped right on it and I eagerly went into Bras N’ Things to buy one. I have a few low-cut dresses where it’s not ideal to wear a bra underneath, but going braless isn’t really an option for me either. Those things get heavy, y’all.
So I picked the 10C and 12C out, and went into the fitting room where the salesgirl was alternating between myself and another woman next to me. She glanced at the bras I had selected – I explained the need for that particular style – then glanced at my size six body as I turned to face the mirror.
“Um,” she began loudly, eyes taking in my small frame with a smirk, “I’ll get you the B. I don’t think you’re that big.”
I cringed as she disappeared, wondering if the woman in the other stall was laughing at me. I outgrew a B-cup when I was thirteen, but I figured the salesgirl knew what she was doing. Maybe this bra style was designed with bigger cup sizes? How would I know?
I tried on the 10C and it didn’t feel comfortable. The salesgirl popped her head back in with the 10B, saying, “Yeah, it’s not supposed to sit like that. Try this one.”
I squeezed myself into the 10B and stifled a giggle. Now half my damn breast was hanging out each side, like someone had just slapped black duct tape over my nipples. The salesgirl looked in, and was just about to nod her head with approval when I turned and gestured at the unholy amount of side-boob. “I think it’s too small,” I announced drily.
I grudgingly changed into the 12C, but the bra itself (and the style is quite large anyway) was way too big and didn’t fit my body properly. The salesgirl came inside again and concluded with a frown, “You know, I just don’t think this kind of bra is made for you!”
She didn’t elaborate any further – like, why was this bra made for anybody with breasts except me? Were we perhaps getting the sizes wrong? Maybe she should actually step inside and measure me instead of snorting at me from beside the open door? But no, the gal was completely devoid of any helpful recommendations besides sighing and shrugging her shoulders at my amazing uncontrollable breasts. I thanked her and walked out, taking this message with me: There’s nothing wrong with the bra sizes or our products or my assistance, there’s something wrong with YOUR BODY.
And that’s about when I stopped buying new bras, instead wearing the same three favourites over and over again. But that kind of protest can’t last forever, and when those loyal old bras fell apart recently I was forced to face a fitting room again.
At a different store I was served by an older woman, to whom I explained I didn’t know precisely what size I was and that I wasn’t comfortable in most of my bras. She smiled kindly and said, “Ok, pick out some bras to try on and I’ll see what I can do. Just looking at you now you’re a 10 – what – B?”
I rolled my eyes to myself, mentally preparing for a repeat of the oh, I don’t think this bra is MADE for you... and she added, “Unless you’re deceptive underneath that big coat!”
As she joined me in the change room and properly adjusted the bra I was wearing she remarked with a laugh, “Ah, deceptive you are – you're a 10D. I'll get you one.”
And so I bought the first bra that has actually supported my girls properly in a long time. This older saleslady advised me I should always try a bra on and get fitting room assistance before buying it. It's bad for your breasts and your back to be wearing the wrong size, she said. It's our job to make sure you're wearing the right fit, she said. Don't be shy, always try, she said with a grin.
Pass. I figure I’ll just stubbornly cling to my new bras until I outgrow them years from now and have to do this all over again.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Why my mum doesn't work in tech support
INT. LOUNGE ROOM, HOME – DAY
THE BLACK CAT sits on the couch, quietly wasting the afternoon looking up South American capitals on Wikipedia via her laptop. Enter MAMA CAT.
MAMA CAT: Cat, do you know how to defrag your computer?
THE BLACK CAT: No, what’s that?
MAMA CAT: Your computer is too slow, so this will delete all the files you don’t need and make it faster! Look up “steps to defrag Windows Vista” on Google!
THE BLACK CAT: (complying) Ok… (after a pause) Do I have to download this thing?
MAMA CAT: WHAT?! NO! DON’T DOWNLOAD ANYTHING! LOOK UP THE STEPS! THE STEEEEPS!! (exhales angrily)
THE BLACK CAT: Ok, ok! Here, “how to defrag your Windows Vista drives”.
MAMA CAT: Let me read it! (scrolls up and down squinting at screen without glasses on)
THE BLACK CAT: (actually reading instructions, begins going through the defrag steps)
MAMA CAT: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! DON’T DO ANYTHING! DON’T TOUCH! I’M TRYING TO FIND IT!
THE BLACK CAT: (opens Disk Defragmenter program)
MAMA CAT: WHAT’S THAT?! STOP IT! DON’T DOWNLOAD!
THE BLACK CAT: I’m not downloading, that’s the program!
MAMA CAT: JESUS CHRIST! DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING IF YOU DON’T KNOW DON’T TOUCH IT! I’ll go to my computer and write down MY instructions. (storms off muttering) Don’t need to DOWNLOAD! DOWNLOAD!
THE BLACK CAT: If you do the exact same thing I did you are in so much trouble.
INT. BACKROOM, HOME – DAY
MAMA CAT is at her computer while THE BLACK CAT stands behind her.
MAMA CAT: (opens a webpage with exact same instructions THE BLACK CAT was following) Now, I’ll write it down, but just watch. You do this, and this, and click this…
MAMA CAT: (opens Disk Defragmenter program)
THE BLACK CAT: MUM, THAT’S THE EXACT SAME THING I DID ONLY SLOWER.
FIN!
THE BLACK CAT sits on the couch, quietly wasting the afternoon looking up South American capitals on Wikipedia via her laptop. Enter MAMA CAT.
MAMA CAT: Cat, do you know how to defrag your computer?
THE BLACK CAT: No, what’s that?
MAMA CAT: Your computer is too slow, so this will delete all the files you don’t need and make it faster! Look up “steps to defrag Windows Vista” on Google!
THE BLACK CAT: (complying) Ok… (after a pause) Do I have to download this thing?
MAMA CAT: WHAT?! NO! DON’T DOWNLOAD ANYTHING! LOOK UP THE STEPS! THE STEEEEPS!! (exhales angrily)
THE BLACK CAT: Ok, ok! Here, “how to defrag your Windows Vista drives”.
MAMA CAT: Let me read it! (scrolls up and down squinting at screen without glasses on)
THE BLACK CAT: (actually reading instructions, begins going through the defrag steps)
MAMA CAT: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! DON’T DO ANYTHING! DON’T TOUCH! I’M TRYING TO FIND IT!
THE BLACK CAT: (opens Disk Defragmenter program)
MAMA CAT: WHAT’S THAT?! STOP IT! DON’T DOWNLOAD!
THE BLACK CAT: I’m not downloading, that’s the program!
MAMA CAT: JESUS CHRIST! DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING IF YOU DON’T KNOW DON’T TOUCH IT! I’ll go to my computer and write down MY instructions. (storms off muttering) Don’t need to DOWNLOAD! DOWNLOAD!
THE BLACK CAT: If you do the exact same thing I did you are in so much trouble.
INT. BACKROOM, HOME – DAY
MAMA CAT is at her computer while THE BLACK CAT stands behind her.
MAMA CAT: (opens a webpage with exact same instructions THE BLACK CAT was following) Now, I’ll write it down, but just watch. You do this, and this, and click this…
MAMA CAT: (opens Disk Defragmenter program)
THE BLACK CAT: MUM, THAT’S THE EXACT SAME THING I DID ONLY SLOWER.
FIN!
Friday, October 30, 2009
Nice Guy Whinetini
Ho boy. So there I was at Berlin Bar socialising with and slowly getting to know my friend Monique's latest squeeze, when what does the guy do? HE GOES ON A NICE GUY RANT.
If friends’ relationships had that little option like YouTube comments do, where you can click “thumbs up” or “thumbs down”, this guy would be sitting on -2 as a prospective boyfriend.
“Here’s what I don’t understand about women...” he suddenly blurts. That gets my attention straightaway, and not in an attentive OMG-Smart-Man-Saying-Something-Witty way.
“With women it’s like, applying for a job, right? You ace the interview, you’re neatly-presented and polite, and have all the right qualifications. But they say no, actually, despite all that I’m going to hire this other guy who is less qualified than you, who turns up late for work and sometimes drinks! And then they phone you and complain about what a jerk the OTHER GUY is! What is with that?”
Luckily for this guy’s balls the topic was killed by the abrupt arrival of our cocktail waiter but I couldn’t get the painful sound of STUPID out of my ears all night.
Oh, so women – simply by existing – are by default “advertising” for this “job”. And every single guy is, by default, automatically granted this figurative job interview? What are these purported “qualifications” you have that are so wonderful anyhow? And what is this “job” you think you’re applying for, can we elaborate on that? The job of you getting to have sex with hot chicks? You picked the metaphor, jackass, I’m just rolling with it.
Here’s the thing about the Nice Guy rant. Oh, you know the one. “I’m so nice but women only want to be FRIENDS with me and they only like jerks and then they COMPLAIN TO ME ABOUT THEM THE INSENSTIVE DUMBASS WHORES WOE IS ME.”
1. You are assuming the world is made up of only three types of people. Nice Guys, Jerks, and Women.
2. Women are generally saying “I just want to be friends” or keep up some pretence of a civil relationship with you because they are socialised to be nice and submissive and polite, so although they are aware you are sexually interested in them they ARE NOT INTERESTED IN YOU but do not want to hurt your feelings or possibly compromise their safety by being a “bitch” about it. Like that matters, because somebody like you probably only sees women are bitches and hos anyway.
3. Is your head so fucking up your own arse that you don’t have the slightest shred of a clue about your own roaring hypocrisy? Going on about how shallow women are for rejecting you when you are only ever referring to women you find ATTRACTIVE? If an unattractive woman you found “nice” had a desperate crush on you, would you play by your own rules and date the Nice Girl Who is “Qualified” or the Hottie Who Is Slightly Less “Qualified” but you’re much more interested in?
4. If you expect sex as a reward you are entitled to for being a decent human being to attractive women, and complain about women who subsequently believe you’re their friend (probably why confide in you about their relationship problems, funnily enough!) after you fucking emotionally manipulated them trying to get yourself laid, and then get FURIOUS and BITTER when it becomes clear they're not interested... THEN YOU ARE NOT A VERY NICE GUY. At least a Jerk is straightforward about being a jerk – you on the other hand are creepy and calculating and do not accept a woman’s right to chose whom to date, whom to fuck and whom to reject.
5. In fact you can fuck right off you entitled misogynistic little turd.
6. No really, fuck off.
Yes, rejection sucks, but let’s not chalk it up to how you’re so fucking nice and it’s all womankind’s fault for being too shallow and dumb to see it. Here’s a novel idea! Try seeing women as human beings, not a collective vagina that won’t let you put your penis in it!
Monique, I’m worried. In case you’re wondering about what the other “thumbs down” was for, Mr New Guy is also very picky and judgemental about the way women dress – deriding passing girls with jeans of a certain fit as having a “bad look” for example, or asserting how women shouldn’t wear X with Y. Yet he looks like Elton fucking John. Both of these flaws about him are coming from the same place. It’s not the place Good Boyfriends come from.
If friends’ relationships had that little option like YouTube comments do, where you can click “thumbs up” or “thumbs down”, this guy would be sitting on -2 as a prospective boyfriend.
“Here’s what I don’t understand about women...” he suddenly blurts. That gets my attention straightaway, and not in an attentive OMG-Smart-Man-Saying-Something-Witty way.
“With women it’s like, applying for a job, right? You ace the interview, you’re neatly-presented and polite, and have all the right qualifications. But they say no, actually, despite all that I’m going to hire this other guy who is less qualified than you, who turns up late for work and sometimes drinks! And then they phone you and complain about what a jerk the OTHER GUY is! What is with that?”
Luckily for this guy’s balls the topic was killed by the abrupt arrival of our cocktail waiter but I couldn’t get the painful sound of STUPID out of my ears all night.
Oh, so women – simply by existing – are by default “advertising” for this “job”. And every single guy is, by default, automatically granted this figurative job interview? What are these purported “qualifications” you have that are so wonderful anyhow? And what is this “job” you think you’re applying for, can we elaborate on that? The job of you getting to have sex with hot chicks? You picked the metaphor, jackass, I’m just rolling with it.
Here’s the thing about the Nice Guy rant. Oh, you know the one. “I’m so nice but women only want to be FRIENDS with me and they only like jerks and then they COMPLAIN TO ME ABOUT THEM THE INSENSTIVE DUMBASS WHORES WOE IS ME.”
1. You are assuming the world is made up of only three types of people. Nice Guys, Jerks, and Women.
2. Women are generally saying “I just want to be friends” or keep up some pretence of a civil relationship with you because they are socialised to be nice and submissive and polite, so although they are aware you are sexually interested in them they ARE NOT INTERESTED IN YOU but do not want to hurt your feelings or possibly compromise their safety by being a “bitch” about it. Like that matters, because somebody like you probably only sees women are bitches and hos anyway.
3. Is your head so fucking up your own arse that you don’t have the slightest shred of a clue about your own roaring hypocrisy? Going on about how shallow women are for rejecting you when you are only ever referring to women you find ATTRACTIVE? If an unattractive woman you found “nice” had a desperate crush on you, would you play by your own rules and date the Nice Girl Who is “Qualified” or the Hottie Who Is Slightly Less “Qualified” but you’re much more interested in?
4. If you expect sex as a reward you are entitled to for being a decent human being to attractive women, and complain about women who subsequently believe you’re their friend (probably why confide in you about their relationship problems, funnily enough!) after you fucking emotionally manipulated them trying to get yourself laid, and then get FURIOUS and BITTER when it becomes clear they're not interested... THEN YOU ARE NOT A VERY NICE GUY. At least a Jerk is straightforward about being a jerk – you on the other hand are creepy and calculating and do not accept a woman’s right to chose whom to date, whom to fuck and whom to reject.
5. In fact you can fuck right off you entitled misogynistic little turd.
6. No really, fuck off.
Yes, rejection sucks, but let’s not chalk it up to how you’re so fucking nice and it’s all womankind’s fault for being too shallow and dumb to see it. Here’s a novel idea! Try seeing women as human beings, not a collective vagina that won’t let you put your penis in it!
Monique, I’m worried. In case you’re wondering about what the other “thumbs down” was for, Mr New Guy is also very picky and judgemental about the way women dress – deriding passing girls with jeans of a certain fit as having a “bad look” for example, or asserting how women shouldn’t wear X with Y. Yet he looks like Elton fucking John. Both of these flaws about him are coming from the same place. It’s not the place Good Boyfriends come from.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Can you get me that thing that's in the thing beside that other thing?
According to my voicemail my mum wants some “computer software” that has been left somewhere in my huge messy house after I swapped two old computers for one new one and a laptop; the "software", might actually be "hardware", she's not sure but she knows it is “in a drawer”, so could I please find the “thing” and express post it to her?
Gee Mum, can you vague that up a bit more for me?
Gee Mum, can you vague that up a bit more for me?
Friday, October 16, 2009
"I'm sexy! I'm cute! I'm popular to BOOT!"
At the train station, I was distracted from my book by a wildly-gesturing, loud-voiced young man pacing up and down the platform whilst talking animatedly on the phone.
“Yeah my trip was awesome, in ten days I was the most popular person at the backpacker’s, basically I was the crazy one everybody wanted to party with, I’ve long since worked out I can have fun with a cardboard box, so what are the plans for tonight, I’m meeting people in the city, or we might go to Prahran...”
A crazy thought struck me. Is it possible that he was staging an elaborate pantomime of a phone conversation for an audience of crowded travellers in some weird attempt to seem cool and popular? Because honestly, he just seemed like too much of an arrogant wanker to actually have friends that would listen to him talk for longer than five minutes, and the phrases he used and the volume at which his voice delivered them just screamed, “LOOK AT ME LISTEN IN TO MY CONVERSATION I WANT YOU TO KNOW HOW FUN AND CRAZY AND IN-DEMAND I AM I HAVE SOMETHING TO PROVE!” I mean, I haven't heard anyone use the word “popular” like that since high school.
Then again he might have been speeding off his head. The way his hips swung exaggeratedly while he covered the ground of the entire platform in maniacal struts would certainly suggest so. And hey man – ANYONE can have fun with a cardboard box! I practically spent my entire childhood making shit out of them! You’re not some über-special Bastion of Awesomeness!
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
He's lucky he's cute. And I'm chicken.
Something said by a bar manager during a bar training session held at my place of work still bothers me and sort of illustrates perfectly why I loathe hospitality so much sometimes. Our trainer Ashley was explaining that when serving certain beers you shouldn’t pour all the way to the top of the glass, because some ‘beer connoisseurs’ (I know. I know.) like to have nose space in order to adequately discern the fragrance of the beer. According to Ashley, though, some customers don’t display the same levels of refinement:
“You sort of have to read the customer, like if you serve a beer like that to a New Zealander they’ll be all like, ‘What are you doing, top it up bro!’ But that’s just a lack of education.”
Erm.
Ashley, despite the fact I have a huge crush on you I must tell you that was an incredibly arrogant privileged classist and yes, racist thing to say (given that the accent you put on while imitating a New Zealander was of the exaggerated Maori type).
Here’s the thing. I could go through an entire PHD scholarship and never come across information pertaining to the manner in which I must drink some obscure beer in order to appreciate its subtle finery. If you were to then call me uneducated using a single encounter in some pompous bar as your evidence, I would probably throw that beer in your face.
You seem quite intelligent and despite a bit of industry arrogance you are quite a nice guy. But you’re hardly the most educated person I know. Some respect for others wouldn’t go astray.
It is so offensive to call anybody uneducated. It implies a smug superiority and usually plays on old stereotypes regarding class and race. These are still very real inequalities that affect people – class and/or race can decide whether an underprivileged person can or can’t access education.
Given that you were not talking about issues affecting society, but the way to enjoy some pretentious beer, makes the ‘lack of education’ slur doubly offensive. Some perspective, please.
“You sort of have to read the customer, like if you serve a beer like that to a New Zealander they’ll be all like, ‘What are you doing, top it up bro!’ But that’s just a lack of education.”
Erm.
Ashley, despite the fact I have a huge crush on you I must tell you that was an incredibly arrogant privileged classist and yes, racist thing to say (given that the accent you put on while imitating a New Zealander was of the exaggerated Maori type).
Here’s the thing. I could go through an entire PHD scholarship and never come across information pertaining to the manner in which I must drink some obscure beer in order to appreciate its subtle finery. If you were to then call me uneducated using a single encounter in some pompous bar as your evidence, I would probably throw that beer in your face.
You seem quite intelligent and despite a bit of industry arrogance you are quite a nice guy. But you’re hardly the most educated person I know. Some respect for others wouldn’t go astray.
It is so offensive to call anybody uneducated. It implies a smug superiority and usually plays on old stereotypes regarding class and race. These are still very real inequalities that affect people – class and/or race can decide whether an underprivileged person can or can’t access education.
Given that you were not talking about issues affecting society, but the way to enjoy some pretentious beer, makes the ‘lack of education’ slur doubly offensive. Some perspective, please.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Food Pranksters!
One of my customers - a pretentious braggart we shall call "Redmond" - claims to be a music and TV producer. Or some crap, I don’t know, I wasn’t listening to him. So one time during an after-work drink Redmond announced, “Hey, we could use your restaurant for this great new idea I came up with for a TV show! We take people and give them food they wouldn’t normally eat – and film their reaction when they realise they’ve eaten it!”
This is how I imagined that would play out.
Host: Welcome back to Food Pranksters! So, how are you enjoying your chicken, madam?
Contestant #1: It’s fine, a little salty...
Host: What would you say if I told you THERE ARE PEANUTS IN THE SAUCE!
Contestant #1: I probably wouldn’t say anything, my airways would just close up and I’d go into anaphylactic shock- *collapses*
Host: Hohoho! Gotcha! And you sir, are you enjoying that halal stir-fry?
Contestant #2: It’s nice and spicy, with a great texture!
Host: Uh oh! That might be due to the secret ingredient – shredded pork! Somebody’s getting a smiting from Allah!
Contestant #2: *spit-take*
Host: Hohoho! Yep, that’s why they call us the Food Pranksters!
Me: “Um... Redmond I don’t think that’s a good idea for a show.”
This is how I imagined that would play out.
Host: Welcome back to Food Pranksters! So, how are you enjoying your chicken, madam?
Contestant #1: It’s fine, a little salty...
Host: What would you say if I told you THERE ARE PEANUTS IN THE SAUCE!
Contestant #1: I probably wouldn’t say anything, my airways would just close up and I’d go into anaphylactic shock- *collapses*
Host: Hohoho! Gotcha! And you sir, are you enjoying that halal stir-fry?
Contestant #2: It’s nice and spicy, with a great texture!
Host: Uh oh! That might be due to the secret ingredient – shredded pork! Somebody’s getting a smiting from Allah!
Contestant #2: *spit-take*
Host: Hohoho! Yep, that’s why they call us the Food Pranksters!
Me: “Um... Redmond I don’t think that’s a good idea for a show.”
Friday, September 4, 2009
Dancin' in the summer rain
To the girl in the green shirt, white scarf and black pants running around my uni in the rain with her shoes in her hand jumping in puddles: you're awesome. That's how life should be lived.
Monday, August 31, 2009
So now I always sit in the back
I’ve never written about this incident – namely because it happened during the Great Four Month Homelessness of 2008, when I was living at Kuya's and had no access to my hard drive or my winter clothes. But Karen Healey’s recent post, Snakes in the Grass has brought it all back.
One Monday evening last year, when I was working at the old place (bar/restaurant in the city) the boys and I finished work so late that I’d missed all the trams and had to get a cab. Curtis flagged one for me after we’d had an after-work beer, and the cab driver (youngish) must have taken in the environment before I was in the front seat heading to Kew.
After a moment’s silence along Victoria Street, the driver broke the quiet with, “So, you like drinking? You like drinking with boys?”
The implications of that (abrupt) sentence would normally get me into a debate. But I wasn’t in the mood to argue about double standards and whatnot – I was in the mood to suddenly detect a threat and mentally calculate both the time it would take to get home and strategies for concealing my actual place of address while answering the question in a way that might deter any further conversation.
Which is not so much a mood, but y’know.
“Actually, that bar is where I work,” I answered stiffly. “Those guys are my colleagues.”
During that answer I surprised myself by indignantly thinking, I’m just wearing my work clothes and a hoodie! Why is he suddenly implying I’m a drunken floozy- no, stop right there. Even if I’d stumbled into the cab in a gold mini dress he’d have no right to harass me. Clothing should not make the slightest difference to the manner in which I am treated by a cab driver. Not that it made a difference later.
The driver attempted more conversation, most of which I answered untruthfully. What do you do? What do you study? How often do you work? Do you go out on weekends? Do you live alone? (to THAT one I invented several older brothers as housemates) Then, it was a sly, “So, are there any bottle shops around here?”
“What?” I asked, feigning confusion as my heart started to pound. “I don’t know, there’s a Dan Murphy’s coming up but I don’t think it’d be open this time on a Monday night, why?”
He grinned. “We can get some beer.”
Skin now crawling. “But you’re driving.”
“The beer is for you!”
At this stage I’m half out of my mind with fear, looking around the dark streets as we approach Kew Junction and knowing nobody is around. “No thank you, please just take me home.”
In response he turned off the meter. “The rest of the fare is on me.”
I squeaked a thank you, snaking a hand in my bag for my apartment keys and wallet.
We reached my street, and I told him to drop me off ‘on the corner’ – my actual apartment building was therefore hidden from view, but by this time I’m frantically wondering how fast I can run, how quickly I can turn the key in the door of the building (and let me tell you, I’m the kind of person who will muck any simple thing up in a state of panic).
I hand him cash for the fare, unbuckle my seatbelt, and he asks, “Ok, what about a tip?”
It is polite but not customary to tip cab drivers in Australia, so that was an unusual question but I put aside my fear long enough to reason, sure, he did give me a fair portion of the ride for free. I start scooping some coins together when he grabs my arm.
“No, I mean my sweet tips,” he insisted, using his other hand to tap his cheek. “My sweet tips.”
My mind exploded. Oh my God, he wants a kiss, he’s bigger than me, it’s so dark, he thinks I like drinking with boys, he’s still in control of the car, how fast can I run, how loud can I scream, is there anything in my bag I can use as a weapon, nobody knows where I am, does my phone have enough battery to call 000, would anybody be in that house over there, what if the childproof lock is on the car door, now he’s leaning closer...
Finally, I SMILED (probably trying to preserve myself best I can, but it still makes me angry) and threw the loose change at him.
The driver jerked backwards as the coins scattered everywhere, I threw the door open and ran for my life.
He did not follow me by car or by foot. I got into my apartment, barricaded the door with a lounge chair, and shook for about an hour before ringing my work friends and telling them.
“I’m shaking, what do I do? Do you remember what he looked like or anything?” I asked.
“No,” Curtis answered, “Jesus, did you get down his ID number?”
I froze. The name and identification card of Victorian taxi drivers is displayed on the windshield along with a six digit driver number. I hadn’t thought of that. “No.”
“Why not? If you did you could report him – you know there are security cams in taxis now, right? And he’ll probably try it on someone else, I mean don’t you remember anything? Did his picture match his ID? Or did you get the numberplate of the taxi?”
So here’s something I wish I'd thought of to say.
No, I did not record his identification number, the numberplate of the vehicle, and today I would probably be hard-pressed to give a detailed description of the guy. I am not of the habit of carrying around a notebook and pen and whipping it out in order to calmly record ‘useful’ such details DURING MOMENTS OF UNIMAGINABLE FUCKING TERROR.
I was scared OUT OF MY MIND. I took what I thought were the best courses of action - for all I knew, I had to protect my LIFE! Sure, it might’ve been useful if I’d had the presence of mind to memorise the ID number at some point. But try going back in time, to that moment in the dark passenger seat when you’re alone with a guy bigger and stronger and in control of the vehicle and SEXUALLY INTERESTED IN YOU gripping your arm and asking for a kiss and see how useful YOU feel!
‘Cos I was feeling pretty fight or flight, myself.
It’s just... when you’ve been victimised, you really don’t need to be treated like an idiot on top of that, you know? I was already blaming myself plenty. And given the way the situation turned out – unpleasant advances, minor physical altercation, escaped safely – I know it could have been worse. I protected myself as best I could in a situation I was not in control of. To add to that, “Yeah, but you should’ve...” is so undermining and wounding, to take away what I DID do to protect myself and blame me for what I DIDN'T do to protect some imaginary future person?
Don't. Don't ever, especially if you consider yourself a friend to the person who has just been traumatised.
So I’m going to end this disturbing story with Karen’s wise words to me, something she insists I should not have waited so long for:
One Monday evening last year, when I was working at the old place (bar/restaurant in the city) the boys and I finished work so late that I’d missed all the trams and had to get a cab. Curtis flagged one for me after we’d had an after-work beer, and the cab driver (youngish) must have taken in the environment before I was in the front seat heading to Kew.
After a moment’s silence along Victoria Street, the driver broke the quiet with, “So, you like drinking? You like drinking with boys?”
The implications of that (abrupt) sentence would normally get me into a debate. But I wasn’t in the mood to argue about double standards and whatnot – I was in the mood to suddenly detect a threat and mentally calculate both the time it would take to get home and strategies for concealing my actual place of address while answering the question in a way that might deter any further conversation.
Which is not so much a mood, but y’know.
“Actually, that bar is where I work,” I answered stiffly. “Those guys are my colleagues.”
During that answer I surprised myself by indignantly thinking, I’m just wearing my work clothes and a hoodie! Why is he suddenly implying I’m a drunken floozy- no, stop right there. Even if I’d stumbled into the cab in a gold mini dress he’d have no right to harass me. Clothing should not make the slightest difference to the manner in which I am treated by a cab driver. Not that it made a difference later.
The driver attempted more conversation, most of which I answered untruthfully. What do you do? What do you study? How often do you work? Do you go out on weekends? Do you live alone? (to THAT one I invented several older brothers as housemates) Then, it was a sly, “So, are there any bottle shops around here?”
“What?” I asked, feigning confusion as my heart started to pound. “I don’t know, there’s a Dan Murphy’s coming up but I don’t think it’d be open this time on a Monday night, why?”
He grinned. “We can get some beer.”
Skin now crawling. “But you’re driving.”
“The beer is for you!”
At this stage I’m half out of my mind with fear, looking around the dark streets as we approach Kew Junction and knowing nobody is around. “No thank you, please just take me home.”
In response he turned off the meter. “The rest of the fare is on me.”
I squeaked a thank you, snaking a hand in my bag for my apartment keys and wallet.
We reached my street, and I told him to drop me off ‘on the corner’ – my actual apartment building was therefore hidden from view, but by this time I’m frantically wondering how fast I can run, how quickly I can turn the key in the door of the building (and let me tell you, I’m the kind of person who will muck any simple thing up in a state of panic).
I hand him cash for the fare, unbuckle my seatbelt, and he asks, “Ok, what about a tip?”
It is polite but not customary to tip cab drivers in Australia, so that was an unusual question but I put aside my fear long enough to reason, sure, he did give me a fair portion of the ride for free. I start scooping some coins together when he grabs my arm.
“No, I mean my sweet tips,” he insisted, using his other hand to tap his cheek. “My sweet tips.”
My mind exploded. Oh my God, he wants a kiss, he’s bigger than me, it’s so dark, he thinks I like drinking with boys, he’s still in control of the car, how fast can I run, how loud can I scream, is there anything in my bag I can use as a weapon, nobody knows where I am, does my phone have enough battery to call 000, would anybody be in that house over there, what if the childproof lock is on the car door, now he’s leaning closer...
Finally, I SMILED (probably trying to preserve myself best I can, but it still makes me angry) and threw the loose change at him.
The driver jerked backwards as the coins scattered everywhere, I threw the door open and ran for my life.
He did not follow me by car or by foot. I got into my apartment, barricaded the door with a lounge chair, and shook for about an hour before ringing my work friends and telling them.
“I’m shaking, what do I do? Do you remember what he looked like or anything?” I asked.
“No,” Curtis answered, “Jesus, did you get down his ID number?”
I froze. The name and identification card of Victorian taxi drivers is displayed on the windshield along with a six digit driver number. I hadn’t thought of that. “No.”
“Why not? If you did you could report him – you know there are security cams in taxis now, right? And he’ll probably try it on someone else, I mean don’t you remember anything? Did his picture match his ID? Or did you get the numberplate of the taxi?”
So here’s something I wish I'd thought of to say.
No, I did not record his identification number, the numberplate of the vehicle, and today I would probably be hard-pressed to give a detailed description of the guy. I am not of the habit of carrying around a notebook and pen and whipping it out in order to calmly record ‘useful’ such details DURING MOMENTS OF UNIMAGINABLE FUCKING TERROR.
I was scared OUT OF MY MIND. I took what I thought were the best courses of action - for all I knew, I had to protect my LIFE! Sure, it might’ve been useful if I’d had the presence of mind to memorise the ID number at some point. But try going back in time, to that moment in the dark passenger seat when you’re alone with a guy bigger and stronger and in control of the vehicle and SEXUALLY INTERESTED IN YOU gripping your arm and asking for a kiss and see how useful YOU feel!
‘Cos I was feeling pretty fight or flight, myself.
It’s just... when you’ve been victimised, you really don’t need to be treated like an idiot on top of that, you know? I was already blaming myself plenty. And given the way the situation turned out – unpleasant advances, minor physical altercation, escaped safely – I know it could have been worse. I protected myself as best I could in a situation I was not in control of. To add to that, “Yeah, but you should’ve...” is so undermining and wounding, to take away what I DID do to protect myself and blame me for what I DIDN'T do to protect some imaginary future person?
Don't. Don't ever, especially if you consider yourself a friend to the person who has just been traumatised.
So I’m going to end this disturbing story with Karen’s wise words to me, something she insists I should not have waited so long for:
You are, like everyone, absolutely entitled to the basic right to go about your day unharassed and unmolested. When someone acts as if you don't have that right, it is not because you suddenly don't deserve it. The failure is not yours.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Cigarettes (or probably me) will kill you
Don’t you hate it when you’re walking home with a couple, and that couple have just had a fight, and so you’re walking home smack in the middle of huffy awkward silence?
Well that’s what I was trying to avoid Saturday night with Kuya and Charm. After karaoke I ran ahead on
So us gals were both steaming along, angry-drunk, her pissed off with Kuya and me pissed off in general, and this group of five or six guys walk past. One stops to remark, “You ladies both look beautiful tonight! Especially the one in the pink!”
Charm and I exchanged glances. Both of us were wearing black.
Shrugging, we continued walking, trying to quickly overtake the stumbling group, but alas the clicking of our heels gave away our gendered presence. One turned around, waving an unlit cigarette and slurring, “Hey, you girls have a light?”
Charm, who was actually taking a drag from her own cigarette, glanced at him with a straight face and goes, “… No.”
I would have laughed if I wasn’t already boiling with alcohol-induced rage, and we both quickened our pace. Skirting over
“Oh, c’mon… do you have a light? Give us a light, c’mon…. hey, hey, can you tell me a secret?”
We waked faster, trying to lose him with the old ‘pretend you can’t hear them’ routine but he would not let up. At this stage I’d started muttering to myself, so Charm chose to engage with our pursuer.
“No, I don’t have a lighter, there’s a 7-eleven nearby, try there.”
“But um… I don’t have any money.”
“I don’t have any money either.”
“Oh… C’mon…”
We walked faster. He followed.
“Can I just light my cigarette off yours?”
Finally Charm grudgingly obliged, slowing down to hand him her cigarette, and Kuya – who had hitherto been following us a hundred metres back ‘cos he was still shitty with Charm – chose that moment to play Protective Boyfriend.
He shouldered in between Random Guy and Charm, towering over him, and snatched her cigarette back. “You enjoying that?”
The guy took a moment to register confusion and possible hostility, when Charm explained, “This is my boyfriend.”
“Oh – sorry man!”
End of saga. As soon as the bulky presence of The Boyfriend appeared Random Guy magically didn’t want a lighter anymore, funny that. I stood with my eyes narrowed and arms folded, seething until Kuya gently guided me back across the road. “C’mon darl.”
“Grrr…”
I really wish I’d said to the guy, “We don’t have to give you shit, you weird obsessive freak. Get your own lighter and leave us alone.” Or maybe a more polite variant. No fuck it, why do I have to be polite, you’re fucking scaring me!
Fuck you, drunk guy. We were just trying to make our way home. We had both had it and were shitty as hell. We did not want to be harassed by you. We are not obliged to give you a cigarette lighter or in any way respond to a stranger’s demands attentively and politely at
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
What do international students have to do with q-tips blocking the drain?
We finally had someone come in to look at our broken washing machine yesterday and he goes, "Yeah... the machine is fine, it's actually the pipes. You have to call a plumber." THEN HE CHARGED US $104.
Me: For WHAT?
Washing Machine Man: Service charge $75, manual labour $20, plus GST $9.
The manual labour he is referring to is sliding the machine out then pushing it back again. I wish I had a job where I could charge whatever I wanted for doing fuck all! Imagine if I charged a customer $104 for a meal they didn't get plus manual labour for seating them and fetching them water? Oh this is a general service charge, but my official recommendation is that you need an actual CHEF to cook a meal for you.
But the burning hole in my wallet may have been worth it, because before he left Washing Machine Man had a few pearls of widsom to share with my sister.
Washing Machine Man: Y'know, the previous tenants probably fucked up the pipes somehow. I'm not racist, but... you know these Asian students that come over here? They don't stay too long so they've got no incentive to keep the place clean or take care of it. The way they live is just disgusting. They're rich too so they're used to people cleaning up after them.
My Sister: *staring with mouth hanging open*
So I called a plumber in, the plumber found the blockage and what do you suppose it was?
Hundreds of those little white plastic sticks from q-tip cotton buds!
Plumber: Say, do you wash cotton buds or lollipops or something down the drain?
Me: ... No.
So ended my day of WTF, with many questions left to ponder. Did Washing Machine Man take a manual labour job especially to spread his unsolicited racism around? What do international students have to do with q-tips in the drain? Is he aware a lot of Asian students are not rich brats with their own servants but normal smart kids sent over by hard-working parents? And I don't suppose he realised our mother happens to be Asian when he snarked about the way 'they' live?
This is especially funny 'cos the previous tenants of my apartment are folks with the suspiciously Anglo-sounding names of Sarah Maloney and Ryan Goodwin. You can't fool Washing Machine Man, you q-tip abusing commie bastards!
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Fightbook
Facebook provides me with entertainment in many ways. People fighting in the ‘comments’ section of their friends’ status updates is one of the main ones.
Just a warning, I’ve directly quoted comments (albeit with all names changed to obvious pseudonyms), painful misspellings, grammar/punctuation abuse, and all; there is also swearing and some offensive remarks. Hey, I'm not editing this crap!
Molly Pollywaffle: i dont care i am not paying for your gastric band surgery !!!stop eating have some exercise and go on a diet !!
That’s a status update by the way. Curious as to what the hell she was on about, I clicked to read the responses. That girl was always thin as a stick during high school, and she is not somebody I would consider overweight in any sense, so I caught a whiff of Thin Privilege, if that is the correct term, as well as an instinct she was going to take the self-righteous they’re spending my HARD-EARNED TAXPAYER DOLLARS route.
Debbie Deffington: hahaha, dont complain! trent pays about 40k a year IN TAX! so we pay for 2 people to bludge on the doll. THAT i think is bullshit >:(
Molly Pollywaffle: thats bullshit i mean why cant these ppl go on a diet excerise eat healthy seriously why should Mr. Pollywaffle pay for that
When another friend points out that losing weight easy isn’t for some, that she knows of somebody who needed gastric band surgery as a ‘matter of life and death’, and that Molly shouldn’t ‘think the worst of people’, Molly defends herself:
Molly Pollywaffle: i dont think the worst of ppl i know obese ppl who found it hard to lose wieght but they have done it lost have the wieght just do the hard work
And Debbie Deffington backs her up: i think the worst of those who bludge on the doll, and my hubby and i on our single income pay for them to do nothing… gastic bypass is a last resort, and honestly....nothing worth doing is easy [referring to losing weight]. gastric bypass leaves you with alot of flabby skin that then requires a tummy tuck to get rid of. so molly has a point. it shoudnt be something covered under health cover. it should be paid for fully out of pocket for those who are too slack to get off the couch.
Somebody else chimes in saying these two don’t know all the facts about people undergoing this surgery, including whether or not it is always covered by private health insurance or taxpayer dollars, and whether or not some people can’t lose weight for health reasons.
Molly Pollywaffle: honesty did u see the ppl on the biggest loser some of them were obese they didnt need gastric band surgery !
Debbie Deffington: and you know what - ANYONE is entitled to put their opinion on fabcebook. if you don’t like what you read, close your fucking eyes.
Everyone is entitled to put their opinion on Facebook… but not YOU ya skank, so shut up! Hey Debbie, how about if you don’t like what others are saying back to you, you close YOUR eyes? Apparently it makes the problems magically go away! And I was so waiting for somebody to use The Biggest Loser as an example in that discussion. Oh, you girls kill me.
Edmund VonCrybaby is another good ‘entertainment contact’. When I didn’t know him that well I used to actually be really concerned that he actually had some sort of depressive illness or needed help, until a mutual friend told me he’d been saying this kind of emo crap via MSN since Year Eight (over a decade ago). His status updates/comments etc. are annoying and ignorant, with whiny emo stamped all over them, and he’s often abusive or downright offensive through them, but I can’t bring myself to delete him ‘cos he’s such a hilarious tantrum-throwing attention seeker. It’s like having a troll on your friends list – only you know exactly who they are!
Edmund VonCrybaby: Do i deserve to be alive - All fingers point to NO
Edmund VonCrybaby: [after voting ‘no’ on a Legalize Same-Sex Marriage’ poll]: Its bad enough there are gay people in the world, we need this disease to die. P.s sorry to any gay friend that i have on here. LOL
Edmund VonCrybaby:To all my ex-friends that didnt bother to reply to my emails, you can go and fuck yourselves.
Edmund VonCrybaby: Doesnt care about life and stuff, soon my gf will leave me and her friends will be happy and god will be happy and the world will continue, she will get a much hotter bf just like she always wanted, well congratulations.
> Bertie Wilkins: (@Edmund VonCrybaby): u better be back at christmas woman or else ima send edmund over in a container to come and find u and bring u back
>Edmund VonCrybaby (@Bertie Wilkins): Christmas is soo long away. I will have faded away in the shadows of aloneness by then
Edmund VonCrybaby: Everyone on my friends list can go fuck themselves, you are all pathetic pieces of shit who should be shot for being fuckstains on the floor of your pathetic sad bedrooms you dumb fucks. Eat my dick you homosexual lesbian seamen manipulating little cunts.
Oh God, what a fucking idiot. And I do not manipulate sailors, how dare you? It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to comment on these ‘LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!’ posts. Luckily he has some girl on his friends list Pepper Papadakis who usually says pretty much what I’m thinking.
Pepper Papadakis: suck a fat one
Pepper Papadakis: whatever dropkick
Pepper Papadakis: Ohh seriously shut the fuck up you depressing cunt, for some unknown reason you actually have a girlfriend so stop being a downer before she realizes she can do better
Pepper Papadakis: ♥
[that loveheart thing being her only response to the ‘Everyone on my friends list can go fuck themselves’ post]
HAHAHAHAHA!!! So not deleting you Edmund, even though you’re an insufferable homophobic wanker with some rather painfully obvious issues.
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