If someone is going to say absolutely the wrong thing at the right time, its me.
Sometimes, it's deliberate.
Like the teacher at my son's school who poked at my belly and asked me what was growing in there. My response? "Fat. Thanks for asking." Really, the man was married with 3 kids, and should know you never ask if someone's pregnant unless they've worn obvious maternity gear 3 days in a row. Stupid man, he spent the next 5 years avoiding me, which I turned into a great game-how will Owen avoid me today?
However, usually its a gift, that just roles off my tongue.
Like the time I walked into a friend's party-plan type thing, and greeted my friend with "guess what that fat bitch *name name* said to me today?". At the end of the night, the lovely lady from the party plan company told me she was related to "fat bitch *name name*" and asked me what she'd said!
Or the time I commented to another Mum at school that I hadn't seen her hubby for a while, had she buried him in the backyard? Well, of course, she HAD buried him, and everyone in Canberra knew, except me it seems.
There was the time I was watching a movie about women prisoners of war who'd created a choir, and at one point one of the women were offered to be set up in a luxurious hotel, but she had to be a prostitute for the rest of the war. I turned to a friend who was watching it with me, and I commented that I'd never found Asians remotely attractive..... he was Phillipino, and fairly unimpressed.
At school, after winning a debate, our team was having afternoon tea with the opposing team, and I commented to the adjudicator that I wanted to murder the red haired kid in the front row who chatted the whole way through the debate- he was the adjudicator's son. Well, she should have taught him to have more respect for people speaking!
The main problem, I think, is my lack of subtle ability. As a child, I learnt to compartmentalise a little too well, so often, people will try to give me subtle hints, and it takes about 3 days for the penny to drop. I can't be subtle, and any attempt to try fails miserably.
The other night, there was a discussion on TV about how people with siblings of the opposite sex socialise better than those who don't, whih got the FrogPrince & I discussing when we first started dating (it's a convoluted series of bridges from the TV discussion to talking about us, and not important).
I met the FrogPrince at Uni. He was studying the same course as I was, but was a year ahead, and had been tutoring a friend of mine. We had an assignment to write our first lab report, and were given a past one to use as a guide. I wasn't there when the actual assignment was handed out, and I had a question about something the prior report had done that I didn't understand. I asked my friend, who intro'd me to the FrogPrince, and told me to ask him, so I said "Do we need to include this upper level stuff, or was this bloke just a show off?"
Cue dead silence. Because, of course, the FrogPrince had written the prior report!
DESPITE that, and SO MANY incidents since, he still married me!
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
I am not a girlie girl.
My poor Mum.
After having two blue babies (boys) she got 3rd time lucky and finally got a pink one (girl)- me. So, she gave me a girly-swat name I've never much liked, dressed me up in all manner of frills and lace on special occassions, put my hair in Cindy-Brady-curls or plaits with ribbons, all that kind of stuff. That I HATE.
Until a few years ago, both her blue babies had long hair, with curls. (The bastards. Not a curl on my head, just an annoying tendency to kink. The MONEY I spent in the 80s on curls!), and both her pink babies (I have a younger sister, less girlie than me) with short, short, hair.
Not that I'm butch. Just not, well, girly!
I've only had 2 nicknames in my life, both of them boys' names. When I was a teenager, my nickname was Cliff (from wearing a Cliff & The Young Ones TShirt to a bluelight disco), and when people would ring and ask for Cliff, Mum would say "No-one of that name lives here!" and hang up on them. My teachers at school (the cool ones, anyway) called me Cliff. My Pastor. Everyone.
Now, as an adult, I'm Cid.
If I hadn't already changed my name 3 times (surnames each time, and I seem to keep adding middle names. Lunatic, remember?), I would really & truly change my name legally to Cid.
While I do wear dresses and skirts on occassion (I'm not butch, not even really a tomboy, just what my favourite aunt calls "basic"), I avoid frilly girly swat things. I do wear lace on my singlet tops, but I wear makeup once a year, max.
And while my hair is currently longish, most of the time it's bunched on top of my head. Last time I wore ponytails, my neighbour laughed and asked me if I was revisiting my childhood. No thanks, then I would have had to put ribbons and shit on as well. Seriously, my photo taken on the first day of highschool depicts me with plaits and rbow ties, knee high white socks and buckle up shoes.
What was she thinking? We grew up in Sydney's wetsern suburbs, its a wonder I wasn't lynched.
Being a die-hard people pleaser, I let her talk me into the floor length pink sequinned, mutton sleeved, bow tied, chiffon ribboned monstrosity that appears on my Year 10 formal photos. Even worse, in Year 12 I wore a debut-inspired number of white lace and sequins. Yes, it WAS the 80s, but I get nauseoius just thinking about it!
I didn't wear lace to my wedding. Or white. My aunt was horrified (the non-basic one). I look shit in white, and don't like doing things the way everyone else on the planet does, and my then 11 year old walked down the aisle (well, garden path type thing) in front of me, so who was I fooling?
I wore red. Red suits me.
My aunt had someone hand-make me a wedding album to match! Red satin. With lace (3 kinds actually), beads, sequins, and feathers. Yes, feathers. Very her. She wanted me to think of her everytime I see it.
Which I do. As in, what was she thinking????
Basic is a good way to describe me. I'd like to be one of those funky, 40-ish yummy mummys, but I'm just not. I try, sometimes, but I have a winter uniform (jeans, thermals, tshirts) and a summer one (shorts, singlet top). Practical. Comfortable. And yes, GrannyAunty, Basic!
After having two blue babies (boys) she got 3rd time lucky and finally got a pink one (girl)- me. So, she gave me a girly-swat name I've never much liked, dressed me up in all manner of frills and lace on special occassions, put my hair in Cindy-Brady-curls or plaits with ribbons, all that kind of stuff. That I HATE.
Until a few years ago, both her blue babies had long hair, with curls. (The bastards. Not a curl on my head, just an annoying tendency to kink. The MONEY I spent in the 80s on curls!), and both her pink babies (I have a younger sister, less girlie than me) with short, short, hair.
Not that I'm butch. Just not, well, girly!
I've only had 2 nicknames in my life, both of them boys' names. When I was a teenager, my nickname was Cliff (from wearing a Cliff & The Young Ones TShirt to a bluelight disco), and when people would ring and ask for Cliff, Mum would say "No-one of that name lives here!" and hang up on them. My teachers at school (the cool ones, anyway) called me Cliff. My Pastor. Everyone.
Now, as an adult, I'm Cid.
If I hadn't already changed my name 3 times (surnames each time, and I seem to keep adding middle names. Lunatic, remember?), I would really & truly change my name legally to Cid.
While I do wear dresses and skirts on occassion (I'm not butch, not even really a tomboy, just what my favourite aunt calls "basic"), I avoid frilly girly swat things. I do wear lace on my singlet tops, but I wear makeup once a year, max.
And while my hair is currently longish, most of the time it's bunched on top of my head. Last time I wore ponytails, my neighbour laughed and asked me if I was revisiting my childhood. No thanks, then I would have had to put ribbons and shit on as well. Seriously, my photo taken on the first day of highschool depicts me with plaits and rbow ties, knee high white socks and buckle up shoes.
What was she thinking? We grew up in Sydney's wetsern suburbs, its a wonder I wasn't lynched.
Being a die-hard people pleaser, I let her talk me into the floor length pink sequinned, mutton sleeved, bow tied, chiffon ribboned monstrosity that appears on my Year 10 formal photos. Even worse, in Year 12 I wore a debut-inspired number of white lace and sequins. Yes, it WAS the 80s, but I get nauseoius just thinking about it!
I didn't wear lace to my wedding. Or white. My aunt was horrified (the non-basic one). I look shit in white, and don't like doing things the way everyone else on the planet does, and my then 11 year old walked down the aisle (well, garden path type thing) in front of me, so who was I fooling?
I wore red. Red suits me.
My aunt had someone hand-make me a wedding album to match! Red satin. With lace (3 kinds actually), beads, sequins, and feathers. Yes, feathers. Very her. She wanted me to think of her everytime I see it.
Which I do. As in, what was she thinking????
Basic is a good way to describe me. I'd like to be one of those funky, 40-ish yummy mummys, but I'm just not. I try, sometimes, but I have a winter uniform (jeans, thermals, tshirts) and a summer one (shorts, singlet top). Practical. Comfortable. And yes, GrannyAunty, Basic!
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Rules
No rants today, the only person I want to drown is myself, because I broke one of our rules.
In a house where several of us have numerous neurotic, obsessive-compulsive type issues, we manage ourselves through various rules.
Things like, BoyChild#1 wears Bonds socks, the Frog-Prince wears Maxxi. Sounds ridiculous, except how else do we determine who owns which socks? Though the easy answer is the ones that are holey, stretched, faded and companionless are clearly BoyChild#1's.
Likewise, with BoyChild#1 moving from the largest-child-jock-size up to the smallest-man-jock-size, how do we tell who's jocks are whose? At least until they become, streched, holey, etc.... which will happen by new year (sidebar: Santa buys all the undies in our house, family tradition on my side. I bought my first bra at 23 when I was 6 months pregnant, and had to ring my Mum to find out what size! The answer- dunno, I buy the size in the middle!) So, the FrogPrince will have fairly sensible type jocks, being a fairly sensible type man, and BoyChild#1 will have lairy, loud, over the top ones, that will be burnt should I ever see them visible over the top of his pants. A special challenge, seeing as he has no hips or ass, so his pants live around his knees, regardless of the latest fashion trends. Seriously, even skinny jeans float on him. He could wear size 12 child's things if he wasn't 7 feet tall.
Rules were born during my childhood. Being blessed with a close-to-Christmas birthday, I always shared my special day with various relo hangers-on who were often far too hung over to remember who I was, let alone the day, so they would sheepishly hand my Christmas present over, and say "Its for your Christmas AND birthday" like it's so special to get gipped every year by relo hangers-on. I can never remember my parents doing this, but everyone else in the family and surrounding sphere has been guilty at some time. Bloody stingy DNA. So, my first rule was born (well, series, but they count as one because they revolve around one subject)
Thou shalt NOT combine presents, unless it involves diamonds. I don't hand your present over (in May) and say it's for both. Not my fault my mother shagged when she did. Thou may neglect Christmas, but thou may NOT wrap my birthday present in Christmas paper. One year, a friend gave me a salt shaker for Christmas (in Christmas paper), the pepper for my birthday (in non-Christmas, might even have been newspaper, I don't care. JUST.NOT CHRISTMAS. PAPER.)- ingenious! Loved it. You probably have to meet her to get the joke, but it's very her. I haven't thought of a clever name for her yet, but will introduce her when I do.
My Playgroup Mums think it's hilarious to hear about my rules.
The rule for day slippers (black) vs night slippers (fluffy pink at the minute, usually purple)- so in winter, I can duck down to the IGA for milk, and not change shoes.
Another rule is, is that the food on my plate must not touch each other. Yes, its weird, no, there's no reason, except that it just looks messy. Yes, its neurotic! I KNOW!
We have a toothpaste rule. Well, I do, and I make everyone else follow it. I HATE toothpaste. Its minty and frothy. Ick. And when I'm pregnant, it makes me vomit. Every single time. I use ONE brand, and that's the only one that doesn't make me gag (unless I'm pregnant, then all bets are off). So, when I'm brushing my teeth, no-one else can come into the bathroom. And no-one is to speak to me while they're brushing their teeth. I can't understand them anyway, and it's gross. The FrogPrince & I have had numerous "conversations" where we mime to the other a question or statement, because one of us (usually him, I'm always locked safely away in the bathroom by myself) has a mouth full of frothy minty gunk. Hilarious, until you snort & inhale gunk. My bro-in-law (father of 7) says that rule wouldn't last in their house, because if they brushed individually, the last one would finish at about the same time as the first one would need to start again.
I have a rule about picking. A small problem, because the FrogPrince LOVES to pick his toenails, dead skin, ingrown hairs... the list is endless. It's like fingernails on a chalkboard. A few weeks ago, some of us girls went out for dinner, and when I got home, I asked him what he'd done. VERY enthusiastically, he told me he'd had a GREAT night, picking the dead skin off his knee caps. So much skin in fact that he had to vaccuum it all up! He was reminiscing about it last night with a spacey look on his face "Ahhh, those were the days, and when I trot off for dinner with the girls this wekend, he'll be scratching, scraping and picking (ick) before I've left the driveway.
So, what rule did I break? Thou shalt not buy BoyChild#2 a book with stickers. Because he can't peel them off, so while I'm trying to do something (Mystery Shop this time) he wants me to peel them off, one by one. Which defeats the purpose of buying the book in the first place, which was to basically shut him up and amuse himself for a while (yes, I wanted to drown him yesterday). Then, he sticks them all on top of each other, not in the lovely dotted line areas cleary placed throughout the book where they're supposed to go. Then, he unpeels them again, and breaks into tears when they won't stick. Or they curl. Or they rip. And he wants mne to fix them with "stippy tape" which I don't have right at that minute. Within 15 minutes of paying enough to feed a child in Ethiopa for the day, I want to burn the bloody thing. And drown myself.
There are many many more, I'm sure, and I'll add them from time to time. Just so you can laugh, shake your head and be reminded that when I say I want to drown you, or that you & your family are bonkers, it's a term of endearment, because you're in great company.
MINE.
In a house where several of us have numerous neurotic, obsessive-compulsive type issues, we manage ourselves through various rules.
Things like, BoyChild#1 wears Bonds socks, the Frog-Prince wears Maxxi. Sounds ridiculous, except how else do we determine who owns which socks? Though the easy answer is the ones that are holey, stretched, faded and companionless are clearly BoyChild#1's.
Likewise, with BoyChild#1 moving from the largest-child-jock-size up to the smallest-man-jock-size, how do we tell who's jocks are whose? At least until they become, streched, holey, etc.... which will happen by new year (sidebar: Santa buys all the undies in our house, family tradition on my side. I bought my first bra at 23 when I was 6 months pregnant, and had to ring my Mum to find out what size! The answer- dunno, I buy the size in the middle!) So, the FrogPrince will have fairly sensible type jocks, being a fairly sensible type man, and BoyChild#1 will have lairy, loud, over the top ones, that will be burnt should I ever see them visible over the top of his pants. A special challenge, seeing as he has no hips or ass, so his pants live around his knees, regardless of the latest fashion trends. Seriously, even skinny jeans float on him. He could wear size 12 child's things if he wasn't 7 feet tall.
Rules were born during my childhood. Being blessed with a close-to-Christmas birthday, I always shared my special day with various relo hangers-on who were often far too hung over to remember who I was, let alone the day, so they would sheepishly hand my Christmas present over, and say "Its for your Christmas AND birthday" like it's so special to get gipped every year by relo hangers-on. I can never remember my parents doing this, but everyone else in the family and surrounding sphere has been guilty at some time. Bloody stingy DNA. So, my first rule was born (well, series, but they count as one because they revolve around one subject)
Thou shalt NOT combine presents, unless it involves diamonds. I don't hand your present over (in May) and say it's for both. Not my fault my mother shagged when she did. Thou may neglect Christmas, but thou may NOT wrap my birthday present in Christmas paper. One year, a friend gave me a salt shaker for Christmas (in Christmas paper), the pepper for my birthday (in non-Christmas, might even have been newspaper, I don't care. JUST.NOT CHRISTMAS. PAPER.)- ingenious! Loved it. You probably have to meet her to get the joke, but it's very her. I haven't thought of a clever name for her yet, but will introduce her when I do.
My Playgroup Mums think it's hilarious to hear about my rules.
The rule for day slippers (black) vs night slippers (fluffy pink at the minute, usually purple)- so in winter, I can duck down to the IGA for milk, and not change shoes.
Another rule is, is that the food on my plate must not touch each other. Yes, its weird, no, there's no reason, except that it just looks messy. Yes, its neurotic! I KNOW!
We have a toothpaste rule. Well, I do, and I make everyone else follow it. I HATE toothpaste. Its minty and frothy. Ick. And when I'm pregnant, it makes me vomit. Every single time. I use ONE brand, and that's the only one that doesn't make me gag (unless I'm pregnant, then all bets are off). So, when I'm brushing my teeth, no-one else can come into the bathroom. And no-one is to speak to me while they're brushing their teeth. I can't understand them anyway, and it's gross. The FrogPrince & I have had numerous "conversations" where we mime to the other a question or statement, because one of us (usually him, I'm always locked safely away in the bathroom by myself) has a mouth full of frothy minty gunk. Hilarious, until you snort & inhale gunk. My bro-in-law (father of 7) says that rule wouldn't last in their house, because if they brushed individually, the last one would finish at about the same time as the first one would need to start again.
I have a rule about picking. A small problem, because the FrogPrince LOVES to pick his toenails, dead skin, ingrown hairs... the list is endless. It's like fingernails on a chalkboard. A few weeks ago, some of us girls went out for dinner, and when I got home, I asked him what he'd done. VERY enthusiastically, he told me he'd had a GREAT night, picking the dead skin off his knee caps. So much skin in fact that he had to vaccuum it all up! He was reminiscing about it last night with a spacey look on his face "Ahhh, those were the days, and when I trot off for dinner with the girls this wekend, he'll be scratching, scraping and picking (ick) before I've left the driveway.
So, what rule did I break? Thou shalt not buy BoyChild#2 a book with stickers. Because he can't peel them off, so while I'm trying to do something (Mystery Shop this time) he wants me to peel them off, one by one. Which defeats the purpose of buying the book in the first place, which was to basically shut him up and amuse himself for a while (yes, I wanted to drown him yesterday). Then, he sticks them all on top of each other, not in the lovely dotted line areas cleary placed throughout the book where they're supposed to go. Then, he unpeels them again, and breaks into tears when they won't stick. Or they curl. Or they rip. And he wants mne to fix them with "stippy tape" which I don't have right at that minute. Within 15 minutes of paying enough to feed a child in Ethiopa for the day, I want to burn the bloody thing. And drown myself.
There are many many more, I'm sure, and I'll add them from time to time. Just so you can laugh, shake your head and be reminded that when I say I want to drown you, or that you & your family are bonkers, it's a term of endearment, because you're in great company.
MINE.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The Capital of Rudeness.
The MadOne is a veteran traveller. I don't travel (strange people, strange food, strange smells, strange beds.....) so I do so, vicariously, through her. She (and her hub) seem to enjoy it. Lots. They come back with fantastic photos of elephants roaming outside their mud huts in South Africa (MUD, like, no air conditioning, no hot water, no TV to watch the cricket on, see my issues?) and great tales of shopping in Chinese markets, haggling using a calculator and the poo-pits on the Great Wall, etc.
Her last trip was to the States. Now, beautiful friends of mine moved to the States for a couple of years and invited us to visit. Which we would have. Except for the Americans.
Now, I don't actually know too many Americans, but really, they voted for George Dubble-ya, right? And they're mostly all like George Costanza's parents, aren't they? Yes, I know that's all very stereotypical, but remember my global roaming is limitted to watching American detective and forensic- type shows, The Simpsons (BANNED in our house, my BoyChild#1 is allowed to drink alcohol at 18, but not watch Simpsons until he's left home), and, well, Seinfeld. So, you can see what I mean, right? Take the Americans away, and I'm sure it would be a lovely place to visit. And yes, having Obama as Prez does improve things a bit, except that BoyChild#2 thinks he's Tiger Woods, but that's another story.
So, the MadOne comes back with kilos of Tootsie Rolls (lollies, not toilet paper, as I'd assumed), Support Our Troop Fridge Magnets, her usual regalia of hilarious-can-only-happen-to-them stories, and email addresses of Oldies in Gated Communities she's met along the way, and, well, because I can ask these things without offending or concern myself with subtlety (which I can't do, nor fake very well either apparently), I asked her how she managed in a country full of Americans. And I learnt 2 things.
1) Apparently they're not all like Mr & Mrs Costanza, and in fact the benefits of travel is that you get to see behind the stereotype and meet some actual living, not Hollywood-stylized, real people.
2) Also apparently, most of them are lovely. At least likeable. And, POLITE.
POLITE.
Which brings me to today's rant.
Australians aren't polite. And the Capital of Australia is, in my vast & wordly experience, the Capital of Rudeness.
Now, I have a theory. Many in fact, but today's pertains to why I think Aussies are not polite.
We just don't give a shit.
Case in point:
People who are service-providers don't need to provide service, because we aren't on $3 an hour and relying on tips to make a living. Most of us, at some stage, has been a checkout chick, chippie's offsider, or some such thing, often while we're still at school and need to earn a bit more pocket money than what the Olds are willing to fork out. Americans have crap wages and rely on tips to actually eat, so they fall over themselves to provide good service. Apparently, if you order a SkinnyLatte, you aren't met with a death glare that says you're ass is the size of Tasmania, why are you bothering? They want to know what else they can do for you. They say Thankyou. They wish you a nice day.
Even if an Aussie is on commission, the chances of them making a half-assed attempt to help you out are equal to Paris Hilton having a brain cell. Nada. Nix. Zero. Zilch.
One of many irons in the fire is being a mystery shopper, and even when retailers know they are being visited within a certain timeframe, it's all just too hard. How many of us have sat around ALL frigging day long, waiting for an electrician/plumber/gardener/builder only for them not to bother showing up or having the courtesy to phone and tell you so? And most of these people don't get paid unless they work, but still. Don't give a shit.
When was the last time you showed courtesy on the road, and have the other driver actually wave a thanks? The last time someone walking out a door will hold it open for you, your pram and 62 parcels you're carrying?
Today (yes, finally getting to the rant) I went to our local Mall, where a certain area of carpark is kept closed until 9am to ensure nearby office workers don't park there all day. About a quarter of this carpark is designated for Parents with Prams. At 9:07 when I entered, there were about a dozen cars parked, leaving probably close to a hundred spare, some Parents', most not. Each car that parked either side of me contained a smartly dressed Rep-looking person, who couldn't be stuffed to drive their car the extra 5 metres so they could leave a space that's ever so slightly wider than most, to someone with one of more small child, pram, and 62 parcels of shopping. Don't give a shit.
How many times have you been served at a Bank, Supermarkets, petrol Station or the like, and had the entire transaction carried out without eye contact or, God Forbid, some kind of engagement or interaction. Now, I worked in the Retail Industry for 8 years, and now spend numerous weekends on Market Stalls trying to convince people to buy my wares (nodding politely as they tell me they can make it themselves. Right o, off you go then), and yes, I have had bad days when it was just very difficult to be polite, friendly and engaging all day long, but really, if you're going to be somewhere for any length of time, surely you're going to try and enjoy it? Not shit on everyone who has the audacity to enter your space that day inconveniencing the shit out of you???
I've worked with people who are greatly affronted when you expect them to actually do they're job. I don't expect miracles, for perople to go above and beyond on a daily basis or any such nirvana-wouldn't-it-be-wonderful-if we-lived-in-harmony hippy shit (that was my 20's, darl!), but really, isn't it too much to ask people to give a shit?
Her last trip was to the States. Now, beautiful friends of mine moved to the States for a couple of years and invited us to visit. Which we would have. Except for the Americans.
Now, I don't actually know too many Americans, but really, they voted for George Dubble-ya, right? And they're mostly all like George Costanza's parents, aren't they? Yes, I know that's all very stereotypical, but remember my global roaming is limitted to watching American detective and forensic- type shows, The Simpsons (BANNED in our house, my BoyChild#1 is allowed to drink alcohol at 18, but not watch Simpsons until he's left home), and, well, Seinfeld. So, you can see what I mean, right? Take the Americans away, and I'm sure it would be a lovely place to visit. And yes, having Obama as Prez does improve things a bit, except that BoyChild#2 thinks he's Tiger Woods, but that's another story.
So, the MadOne comes back with kilos of Tootsie Rolls (lollies, not toilet paper, as I'd assumed), Support Our Troop Fridge Magnets, her usual regalia of hilarious-can-only-happen-to-them stories, and email addresses of Oldies in Gated Communities she's met along the way, and, well, because I can ask these things without offending or concern myself with subtlety (which I can't do, nor fake very well either apparently), I asked her how she managed in a country full of Americans. And I learnt 2 things.
1) Apparently they're not all like Mr & Mrs Costanza, and in fact the benefits of travel is that you get to see behind the stereotype and meet some actual living, not Hollywood-stylized, real people.
2) Also apparently, most of them are lovely. At least likeable. And, POLITE.
POLITE.
Which brings me to today's rant.
Australians aren't polite. And the Capital of Australia is, in my vast & wordly experience, the Capital of Rudeness.
Now, I have a theory. Many in fact, but today's pertains to why I think Aussies are not polite.
We just don't give a shit.
Case in point:
People who are service-providers don't need to provide service, because we aren't on $3 an hour and relying on tips to make a living. Most of us, at some stage, has been a checkout chick, chippie's offsider, or some such thing, often while we're still at school and need to earn a bit more pocket money than what the Olds are willing to fork out. Americans have crap wages and rely on tips to actually eat, so they fall over themselves to provide good service. Apparently, if you order a SkinnyLatte, you aren't met with a death glare that says you're ass is the size of Tasmania, why are you bothering? They want to know what else they can do for you. They say Thankyou. They wish you a nice day.
Even if an Aussie is on commission, the chances of them making a half-assed attempt to help you out are equal to Paris Hilton having a brain cell. Nada. Nix. Zero. Zilch.
One of many irons in the fire is being a mystery shopper, and even when retailers know they are being visited within a certain timeframe, it's all just too hard. How many of us have sat around ALL frigging day long, waiting for an electrician/plumber/gardener/builder only for them not to bother showing up or having the courtesy to phone and tell you so? And most of these people don't get paid unless they work, but still. Don't give a shit.
When was the last time you showed courtesy on the road, and have the other driver actually wave a thanks? The last time someone walking out a door will hold it open for you, your pram and 62 parcels you're carrying?
Today (yes, finally getting to the rant) I went to our local Mall, where a certain area of carpark is kept closed until 9am to ensure nearby office workers don't park there all day. About a quarter of this carpark is designated for Parents with Prams. At 9:07 when I entered, there were about a dozen cars parked, leaving probably close to a hundred spare, some Parents', most not. Each car that parked either side of me contained a smartly dressed Rep-looking person, who couldn't be stuffed to drive their car the extra 5 metres so they could leave a space that's ever so slightly wider than most, to someone with one of more small child, pram, and 62 parcels of shopping. Don't give a shit.
How many times have you been served at a Bank, Supermarkets, petrol Station or the like, and had the entire transaction carried out without eye contact or, God Forbid, some kind of engagement or interaction. Now, I worked in the Retail Industry for 8 years, and now spend numerous weekends on Market Stalls trying to convince people to buy my wares (nodding politely as they tell me they can make it themselves. Right o, off you go then), and yes, I have had bad days when it was just very difficult to be polite, friendly and engaging all day long, but really, if you're going to be somewhere for any length of time, surely you're going to try and enjoy it? Not shit on everyone who has the audacity to enter your space that day inconveniencing the shit out of you???
I've worked with people who are greatly affronted when you expect them to actually do they're job. I don't expect miracles, for perople to go above and beyond on a daily basis or any such nirvana-wouldn't-it-be-wonderful-if we-lived-in-harmony hippy shit (that was my 20's, darl!), but really, isn't it too much to ask people to give a shit?
Monday, November 16, 2009
The MadOne
I'll start by introducing the MadOne.
For a couple of reasons a) she inspired me to get blogging, b) she provides such good material!
The MadOne is a primary school teacher, who, oddly enough, doesn't actually like children. I've worked with many teachers over the past 4 or 5 years, and almost all of them like kids.
Not the MadOne. She can kind of pretend enough to usually pull it off once they're walking, talking and are toilet trained. She's a somewhat reluctant but amazingly enough very good stepmother to a teen girl who's an angel:
Giraffe (talk, longlegged, botoomless tummied teen girl): Is it ok if I go outside and read a book?
MadOne: YES! Shouldn't you be smoking drugs or something?
- which she only says to get the requisite eye rolling & accompanying blush... really the Giraffe is an endangered species of teen who hasn't worked out that rebellion is climbing out the window at 3am, not pinching MadOne's trashy women's mags to read on the hammock out back.
Initially, when it became apparent that I would be sharing a workspace with the MadOne, I wondered how long it would take before I would need to drown her. She started to grow on my like fungus, and then the day came when it was evident we were Meant to Be! Friends for life. BFF. All that crap.
Now, to set the scene:
I'm heavily pregnant with my 2nd child, and it has just dawned on my husband that I expect him to want to witness his firstborn entering the world, at about the same time he realises I think he wants to be down the business end, where he has no intention of being, and he spirals off into a panic:
"No NO! I have to hold your hand, a kiss your forehead, and stuff! WHY DO I HAVE TO GO TO THE ICKY END???!!!"
So, the next day at work, being the good little (female) psychologist that I am, I need top talk about this to my workmates, and, well, anyone who'll listen really. I'm quite taken about that he has no intention of going DownThere.
"Don't you think he'll want to see his baby being born?
MadOne: "Don't worry, he will, when the time comes"
Cid: "Really, you think so?"
MadOne: "I don't know! It Just SOUNDED SUPPORTIVE"
See? Meant to Be.
For a couple of reasons a) she inspired me to get blogging, b) she provides such good material!
The MadOne is a primary school teacher, who, oddly enough, doesn't actually like children. I've worked with many teachers over the past 4 or 5 years, and almost all of them like kids.
Not the MadOne. She can kind of pretend enough to usually pull it off once they're walking, talking and are toilet trained. She's a somewhat reluctant but amazingly enough very good stepmother to a teen girl who's an angel:
Giraffe (talk, longlegged, botoomless tummied teen girl): Is it ok if I go outside and read a book?
MadOne: YES! Shouldn't you be smoking drugs or something?
- which she only says to get the requisite eye rolling & accompanying blush... really the Giraffe is an endangered species of teen who hasn't worked out that rebellion is climbing out the window at 3am, not pinching MadOne's trashy women's mags to read on the hammock out back.
Initially, when it became apparent that I would be sharing a workspace with the MadOne, I wondered how long it would take before I would need to drown her. She started to grow on my like fungus, and then the day came when it was evident we were Meant to Be! Friends for life. BFF. All that crap.
Now, to set the scene:
I'm heavily pregnant with my 2nd child, and it has just dawned on my husband that I expect him to want to witness his firstborn entering the world, at about the same time he realises I think he wants to be down the business end, where he has no intention of being, and he spirals off into a panic:
"No NO! I have to hold your hand, a kiss your forehead, and stuff! WHY DO I HAVE TO GO TO THE ICKY END???!!!"
So, the next day at work, being the good little (female) psychologist that I am, I need top talk about this to my workmates, and, well, anyone who'll listen really. I'm quite taken about that he has no intention of going DownThere.
"Don't you think he'll want to see his baby being born?
MadOne: "Don't worry, he will, when the time comes"
Cid: "Really, you think so?"
MadOne: "I don't know! It Just SOUNDED SUPPORTIVE"
See? Meant to Be.
I am quite mad
I know.
I have a psych degree. I married a man with a psych degree.
I KNOW!
I'm anally retentive, have a million "rules" and "things", I'm mildly OCD and slightly controlling. I am NOT a morning person, and I'm not even capable of pretending to be. People piss me off.
But I'm lovely, really.
And I decided, being a frustrated (non) novellist, after ranting on FB the other day about the evils of Playdough, and being inspired by my friend, the MadOne herself, that I need an appropriate outlet to vent from time to time, and a forum to explain the "rules" and "things" and just generally comment on how I see things.
So, Welcome to Planet Cid.
I have a psych degree. I married a man with a psych degree.
I KNOW!
I'm anally retentive, have a million "rules" and "things", I'm mildly OCD and slightly controlling. I am NOT a morning person, and I'm not even capable of pretending to be. People piss me off.
But I'm lovely, really.
And I decided, being a frustrated (non) novellist, after ranting on FB the other day about the evils of Playdough, and being inspired by my friend, the MadOne herself, that I need an appropriate outlet to vent from time to time, and a forum to explain the "rules" and "things" and just generally comment on how I see things.
So, Welcome to Planet Cid.
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