One of the brilliant things about living in the same place for such a long time is having the advantage of knowing where to get the best take-out from. I moved house and subsequently suburb nearly 12 months ago now, and it has only just been recently that I think I have it just about down pat the best places to go for those take out cravings. The problem however, is not the act of getting take-out, it’s what it represents; the stigma that still surrounds single/divorced/too-busy-to-be-bothered-to-cook-people.
Personally, I think it’s great. After spending all week coming home from work and eating left overs, or making a huge mess with not always satisfying results, you can, for a certain price, get someone else to make a mess in their kitchen, and yet you still end up with delicious food! And while this is all good and great and my Peking dry chilli beef is always amazing, it’s that stigma that gets me every time.
Whenever I get that take-out craving, I venture from within my house, usually clad in track pants, blue ugg boots and no bra, I personally like to forget my appearance and shake my head in silence at the other patrons waiting for their order. I know I shouldn’t judge, but the guy with the balding head, side burns and reading a book must be some kind of IT guy living alone, possibly with or without cats. I can’t help it. I know I am a terrible person, but you, yes you lady with the kid who is licking the inside of the restaurant door, preventing people from coming inside, should really think about all the preservatives and MSG they put in this food. There is nothing more important than your child’s health, right?
And I know, in all honesty that people probably look at my in the same kind of way. The staff from the restaurant were probably the ones judging me that one week where everything really wasn’t going my way, and I may or may not have been twice in the space of two days. Peking dry chilli beef really is that amazing, trust me on that one. And I know people probably look and me, with my blue ugg boots and track pants and think, ‘hey, that chick must not own a mirror cause she needs to sort some shit out.’ But you know what, at the end of the day, I don’t really care. For all they know, I could be on my way to the hairdresser to get my hair done for a fancy do. Or have just got back from an amazing trip overseas and these were the only clean clothes I have. Or, that I am recovering from some disease and have been in bed for the last six months. Who knows? And I guess that’s the brilliant thing about people’s perception, majority of the time they are wrong. And so maybe, just maybe next time I see the guy with the balding head, sideburns and reading his book, I might just smile and say hi, ‘cause you just never know.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
My Life, Thus Far...
I am Bridget Jones. No, I am Bridget Jones’ underpants. And not the sexy pair that she whips out of her draw at the very end of the movie, just before she goes off chasing Mr. Darcy in the snow. You all know the pair I am talking about, but that’s not me. I am the pair of granny panties, worn with such displeasure, but such a need on certain occasions. Yes, I am a pair of flab constricting, all the way up to your boobs, granny underpants.
Upon this acknowledgment of my sorry state of being granny all-the-way-up-to-your-boobs underpants, I decided that just in case on the off chance I get hit by a bus tomorrow and have forgotten to change my underpants (of the non-granny variety of course – it is only Tuesday) maybe, just maybe there will be someone who can say something more at my funeral than, ‘she always just had such great hair’.
To sum up my life, thus far, after four years of university, the thought of putting my talents to use seemed like a silly idea. That and the fact that I didn’t want to be just another starving writer, instead, I decided to prolong repayment for my university degree and become a starving retail salesperson instead.
Now working in retail has many benefits and affords you all the pleasures of having a chance to talk to just about every single representation of society there is, while getting paid for it. And even though ‘paid’ is used here in the loosest sense when talking about working in retail, it is still important all the same.
Just how important it is that you are getting paid to work in retail, becomes apparent when there is a women/customer (I think she was just lonely) who walks into your store and then proceeds to break down into tears and tell you her life story, including the part where her sister ran over her cat. And so while this unknown women who is clearly not interested in shopping, breaks down, and as much as your humanly instincts are telling you that you should grab the nearest/sharpest object and stab yourself in the eye, you don’t. Why? Because you are being paid for it.
It also helps that you are being paid to be there, when you calmly explain to an irate customer, for possibly the tenth time in the last five minutes, that the reason you don’t currently have his/her size in stock, is because he/she falls into the same generic size as just about everyone else on the planet, and no, no matter how much you shout, I can’t just nip out the back, jump on a plane to China, wiz up the item in question on a sewing machine and jet back in time before the shop closes today. Sorry.
And so while I live my happy little life in the Nations Capital, sometimes, only sometimes on a particularly annoying day, where nothing ever goes right, it is then and only then, that my thoughts turn to plans for the future. Where will I go? What will I see? What will I do? But in the meantime, this is my life, thus far.
Upon this acknowledgment of my sorry state of being granny all-the-way-up-to-your-boobs underpants, I decided that just in case on the off chance I get hit by a bus tomorrow and have forgotten to change my underpants (of the non-granny variety of course – it is only Tuesday) maybe, just maybe there will be someone who can say something more at my funeral than, ‘she always just had such great hair’.
To sum up my life, thus far, after four years of university, the thought of putting my talents to use seemed like a silly idea. That and the fact that I didn’t want to be just another starving writer, instead, I decided to prolong repayment for my university degree and become a starving retail salesperson instead.
Now working in retail has many benefits and affords you all the pleasures of having a chance to talk to just about every single representation of society there is, while getting paid for it. And even though ‘paid’ is used here in the loosest sense when talking about working in retail, it is still important all the same.
Just how important it is that you are getting paid to work in retail, becomes apparent when there is a women/customer (I think she was just lonely) who walks into your store and then proceeds to break down into tears and tell you her life story, including the part where her sister ran over her cat. And so while this unknown women who is clearly not interested in shopping, breaks down, and as much as your humanly instincts are telling you that you should grab the nearest/sharpest object and stab yourself in the eye, you don’t. Why? Because you are being paid for it.
It also helps that you are being paid to be there, when you calmly explain to an irate customer, for possibly the tenth time in the last five minutes, that the reason you don’t currently have his/her size in stock, is because he/she falls into the same generic size as just about everyone else on the planet, and no, no matter how much you shout, I can’t just nip out the back, jump on a plane to China, wiz up the item in question on a sewing machine and jet back in time before the shop closes today. Sorry.
And so while I live my happy little life in the Nations Capital, sometimes, only sometimes on a particularly annoying day, where nothing ever goes right, it is then and only then, that my thoughts turn to plans for the future. Where will I go? What will I see? What will I do? But in the meantime, this is my life, thus far.
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