There comes a time in every girl's life when she gets home, looks in the mirror, and thinks...
"Did I seriously just spend the entire morning walking around the city with talcum powder marks on my boobs?"
WHY DIDN'T ANYBODY TELL ME?!
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Peeve #468: Talking to unhelpful staff at Telstra shops.
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.
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.
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, June 5, 2011
"I know you don't know me but..."
Weirdest thing a customer has ever said to me (and there have been some doozies):
Him: You're very petite aren't you? My wife is tiny too, she's Thai; she finds it very hard to find clothes and shoes that fit here. She's about the same size as you, actually. Do you want her number? Maybe you could share clothes and shoes and stuff with her.
Me: *imagines getting a call from a complete stranger wanting to borrow your shoes*
Me: ...no thanks.
Him: You're very petite aren't you? My wife is tiny too, she's Thai; she finds it very hard to find clothes and shoes that fit here. She's about the same size as you, actually. Do you want her number? Maybe you could share clothes and shoes and stuff with her.
Me: *imagines getting a call from a complete stranger wanting to borrow your shoes*
Me: ...no thanks.
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!)
Thursday, July 8, 2010
FFS Cat, just stop reading the comments already
So there I was, reading Sarah Mckenzie's article about those pathetic "Spot and Share" ads for Brut deodorant. I thought, yes, right on, yes, this is true. Hardly news to me; I think I wrote an angry swear-word filled entry in my journal about women being portrayed as vacant means of transportation for tits and arses in men's deodorant ads when I was like, nineteen. So I'm reading and thinking, yes, I am right behind you Ms McKenzie.
I KNOW that right at the end of this article, there will be reader comments. I say to myself, "They will not be pretty! I won't read them! Ok, maybe I'll scroll down a little and read the very first one only..."
And the very first comment went to the tune of:
Sarah, when a women gets away with slapping a guys bum saying 'find other ways to be naughty' as a way to advertise cream cheese, all your arguaments collapse. You can not have it both ways. - Bill, ACT.
OH FOR SHIT'S SAKE. Where in that article did McKenzie assert, "I want to have it both ways" you wanker? She said - and I'm paraphrasing - stop reducing women to tits and arse and glorifying sexual harassment to sell some shitty deodorant to college boys, you hacks. And I'm pretty sure she does not work in marketing for any cream cheese companies on top of her freelance writing, so it's not like she's responsible for whatever ad you're talking about. Oh, why do I bother, the dude can't even SPELL "argument".
I just cannot stand this shit. A woman says, "That is sexist." A man responds, "NO IT'S NOT YOU'RE SEXIST, SO SHUT UP AND STOP BEING SEXIST AGAINST MEN." Yeah, that’s logical.
Basically, this could have been avoided if I had just not scrolled down to peek at the comments in the first place. Like, Bill was pretty mild compared to some of the paranoid, violent shit some commenters spout at the slightest whiff of the word, "sexist". Why are you people so easily threatened by other people's opinions?
I KNOW that right at the end of this article, there will be reader comments. I say to myself, "They will not be pretty! I won't read them! Ok, maybe I'll scroll down a little and read the very first one only..."
And the very first comment went to the tune of:
Sarah, when a women gets away with slapping a guys bum saying 'find other ways to be naughty' as a way to advertise cream cheese, all your arguaments collapse. You can not have it both ways. - Bill, ACT.
OH FOR SHIT'S SAKE. Where in that article did McKenzie assert, "I want to have it both ways" you wanker? She said - and I'm paraphrasing - stop reducing women to tits and arse and glorifying sexual harassment to sell some shitty deodorant to college boys, you hacks. And I'm pretty sure she does not work in marketing for any cream cheese companies on top of her freelance writing, so it's not like she's responsible for whatever ad you're talking about. Oh, why do I bother, the dude can't even SPELL "argument".
I just cannot stand this shit. A woman says, "That is sexist." A man responds, "NO IT'S NOT YOU'RE SEXIST, SO SHUT UP AND STOP BEING SEXIST AGAINST MEN." Yeah, that’s logical.
Basically, this could have been avoided if I had just not scrolled down to peek at the comments in the first place. Like, Bill was pretty mild compared to some of the paranoid, violent shit some commenters spout at the slightest whiff of the word, "sexist". Why are you people so easily threatened by other people's opinions?
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