- Recent payrise
- We play Michael Jackson over the sound system
- I can claim all the clothes I buy on tax
- I get Sundays off
- It's walking distance to my house
- It's walking distance to the pub
- It's walking distance to the greatest hot chips this side of the Harbour Bridge
Anyone who pretends to know me knows I'm afraid of two things:
1) Post Offices
2) The idea of being trapped in an ATM vestibule with Sylvester Stallone.
I'm kidding about the second thing of course. Everyone knows I could totally kick Stallone's ass if the situation ever presented itself. But Post Offices are no joke, and neither is the fact that as part of my job, I make trips there on a semi-regular basis. Take yesterday for example...
At Toni&Guy we have clients, who, sometimes, come in for a cut or colour and never come back. This is unfortunate. On the plus side, these same clients are the ones stupid enough to leave their home address on the customer info questionnaire we put in front of them. Which means as well as stalking them on our days off, we can send them 50% discount vouchers in the mail, in a generous bid to lure them back to the salon. See where I'm going with this tangent? So as the receptionist, it's my job to print out these vouchers. Which I don't mind. Nor do I mind having to hand address all of them. I don't even care about using up half my daily portion of saliva by licking stamps for the damn things. (Except that I kind of do, only because have you ever noticed the way stamps kind of taste like the inside of a tennis ball? Or at least what I imagine the inside of a tennis ball would taste like. Plus I accidentally swallowed about four, which doesn't seem like something my body is gonna thank me for.) That's irrelevant. The real issue is having to go - actually STEP INTO - the Post Office in order to mail the vouchers.
Oh. My God.
Let's get this straight: my fear of the Post Office is totally irrational. I get that. Have you BEEN in a Post Office? There's plenty of stuff to love. They sell wall clocks there for like, eight dollars. I don't know why that's exciting, but it is. Plus there's always a huge line, which doesn't seem like something you'd put on the pro side of a pro-and-con list, except that it totally gives me time to subtly-not-so-subtly check out the hot guy who works behind the counter and told me he liked my hair that one time.
What was I talking about again?
Oh yeah. Still, wall clocks and Hot Hair-Liking Guy aside, the Post Office is the stuff of my nightmares, even though I can't seem to pinpoint exactly why. I think probably it has something to do with the manager totally hating me because I always bring the wrong change and/or specially request (ie demand) the 60 cent fighter jet stamps on account of them reminding me of Top Gun, which by the way is like the 7th greatest movie of all time. Plus there was my experience with trying to get a new passport. You wanna talk about traumatising, let's talk about that. I won't go into it now, I'm just saying...between this and the whole 'living with family members who are sometimes shockingly cavalier about my Level 5 allergy to nuts' thing, it's a wonder I haven't ended up in therapy yet.
On a completely different note, I have a birthday coming up. Ahh, 21. Or as I like to call it, "Oh my God I'm old." Anyway, I'm having a celebration and hoping you'll come. Will you? I've sent out a few invites already - if you didn't get one, don't feel bad. It's probably just because you don't have Facebook. Or it's quite possible that I think you're an asshole. Maybe both. Either way, you're invited to ring in the beginning of a very childish adulthood with me at The Longueville Hotel on Saturday the 12th of March. No presents or theme, although anyone who comes dressed as a disco ball will be rewarded appropriately. And be prepared to drink tequila. That is all.