By the time I got to work I was running about 10 minutes late, I hadn't had coffee, and I knew I'd be alone for the first 45 minutes of my shift seeings as my boss was at a colour course and Alex didn't start until 10. This sort of thing doesn't happen often, but when it does I can never seem to decide if I like it or not. Normally I am the sort of idiot who would jump at the opportunity to be left alone in a building full of hair products and reflective surfaces, but on the other hand this is exactly the kind of situation that could end with me being robbed at gunpoint...where I would no doubt do something to piss off the robbers. Probably involving hair products.
Thankfully that didn't happen.
While I was standing at the desk pondering my next move (shall I do some actual work or just Google 'Ryan Reynolds naked' again?) I came to the worst realisation yet: this week is End Of Month. Or as I like to call it, 'I Would Rather Be Punched In The Crotch'. You may remember when I spoke about having to get down on my hands and knees and clean hair out from behind the reception desk - well, that was because of End Of Month. That was an End Of Month Duty. And this week, I'm expected to do that all over again. Great. Now I'm kind of wishing I HAD been held at gunpoint when I first came in this morning. Surviving that kind of thing would make a person so grateful to be alive...they'd probably pay someone else to let them clean a reception desk. Thanks a LOT, phantom robbers. First I get parked in, I don't get my morning coffee, I didn't have enough coins for the car park ticket machine and now I'm NOT being held at gunpoint. It wasn't even 9:30 and this was already shaping up to be the worst day of my life by far.
Enough about work.
My Mother called me up yesterday afternoon because she and Dad are going on holiday at the end of the week and they need me to come over and feed the animals. This is exactly how it went down:
Wait, let's pause for a second because I've got to say something. We live in the age of iPhones and Skype and Galaxy Quests (or whatever-the-fuck those Nokia iPhone imitations are called) right? There is literally no possibility of receiving a phone call and NOT knowing who's on the other end before you pick up. It's not just Caller Id anymore. You get the name, a picture, an individually chosen ringtone - these phones can do everything. I don't even use my voice when I talk to people, I just have my iPhone talk for me. My iPhone also does my laundry and services my Boyfriend. The point is with todays technology - among other things - I ALWAYS know who is calling. I know if it's Mum. I know if it's work. I even know if it's my dentist since I programmed his number in for the specific purpose of screening it. I ALWAYS KNOW WHO IS CALLING.
And yet I still answer the phone like this:
I am an idiot. Moving on.
Mum: Hello, darling. Have a good week? Listen, on Friday your Father and I are going to Victoria for a couple of days. Do you mind coming round to feed the animals every afternoon? I'm sorry if it's a hassle but there's no one else to do it and I don't fancy coming home to two dead house pets. Alright the dog I wouldn't mind so much, but I've grown rather fond of the cat. So will you do it? Fantastic.
Jane Trew: Dog Killer.
I think she was probably joking. That dog has been in our family since I was 10; he's like the third sibling. A really hairy sibling who doesn't have teeth and shits on the lawn. As much as I love my dog and think the absolute world of him...I get it when others disagree. I GET it. People (even mothers) have a tendency to gravitate away from Oscar because physically he's um, revolting. I'm not being mean, it's just true. Between the cataracts, the moles, the bad breath, the teeth he had removed and the ingrown toenails...it's a lot to take. The saddest part is that as a puppy, he was totally adorable. He's like those celebrities you see on E!'s Cutest Child Stars: All Grown Up. Like Macaulay Culkin. Remember Macaulay Culkin? From the Home Alone movies? Remember how cute he was? Boy, was he cute! I just wanted to eat him up. I just wanted to put him between two pieces of bread and eat him up. I just wanted to take photos of him, and have them blown up into poster size, and then frame the posters. And I wanted to hang the posters around my house so that every day, I would be surrounded by framed, poster-sized pictures of Macaulay Culkin that I had taken myself. That's how cute he was. He was that cute. He was that cute. That's how cute he was.My dog is the canine version of adult Macaulay - the only difference being that Oscar has never been arrested for possession. You know, that I am aware of.
While I was on the phone to Mum, she also let it slip that Catherine was in the middle of some hardcore PT exercise at work (she's in the Navy for you newcomers) and had a...chest explosion? That's not exactly how she described it, but it was the funniest visual that my mind conjured up. At least until I pictured her wearing a chest cast:
Pretty sure that picture is medically accurate.
Apparently she's broken her chest cartilage - that's the white crunchy stuff that connects your ribs to your sternum. Can you imagine breaking that? Ow, ow, fuckety ow! Lucky for Catherine she is the kind of individual who will rarely show any signs of physical weakness. I think that comes with working in an industry that's pretty much male-dominated; it toughens you up. I accidentally slammed a car door on her arm once - didn't even flinch. She just punched me in the groin and drove off.
Anyway, both Mum and Boyfriend (who I was talking to about it later) had the exact same reaction to Catherine's little incident, and it made me laugh.
Mum/Boyfriend: I can't believe it wasn't you!
This is so true I am not even going to pretend that I'm insulted. I know it, you know it, the ER nurses who've stitched me back together on 3 separate occasions know it - I'm clumsy to the point where it's life threatening. If there's something sharp in the carpet, I will step on it. If there's a nail sticking out of the wall, I will scratch myself on it. Of course it doesn't help that as well as being clumsy, I'm also a moron. If there's a 4-foot barbed wire fence in front of me, I won't feel satisfied until I've attempted at least one 'run-and-jump'.
I suppose this is where Catherine and I differ, though. She tends to get these serious injuries through sport and exercise - you know, broken bones and shit. I've never broken a bone in my life (touch wood), but can turn something as simple as grabbing a metal coat hanger out of my cupboard into a trip to hospital. I think between the two of us we've managed to pre-maturely age my parents by about 20 years. Which would make my Mother forty-three. What's the bet this is the only one of my blogs she doesn't read?