My search for a new job continues. I mean, Jane and I did make a late-night decision to start a bohemian tea-house where people can come and eat and play music and make art and not wear shoes and drink alcohol after dark...but still. It's always nice to have a backup plan which DOESN'T involve bankruptcy. Just in case. I also have a feeling that only hiring our friends and then paying them with 'love' might be illegal.
I sometimes get the feeling that I might have fared better in the 1940's. No, the 50's. 60's? Well, whatever decade it was when the title 'successful woman' had only two prerequisites:
1) The ability to bake a perfect mud cake, and
2) A vagina
I can bake. I'm a great baker. And I've got a vagina. And - as evidenced by a string of genital-themed birthday cakes my friends and I enjoyed in our final year of high school - I'm not afraid to combine the two. Were this the 1950's, I'd be Prime Minister by now. As it is, however, I'm just a TEMPORARILY employed salon assistant who gets paid 6 bucks an hour to sweep up hair. And while it helps to have friends, family and a somewhat delusional officer of the Australian Navy around to make suggestions, it doesn't help when they make suggestions like this:
"Maybe you should just be a street urchin. You know, sit on your ass and do nothing all day - you're great at that."
I know. Thanks alot, Dad. I love you too.
Speaking of things I'm great at...oh, you know what? That segue doesn't really apply, since what I wanted to talk about next was driving. And while the lovely Julia Hirst is adamant that I possess excellent driving skills, others disagree. And Julia is lying. Here's what happened last night:
The Navy Man wanted to take me for dinner with his friend Doug, and Doug's girlfriend Kara. Since Doug and Kara didn't have a car between them, we let them pick the venue; Stanley St in Darlinghurst, for those of you playing at home. As for us? Well, since NM wasn't feeling 100% and I had just suffered through the kind of day at work for which the phrase 'hell on earth' was invented, it was decided that he would drive my car, while I navigated/drank my body weight in tequila.
MISTAKE NUMBER 1.
I don't remember who's idea it was to rely solely on the directing skills of my iPhone and google maps, but it was a bad one. It took approximately 11 minutes to get from this:
"Dude, I TOTALLY know how to get there."
To this:
"Okay, we're a little off track, but we're not lost, we're DEFINITELY not lost."
And then eventually to this:
"Yeah, we're fucked."
Oh yes.
I think my favourite part - aside from the sudden realisation that I am without a doubt the most useless human being on the planet - was the traffic jam that I inadvertantly caused us to sit in for almost 25 minutes. Especially since the term 'traffic jam' just happens to be at the very top of one of Navy Man's lists; a list so appropriately titled "Things Which Send Navy Man Into A White Hot Frenzy Of Rage". I now know how to say the word 'shit' in 11 different languages.
Still. So maybe we were 45 minutes late, maybe I made myself look like an idiot, maybe I've given The Navy Man something to hold over my head for the rest of our lives, but still. It could have been alot worse...Because I've discovered something great about having a boyfriend from out-of-town, and that's that when you and your shitty navigational skills end up on the Eastern Distributor heading for the airport, you can just say stuff like this:
Jacki: Well, we're near Maroubra. That's not far away at all!And he'll totally believe you.
No comments:
Post a Comment