I guess it would have been awkward BUT STILL

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?!

"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.

He likes wrecking things

This is what happens when I take my eyes off my pet cockatiel for two seconds...

Flawless victory.

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.

BRONTЁSAURUS!

I want these so bad.




I'm pretty sure this is ACTUALLY how it happened in real life. Right down to the Brontёsaurus with barrier-breaking feminist vision and lace trim.

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?

Karma!

Last year, Sydney cab driver James Young refused to take a handicapped passenger, on account of his travelling with a guide dog. Although the passenger said it was illegal to turn him away, Young still refused. When asked for his ID number, Young tried to give a false number.

Turns out that's gonna cost him $3250, as that passenger just so happened to be Australian Disability Discrimination Commissioner Graeme Innes.

Whoops.

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*

Where does the Frankston train go?

Overheard at Southern Cross Station: Random Lady with pram accosting two Asian students as they board the Sandringham train.

RL: Is this the Frankston train?

Students: (politely and clearly) No, this is the Sandringham.

RL: (in exaggerated slow, loud English) IS THIS THE FRANKSTON TRAIN?

Students: No, this is the Sandringham.

RL: (angry) IS! THIS! THE! FRANKSTON TRAIN?

Students: No!

RL: (exaggerated slow, loud English) WHICH ONE GOES TO FRANKSTON?

Students: The Frankston train!

RL: YOU FU- *doors close*

Lady, those brightly lit TV screens do tell you which train is what.

Update: I just grew another one you guys!

Man, you know narcissistic compulsive status-updaters on Facebook are reaching a new low when they start sharing every time they grow a hair.

"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!

This is why spelling matters

"Jealous of a book to retard?" - Nikki, Twilight fan, defending Rob Pattinson from stench rumours.

Yes, Nikki, we are all jealous. Of a book. To retard. Emoticon.

Just.... ugh.

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.”

"World peace!"

I'm watching Miss Universe 2009 right now. Yes, we have very delayed telecasts here in Oz. Anyway, I’m not usually one for watching beauty pageants, but I have to admit to lovin' the evening gown worn by Miss Dominican Republic. I’m sure my mum could tailor a suitable knock-off. She’d probably raise an eyebrow at the butt-hugging and see-through parts, though.

...Ok I’m at the notorious Q & A segment of the pageant and am now realising why I do not watch these things. Miss Venezuela: “I believe women are at the same level as men... and we need to realise that there are no longer any barriers between us.”

Yeah, thank God that the objectification of women’s bodies is a thing of the past and we're not paraded around like pretty dolls and you’re not in a multi-million dollar industry founded on shallow and damaging feminine beauty ideals which reinforces the judgement of women on the basis of their physical attractiveness alone on an international scale.

Oh, wait!

ETA: Aaaand she just won Miss Universe. Figures.

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!

A good time for flippancy this ain't.

Man, that is one insensitive beeyatch.

Silly, I could've just MADE one for her

I’m doing an old file cull on my computer and I stumbled across a Christmas gift list from 2006. I don’t even remember writing it but I’ve recorded gift ideas for family, my ex, work people…

Underneath my former housemate's name all I’ve written is:

• A noose?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I am so droll.

Serves you right, perv

SCENE: Early afternoon, I am standing innocently at the Uni tram stop waiting to cross the road.

ENTER white van, the driver of which leans out the window and hollers at me.

DRIVER: Well hello, he-LO!

Thus distracted, driver of white van then crashes into the brand new Mitsubishi Lancer in front of it.

ME: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

FIN.

OHS is for sissies!

Oh my God! This is one of those incidents that will make me both cringe and crack up laughing every time I remember it.

My finger - the one I slammed in a door a few months ago resulting in it swelling to the size of a golf ball before the nail gradually turned black then died then fell off and now there's half a baby nail and half a bare nail bed there - was as usual wrapped in one of those crappy plastic bandaids for work. As I was serving Table 10 (a really nice if somewhat boganish couple) IT SLIPPED OFF MY FINGER AND ONTO THE GIRL'S PLATE! WHICH ALREADY HAD CALAMARI SALAD ON IT!

Lightning-fast I retrieved it, convinced she knew what it was, and hurriedly went to change her plate and replace the food, when she was like, "No, no, I don't mind! What was it anyway?"

Reader, I took the coward's way out. "Uh... a piece of paper I had in my hand."

"Oh, ok." Maybe it was just me but she seemed A LITTLE SUSPICIOUS. She carried on eating nonetheless. So I left it at that.

OMG AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I am a terrible human being.

Hope she doesn't die or anything.

It's like adding 'in my pants' to everything!

Ha, here’s a fun new way for me to procrastinate! Smith Magazine asked its readers to submit their life stories in a six-word memoir (which are also collected in the book, Not What I was Planning). This is based on the legend that Hemmingway was once challenged to write a story in six words or less. He came up with, “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

Some of the submissions are witty, some are poignant, most are HILARIOUS.

My boobs used to be perky.
My iMac ate my kid’s homework.
Alone, but not lonely. I lied.

What would my 6-word life look like, I wonder…?

Aspires to superheroism. Alas! No powers.
Tiny body outweighed by big boobs.
Death not so bad. Living overrated.
Writing this when should be working.
Will be asked for ID forever.
Drinks 'til she spews. Good times.
Is cute 'til she punches you.

In August Austenprose caught onto this idea and asked commenters to submit 6-word reviews of Mansfield Park.

Pug. Fanny Price’s Fairy Dogmother.
Did Jane Austen write Mansfield Park?
Poor relative. Ha-ha romance. Maria defects.
Mrs Norris: worse than the cat.

How awesome if I could write essays like this!

Hamlet: Family drama. Everyone dies. The end.
Wuthering Heights: Seriously, what is it with Heathcliff?
Pride and Prejudice: Lizzie, Judgey-Wudgey was a bear.
The Fellowship of the Ring: United but fall. Resistance is futile.
Sherlock Holmes: Detective on crack. It makes sense.
Wuthering Heights: They needed to get out more.

This can be applied to frickin' anything.