Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Steaks, Razors and Irish People

A few things I forgot to post about earlier:

Yesterday afternoon we had our work Christmas party at Hurricanes in Darling Harbour.
Try and get me to stop talking about Christmas for the next two weeks, I dare you.  Anyway, it was pretty awesome.  Has anyone been to Hurricanes in Darling Harbour before?  It was great!  And for a moderately-sized restaurant, they had a surprising amount of storage space.  I mean, I am assuming.  Only because there were at least 65 people in there at one time, and ALL of them appeared to be ingesting at least half a cow each.  65 people x half a cow...maths was never my strong suit, but thats a fair few cows, right?  I didn't even hear any mooing.
In case you hadn't gathered so yet, Hurricanes is a steakhouse.  And when I say 'steakhouse', I mean it - they actually MAKE you wear paper bibs while you eat the food.  I couldn't tell if this was to protect the precious table linen or just so the wait staff could get a kick out of seeing us all dressed as toddlers, but I enjoyed it regardless.  There is something oddly liberating about wearing a bib and eating with your hands.  I felt like a caveman, only better dressed.  And I don't know of any cavemen who owned mobile phones that could remind you to buy milk on the way home.

Now, what next?

I had a moment of brilliance in Coles last Thursday night.
We checked out on Monday morning, but it wasn't until about Wednesday that I realised I'd left my razor in our room at the Shangri-La after last weekend.  Dammit!  Sigh.  You are welcome, next people to stay in suite 1907.  I know, I'd never seen a purple Schick before either.  Pretty cool, huh? 
Anyway.  As annoying as this was, the silver lining was that it meant I'd have to get myself to the shops and buy a new razor.  And when you are as ridiculous as me, getting to buy a new razor is tantamount to, um, you know, winning the lottery.  The only thing I find more exciting than buying a new razor is buying a new toothbrush, but I'm not gonna spend too long talking about that because once I start I probably won't be able to stop.  I know this is crazy, but I can't help it.  Something about toiletries (especially those that come in bright colours with reflective packaging) just drives me to ecstacy.  But back to the story at hand.
As a grown woman who has been shaving her legs at least once a week (maybe less in winter) for the last 7 or 8 years, I've bought a fair number of razors in my time.  And you know one thing I've always noticed?  Guys razors are WAY better than girls.  They last longer, they're more durable, the blades are sharper, there are more blades...ladies am I right?  I can hear 90% of you agreeing with me.  The other 10% have obviously never borrowed their friends brothers Gilette Mach on a camping trip when they were 13 years old and used it to shave their armpits.  FYI, that was the smoothest 4 days of my life.
So, you can probably guess where this story is headed.  Yes, I went into Coles to get a new razor.  And yes, I decided to get a guys one.  What?  There was nothing to lose!  If it turned out to be good, I could spread the word and tell my friends and we'd all have the nicest legs this side of Uluru.  If it turned out to be bad?  Well, whatever, I could just pretend I'd bought it as a really strange welcome home present for Richie.  So...how did it turn out, I hear you asking?  I'll let my legs answer that for me.
Alright, moving on.

I had a cab driver the other day ask me if I was Irish.
And I get that this is probably not too exciting for normal people.  I mean, I have a co-worker who's Polish, a best friend who's English/Dutch, and a Jordan who'd supposedly be in line for the Scottish royal thrown if they still had one...but I'm Australian, and that's it.  My ancestors came over on the convict ship for stealing loaves of bread, decided they liked it, and never left.  When someone suggests that there might be the tiniest hint of a foreigner in me, I get excited dammit!  It's exciting!!  Maybe a little too much...

Cab Driver: So, have you had a good afternoon?
Me: Yeah it was great, and you?
Cab Driver:  Not too bad.  (pause)  Are you Irish?
Me: Sorry?
Cab Driver: Are you Irish?
Me: No.  (switching to an Irish accent) Why, do I sound Irish?
Cab Driver: No, you have Irish features.

My favourite thing about this conversation was the last part.  See, because what he said was 'No, you have Irish features', but it really sounded more like 'You're a fucking moron'.  Erroneous!  I do a great Irish accent.  And 'Irish features'?  I googled that shit, and here's what I got:
  • Red hair
  • Blue eyes
  • Freckles
My personal appearance couldn't be any further from the Irish truth: Brown hair, brown eyes, pale lips, no freckles.  Boring!  Why do you think I have so many piercings and tattoos?  Just trying to spice things up a little.  Of course on the other hand, my cab driver probably wasn't referencing my personal appearance at all, and might have just been commenting on my drinking ability (which, admittedly, is on par with the Irish).  To which I say cheers, mate.  I'll definitely drink to that.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Happy New Year, Cope Street!!

I don't wanna seem like I'm, you know, a massive brag, but my life is pretty awesome at the moment.  Pretty flippin' awesome.  Not flipping.  Flippin'.  With an N.  How you like me now, English teachers?  The answer to that question is 'We don't like you at all, you illiterate moron'.

So Christmas in two weeks, huh?  I haven't done any Christmas shopping yet.  Woops!  Sorry.  You'll have to excuse me for having a full time job and a life!  I'm kidding of course.  The real reason I haven't done any shopping yet is because I am too lazy and too poor.  You are all getting hugs for Christmas.  As long as you initiate them. 
Christmas shopping is hard, especially if - like me - you are a complete moron.  I keep thinking of stuff to buy for my Dad, going to the shops to pick it up, and then forgetting what it is.  So I go home.  Then I remember again.  So I go to the shops, but by the time I get there, I've forgotten.  Home.  Remember.  Shops.  Forget.  Home.  Remember.  Shops.  Forget.  God dammit!  Dad, you owe me a $70 petrol voucher. 
The one thing I definitely have enough energy for this holiday season is Alex and I buying our very first tree as a married couple.  I mean, um, as completely platonic room-mates.  I love Christmas trees.  I love everything about them - the smell, the lights, the decorations, the presents underneath...and most of all, the fact that at the end of January when it's dead and brown and smells like the inside of a ski-boot, I can throw it over my balcony and completely inconvenience all our dickhead neighbours.  Happy New Year, Cope Street!!
When I was still living at home, the whole Christmas-Tree-Decoration phase of the holiday was always left up to me.  Mum, Dad and Catherine would literally leave me at home by myself for 4 to 6 hours in order to do it.  Of course, what I really mean by 'leave me at home by myself' is 'I kicked them out so they wouldn't get in my way'.  This might seem cruel, but it was really in the best interest of Christmas.  My sisters method to tree decorating is similar to the fashion in which a blind person might assemble a pavlova - you can see that she's trying, but in the end we just wind up with raspberries and meringue everywhere.  As for my parents, well, they aren't much better.  I'm convinced my Dad thought tinsel was actually edible at one point.  Really, it was just safer for me to take care of the whole thing, and I was more than happy to do it.  The only problem is that now I've moved out, and they have no choice but to do it themselves - a thought that fills me with equal parts terror and amusement.  It's the same emotion I experience when I let myself think about the idea of Santa Clause for too long.  I mean, how do YOU feel about a fat guy and his pet deer breaking into your house at 2 in the morning?
Oh, hey.  Hello.  So I was standing around at work just now, looking bored, feeling bored, and thinking Hey..you know what I haven't done in a really long time?  Blogged.
Then I thought,
Wow.  That's kind of depressing.
Then I thought,
I wish I had more time to blog.
Then I thought,
Well...I'm not really doing anything right now..
Then I thought,
But I'm at work, so I should probably be working.
Then I thought,
Then again, I have been working ALL morning.
Then I thought,
I could probably get fired though.

Then there was a massive pause.


Then I thought,
Fuck it.  Let's blog.