Mavis Appleby: of food and other oral delights

Telstra sucks dead dogs' dicks

2004-10-29T13:03:00.000+10:00

An evening well spent: napping on the couch, enjoying the silence only a 12-foot-windowed inner-city apartment can bring, occasionally revelling in the overheard conversations floating up from the chi-chi, semi-hidden, tiny bar downstairs.

A morning less well spent: on the phone with said phone company chomping dead dogs' parts, arguing about whether I had actually PAID a debt that wasn't mine (I had, nearly two years ago), about whether I was a credit risk (even though I've had my mobile with this company on plan for nearly two years and operated a home phone line with STD capacity for a year of that time) because of said (allegedly still unpaid) debt. Apparently I am unworthy and therefore only deserve a home phone with local calls, virtually useless for two immigrants from other states.

Time generally well spent: unpacking and loving the masses of wardrobe space for all my clothes, which, because I have no other life, are now colour blocked and either hanging neatly or folded neatly, right way out.

Today: as part of my new season resolution, I am off to play my first game of squash in about 15 years. I have a bike now, and have been thoroughly enjoying riding through the city's various parks and gardens and generally swearing at kamikaze drivers. I am eating well, at last - 2-3 bits of fresh fruit a day and a decent breakfast and main meal; healthy snacks at work rather than chips and pizza. And the weight is s-l-o-w-l-y coming off, as it should. Not too much at a time, but off for good. I figured that I really needed another cardio-aerobic type activity to get healthy faster and seeing as I'm too much of a spaz to take an actual aerobics class, squash it is, where acting like a spaz (albeit a semi-aggro one), all for raising one's heartbeat, is de rigeur.

Into heaven

2004-10-26T20:30:00.000+10:00

I am finally ensconsed in my new - and rather fabulous, I might say - warehouse apartment in the city.

Tonight, after heaving (well, watching two dudes heave, really) boxes and various loads of Stuff up several awkward sets of stairs, I can actually say that I live in the city.

Said warehouse apartment is composed of two storeys. The first is the living space - resplendent with floor-to-12-foot-ceiling windows and exposed brick. From the kitchen windows you can see all over the top end of Bourke, Collins, Exhibition and Russell streets.

The second storey is the bedrooms.

I think there are a number of things that make this new place so divine:

Little Bourke Street and all its yummy temptations are my backyard;
Said warehouse only costs me $100 a week, including bills;
The UTTER AND TOTALLY DEAFENING SILENCE;
The rent is only $100 per week, all inclusive.

Did I mention how cheap the rent is?

Did I mention THE TOTAL SILENCE?

Turn off the clocks, turn out the lights

2004-10-10T17:41:00.000+10:00

Devastated. http://www.theage.com.au/articles/2004/10/09/1097261864643.html

She died with a felafel

2004-10-03T16:08:00.000+10:00

GOD.

I can handle most things.

Well, that's a lie. I can't really. But I can deal, just with a lot of talking about it.

I can handle the odd party night in a house of four luscious women.

I cannot handle coming home from working 10 hour shifts cleaning up other people's shit like ashtrays and half-full glasses of beer to find said same stinking out the communal living space.

I cannot handle going to take a shower after said discovery and finding a large pile of dog shit in the bathroom doorway and the bathroom floor flooded with dog piss, because the dog's owner got so drunk (again) she forgot to put the dog out.

Later, when I did venture into the bathroom, I discovered that rather than actually mop the freaking floor and yunno, make it all, like CLEAN, the bathmat had been moved verrrrry strategically to cover up said dog piss. Get in shower dirty and grumpy, get out said same.

I cannot handle said same dog barking up a storm from 11am onwards, when I didn't get home until 6am and had to be back at work at 6pm.

I cannot handle people going into my room - with the shuttable door and containing all my stuff - and borrowing clothes and various accoutrements without asking.

And what really, really sticks in my fucking craw is that I have no condoms left, and I'm not even getting laid.

Not very fucking happy Jan.

It's time to move on and get me a homestead that is actually quiet, and clean. Oh, for quiet and clean.

Riding the trains

2004-09-20T13:05:00.000+10:00

The. Next. Station. Is ... THORNBURY!!

Like it's a prize.

The clincher: an open letter

2004-09-16T13:45:00.000+10:00

Dear [minorMelbourne celebrity comedian],

When you invite a gorgeous girl to a party you're hosting, don't ignore her altogether, but perhaps just ogle her from afar, without actually initiating any conversation whatsoever.

Also, when she does approach to talk to you, it might not be such a great idea to get your mates to laugh at her, thinking she's another one of your alleged groupies. It's also probably not the best of moves to then say, "Oh, did you come up here so you could be in my realm?"

You have no realm.

You are not funny.

It's also probably not going to win you any brownie points when you send her a text message the next day telling her she looked great the night before.

You should have - and could have - told her that very thing the night before, and then, yunno, the conversation could have flowed from there and then maybe said girl could have got laid.

But no, no.

Not funny.

No realm.

Not cool.

No cock.

2004-09-06T19:29:00.000+10:00

Not much to report other than the lack of sleep due to the complete and utter partying of my little head off. This is not a bad thing. It means I've been sociable, and that's good.

Am working on a pilot episode of Mavis Appleby - she's off to the Fringe this year and she's none too happy. More on this little project soon!!

Relief, of various sorts, some of which will be mentioned here

2004-09-03T13:29:00.000+10:00

RELIEF of having My Own Bed, located in My Own Room, that isn't in a house I'm housesitting, or located in a shared house with 70 million other, dirtier people who sleep on single beds and never clean. Oh, the relief. My pillows! My sleep on my pillowy goodness and softness.

RELIEF at finally having somewhere - like a real, grown up dressing table with little and big drawers - in which to stash my advancing-towards-used-by-date condoms. (*utters brief prayer to Getting Lucky Gods that one day I may have sex again*)

RELIEF at finding the box containing all of my glassware, most of which was nicked from bars around Melbourne's CBD.

RELIEF at coming home and not having to count down the days until I have to leave again.

And oh, oh, oh. The sweet relief of having my own room with the shuttable door, with my lamps lit how I like them, with my curtains hung how I like them, and with my Davey Croc lying in wait on my bed which is clad in my sheets.

Also: the TOTAL UTTER FUCKING RELIEF of not working or approaching said place of work for three! Days! In a row! My god. I'm a different person, although I'm sure this will change come Saturday night. But, yunno. Whatever. Living in the now already.

And, and, and: the relief of visiting Preston Markets and spending $25 at the favourite Italian delicatessen and coming away with a bag stuffed full of cheeses and olives and chorizo. All for me, all stored faithfully in the fridge with the non-demarcated individual shelving (imagine! Sharing all the food!) and ready to share and consume when I'm ready to.

Bliss.

You say potatoes, I say tomatoes

2004-08-30T12:39:00.000+10:00

Perth bar: requires staff to wear ridiculous uniform involving bad stripes, a bow tie and a silly hat in attempt to convince paying public they are visiting an authentic, cut-right-outta-the-backwaters-of-London-and-airlifted-to-Australia pub.

Fact: Bar not British or authentic in the slightest, regardless of silly compulsory uniforms.

Melbourne bar: no uniform requirement.

Fact: I get the chance to play dress-ups or dress-downs and Express My Individuality.

Perth bar: management overrides your decisions at every opportunity and chastens you to SMILE at any shred of evidence that your frown turned upside down is, in fact, turning the right way up again, and thereby risking sales of 'authentic' (read: 'expensive and tasteless') drinks to paying public. Consequence: customers think they are right and can treat you like shit because management will support them over you every time. Secondary consequence: staff hate management and customers.

Fact: Nothing worse than some fucktard coming along and presuming to know how you are feeling and thinking they can buy their way into making you smile by sticking 10 cents in the tip jar. Note: THIS DOES NOT EVER WORK.

Example: customer leans over bar and helps themselves to cut lemon for their drink. Growl at customer for being unhygenic. Manager growls at me. "He just wanted some lemon in his drink, and you should have given him some in the first place. SMIIII-IIIILE!!"

Melbourne bar: management support staff decisions every time. EVERY time. No requirement to smile or be nice to mules. Management does not care if lack of smiling or dearth of generally hospitable vibe from staff results in less drinks sales. Less mules = more relaxing time for staff. Consequence: customers generally know their place and are polite (of course there are exceptions to this rule and that is why we have security staff). Secondary consequence: staff actually like and respect management. Still hate customers.

Fact: tips are proportionate to how rude staff are to mules. Ruder = excellent tippage.

Example: mule leans over and helps themselves to cut lemon for drink. Tell customer to fuck off with their dirty mitts in our lemons and remind them that we use tongs to relocate lemon from bowl to drink for a reason: it's called HYGIENE. Remove bowl of lemons from position of easy reach. Management: "Good work, Mavis!"

Participant observation exercise

2004-08-30T04:13:00.000+10:00

Just in from work. It's nearly 4.30am.

Tonight - after working four shifts in a row of 12 hours or more - I Officially Hit The Wall.

Sunday nights tend to be fairly cruisey and enjoyable (which is why I agree to do them when I can) but unfortunately tonight proved the exception to the rule.

Firstly, I was asleep until 7.30pm. My shift started at nine, which meant that I arrived feeling a bit out of sorts and generally out of this world. Normally on a Sunday this is fine, but not tonight.

After managing the upstairs bar solo for two hours, and thusly forced to endure two hours of suicidal, abysmal, not even close to credible attempts at "music" and "entertainment", I came to the conclusion that making the night end would take considerable mental stamina, rather than the physical slog required by Friday night's Invasion of Tourists. Amped up and wailing like a banshee in front of an audience is not entertaining; nor is bad poetry "rapped" to the backing track of My Sharona. But hey. That's just me. Excuse me for having taste or an opinion and lacking ear plugs or a godamn bazooka already.

Part of managing the upstairs bar meant that I was required to serve beers and endure the "SMIIIII-IILE?!" conversation anyone who has ever worked in hospitality will understand.

MULE: Hey, SMILE. It can't be that bad.

ME: What do you mean?

MULE: You just don't look very happy.

ME: Why would you think that my lack of smiling makes it ok for you to pass judgement on my state of mind? Do I know you?

MULE: Uhhhh ... no ...

ME: Well, how is it ok for you to presume that you know about my emotional state of being to the point that you feel it appropriate to dictate to me what my feelings actually are? That's not your place. It's not for you to tell ME how or what I should be feeling. I'll smile when I'm fucking well ready to. Do you want beers or not?

MULE: Three pots please.

I was also forced to witness the Drunken Random Public Snog With a Stranger, twice; except that the male turd half of the equation was the one and the same on both occasions: firstly with a fake-tanned middle aged suburbanite twice said turd's age and secondly with a naif from Tasmania whose friends abandoned her and left her propping up the bar and at the mercy of said turd.

They left together.

It was disgusting.

And how many times can bar staff have the discussion about moral/ethical responsibilities? Is it not bad enough that we are legally obligated to monitor everyone's drinking so that when they leave our premises and get run over by a bus or rampant taxi we don't get sued, even though in an evening we see up to a thousand people stream through our doors? Are we now also expected to take aside said naif and advise her to go home and avoid the ugly inevitability of snogging a turd?

Fuck knows.

*slurps on double vodka and dry*

(yeah. I get it.)

Plus there was a bit of serious, revolting, We Have a Problem With Alcohol situation downstairs, which unfortunately involved our new publicist at her first gig (including her husband). From behind the bar, it looked like this:

HEY. HEEEEEEYYYYYYYYY. DOUBLE JDs! SIX BEERS, WENCH!! GIMME SIX BEERS AND A DOUBLE SHOT OF SCOTCH. FOR ME AND MY REALLY MANLY MATES, WHO ARE ALL GRABBING THEIR CROTCHES IN SIMULTANEOUS DISPLAYS OF WANTON MANHOOD, EVEN AS I ROAR AT YOU FOR MORE BOOZE. BOOOOOOOOZE! WOO!! I'M REALLY, REALLY FUCKEN PISSED, EH??? MOOOOOORRRRE. MOOOOORRE!!!!!!!!! WADDAYA MEAN I'VE HAD ENOUGH???? THAT'S AN INSULT TO MY MANHOOD. I FEEL THE NEED TO LURCH ALL AROUND THE BAR AND STAGGER INTO OTHER RESPECTABLE PAYING CUSTOMERS. HANG ON!! THE BOUNCER IS TRYING TO THROW ME OUT!! WELL, FUCK THAT, I'LL SHOW *HIM*!! I'LL DROP MY FULL GLASS OF BEER ON THE FLOOR SO IT SHATTERS JUST SO I CAN PUT MY FISTS UP!! 'CAUSE I'M A *MAN*, Y'GEDDIT??? A MAAAAAANNNN, MOTHER FUCKER.

OH.

THEY LOCKED ME OUT.

Damn straight we did.

Then, after we'd cleaned up all the mess left behind, we stocked our fridges. Or at least, we tried to. We did the best we could given that SOMEONE had been helping themselves to our stock. Nice. Real nice.

Witnessing these various incidents tonight has diminished my already minimal faith in humanity by an absolute truckload.

And until you come and stand in my shoes for four shifts in a row, don't dare to tell me to smile.

*cocks shotgun*

Spuds ala Mavis

2004-08-29T15:41:00.000+10:00

Begin this dish the night before.

Slice several potatoes (enough to fill two quiche sized pans) into slices about 1/2 a centimetre thick.

In a large bowl, combine the potatoes with sprigs of lemon thyme, olive oil, bruised garlic and some freshly chopped oregano, a decent splosh of white wine and a good dollop of thick cream. Add salt and pepper to taste. Combine all ingredients until all the potato slices are covered with the good stuff.

Layer the potato slices into the quich pans, or tart dishes, or whatever dish you're using, and then pour any remaining wine/oil/cream mixture over the top.

Bung it all in a pre-heated oven at about 220C.

Give it 20 minutes until the top is nice and golden.

Eat one pan of super potatoey goodness immediately, preferably with a roast of some sort or hell, even on its own.

The next day.

In a skillet, heat a dob of butter. Add some freshly chopped mushrooms and fry gently.

As the shroomies are frying, combine eggs, freshly grated parmesan, salt and pepper in a bowl and whisk lightly.

In another bowl, add the mushrooms and break up the leftover potato dish and add that too. Return it all to the skillet and pour the egg mixture over the top. Sit the skillet over a low heat until the bottom of the mixture sets, then bung it under the grill for about five or ten to set the top of it. Serve with a salad of rocket and cherry tomatoes for a yummy lunch.

A still wind

2004-08-26T10:20:00.000+10:00

Awaking to a hot northerly breeze and the over-the-fence neighbours' bad talkback radio is not a good way to start the day on which your turning-one's-room-into-one's-sanctuary-and-greatest-ever-room-of-all-time-because-you've-been-wihtout-one-for-months fantasy comes to fruition with the mere delivery of three bits of second hand furniture.

I can tell today isn't going to go so well. This is in part because it is already over 20 degrees, and even though I'm not complaining given that this past winter has felt like pure purgatory, or some kind of strange Siberian hinterland, I feel like I'm nineteen again and back in Perth and getting hayfever for the first time and wondering WHAT THE FUCK I can do to stop my nose dripping and dampen the increasing desire to SCRATCH MY EYES OUT, MOTHERFUCKER.

Hot northerly breeze = trip to chemist for maximum industrial strength chemicals to stick up my nose.

A shame, because it looks like a beautiful day out there, and ordinarily I'd be out there frolicking in its beauty and in all my gorgeous red leather bootness, but what with the breeze and the eye itching and the sniffing and the CONSTANT MOTHERFUCKING SNEEZING and all I'm stuck inside by a window, all Pollyanna like, except without the good attitude, or the blonde hair, or the apron, or any gingham; watching all the other motherfuckers dance about and enjoy spring. Bastard children of non-hayfevery devil's spawn. At least I still have my red leather boots, which I can almost guarantee none of the other, less stylish members of the general public would even think to buy, let alone parade with glee.

Am well over the maximum share house experience. No chance of any Pollyanna-ness here. Nice people, but FUCK, dude, when the house comprises mainly of women the TOILET SEAT STAYS DOWN ONCE YOU'RE DONE. And the toilet roll goes OVER, not UNDER, Jesus only knows how much patience I have left to have this discussion with virtual strangers, strangers with whom I have the vague misfortune of sharing far too many personal intimacies such as particular bathroom smells and the noises of various nocturnal comings and goings.

And what is this not sharing food except when it's your night to cook thing? With five people in the house can we not manage to pool some resources so there is only ONE carton of milk slowly turning sour in the fridge as opposed to SEVEN (last count)? I don't get it. Eat, share, drink, be merry. It's not that hard. I don't care for your wheat/dairy/life intolerance.

While the novelty of having Nova Cinemas literally a sixty second walk away has yet to lose its magnificent shine, the expense and lack of humour/personality/choice at the local Safeways is distinctly starting to grate. Call me a food snob if you will (FOOD SNOB!!) but hey - I actually like having more than three choices of multi-national corporation cheddar cheese to choose from and I quite enjoy my fruit and veg looking slightly original, different, maybe even a little bruised or oddly shaped or god forbid, RUSTIC, as opposed to each apple being as perfectly formed and gleaming as the next. I pooh-pooh your uniformity, Safeways, and thumb my nose at your multinationalness.

I take Preston Markets any day.

E-bayian

2004-08-25T23:15:00.000+10:00

"Shabby chic" = ruined beyond recognition or repair

"Retro" = foul and from the 80s and located in Bris-vegas

"Cheapest bargains around!!!" = I can still get it cheaper at The Brotherhood, and in better condition too

"Take a L@@k! Must see!!" = no, no I mustn't, less I wave my bazooka in your general direction as revenge for your heinous crimes against the English language

"L@@@@@@@@KK!!" = get away from me immediately

"Check out my other GREAT bargains!" = please take a look at all the other shit I'm clearing out of my nana's shed in the vain hope some idiot will buy it for a dollar

No, it isn't

2004-08-25T18:30:00.000+10:00

My hair is red. REALLY red. I know this because of the following.

1. From across the street -

HEY! REDHEAD! IS IT THE SAME DOWN BELOW AS IT IS ON TOP??!!

2. Getting off tram surrounded by safety of mates as I get on said tram -

NICE COLOUR!! *SNIGGER*

And, finally, 3. While at work -

Gee. Did you know your hair matches your top? Did you do that especially?

Night jasmine, magnolias

2004-08-25T13:39:00.000+10:00

I've spent part of today wandering around East Brunswick, looking for new places to sup a coffee and finding cheap antique furniture for my new room. Success on both fronts: a nw caff has bloomed up past The Comfortable Chair on Lygon and their coffee is cheap, service decidedly unpretensious (thank the lord!). Yes. I know that I may not have spelled 'pretensious' correctly but seeing as I no longer live That Life, I don't care sufficiently to check. Nyah.

As for furniture, I'm happy to say that the first op-shop I ever visited in Melbourne - The Brotherhood of St Laurence on Brunswick Road - is still there and still as good as the day I visited it back in 2000. Procured for under $200 - one QS ensemble, one 1940s tall boy, resplendent with all those little cupboards and drawers and slidy bits so required by a gentleman of that era; and one splendid dressing table with a large, circular bevelled-edge mirror atop it. Beautiful. Let the fantasising about my new room/sanctuary commence.

I think one of the reasons I enjoy walking around East Brunswick so much is that I spent many an hour traipsing its footpaths when I first moved to Melbourne just over three years ago. I can still recall the sweet, tantalising smell of the night jasmine, the spectacular grace of the blossoming magnolia trees in every second front garden. I still love those things about the area and that I have held on to such wonderful sensory memories.

To be and to have

2004-08-24T20:48:00.000+10:00

Two fillums in two days - a bit of a record not seen since Sydney days.

In what may or may not be a strange twist of synchronicity, not two hours before seeing this French doco, I'd been chatting to my job network assistance provider client liaison customer service robot about whether I should do my Dip Ed next year in light of little else on the horizon. "I'm just very conscious," I said, "of that saying: 'Those who can, do and those who can't teach.'" I grinned at my speedy recall of bad quotations. Robot lady smiled. "I used to be a teacher."

Oops.

To be and to have was just so lovely, probably because it was all French and provincial and the scenery was gorgeous, but the portrayal of the gentle teacher and his adorable charges, all of whom came to school with their own individual problems and lives outside of the schoolhouse, was something that I ate up.

Now, if only they offered Dip Eds in provincial France ...

Chronicle

2004-08-23T22:25:00.000+10:00

Today I went to see Before Sunset, starring Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy. The film is a 'part two' to Before Sunrise, which took place nine years ago over a 24 hour period in Venice.

To say that this fillum has thrown me about mentally and emotionally is probably a great understatement. I related so strongly to Celine (Delpy) and her emotional ups and downs since her 24 hours in Venice with Jesse (Hawke). I cried throughout. I was a mess and couldn't leave the cinema until everyone else had gone.

What would you do if fate gave you a second chance?

(A theme also featured strongly in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind)

Cliches I continue to endure:

* It'll happen when you least expect it. (Crock)

* I wasn't looking for anything when I met [insert long-term partner's name here]. (Well, bully for you.)

* Have you considered getting a hobby? (I have several, for a long time, and clearly while they help my creative process NOT ONCE have any of them even helped me to get laid, let alone a date)

* [said with patronising tone] You should count your blessings that you can do what you like and go where you want. I'd LOVE to be single! (well, give me your fucken married life then, because hell, I'd LOVE to have someone to marry)

* Have you considered that maybe you need to tone down how intimidating you are? (step up to the freakin plate, dude, and consider that maybe 90 per cent of your gender are too chicken shit.)

* I just don't understand it. You're gorgeous, witty, smart, artistic, sexy ... I just don't understand why you're still single. Any man worth his salt ... (if you don't get it, what hope does that leave me?)

So much of my life is fine, and I mean it when I say that I am working in a pub three nights a week and this is the happiest I've ever been. So how come I still feel so lost and alone?

I am mighty tired of getting through each day with only my furry croc for company and support at the end of the night. Davey Croc might well always be there for me but he's useless for a bunch of stuff including but not limited to sex, cuddling and dating.

Last night I was introduced to someone and for the first time in so very long there was spark with me, not just spark-with-me-until-the-better-looking-option came along. Big, dinner plate brown eyes and gorgeous big smile and long fingers and musically inclined. And obviously as shy as I am when it comes to these things so of course he left when we closed with nothing said or done and I was too shy and dumstruck and curs-ed by nerves and insecurity to invite him to stay and have a drink. Both hamstrung by our insecurities and lack of faith. Cursed to regret.

C-u-r-s-e-d. That's how I feel. This is excrutiating. I am at the point of crying myself to sleep and wondering when a (single) man might ever look at me as a potential mate or as beautiful and do something about it. Because christ only knows I am sick to death of doing something about it (and every other godamn thing) myself and constantly getting burned and ending up alone and bloody miserable regardless.

How much longer am I going to kid myself that things will change? I have no hope left.

I have friends who are only in their mid-20s and already engaged to be married. They will never know what it is like to feel their youth slipping away from them (although we deny time's march as elegantly as possible, of course) or to be single and getting old and feeling it, and wondering if you might realistically ever come close to having children or a relationship that even lasts longer that three dates, let alone three months or years. When I try and explain some of this shit to them they look at me like I'm crazy. They are still young enough to remain convinced that there is always hope and potential. They really just don't get it. The getting married in yer 20s thing really pisses me off, because godammit, if I had known it was going to be like this in my 30s I'd have stayed with my boyfriend at the time, too.

I didn't even imagine things would get this bad. Where did I go so wrong? Is this my lot? Why couldn't I have been one of the popular girls at school, or the girl that always gets picked up or hit on in bars instead of being that girl who shoved out of the way to get to the cute, size 8, everything is easy for me, even if I deny it girl? Why did I have to end up the difficult one, the 'shoulder to cry on one', the 'nice personality' girl, the self-deprecating funny girl? I hate this, I hate it. I hate it.

So much, so little

2004-08-23T20:16:00.000+10:00

This is one of very few times in my life where I have a great need to express large chunks of myself and my thought processes but not the inclination nor words to facilitate it.

Mules

2004-08-23T19:47:00.000+10:00

Until you've worked in a bar, please don't presume to tell me that my colleagues and I are being harsh when we call customers mules.

They are.

Me: [bumping into mule slightly while in desperate dash to collect dirty glasses to clean for mules to drink from]

Mule: YOU FUCKEN IDIOT! YOU FUCKEN IDIOT!!

Me: It was an accident, and there's absolutely no cause to speak to me in that way.

Mule: YOU GOT MY WINE THAT I JUST FUCKEN PAID FOR ALL OVER MY GOOD SHIRT!

Me: [walks away, muttering about the standard of mules allowed to enter the building these days]

*ten minutes later, downstairs*

Mule: [fixes me with steely glare] Thank you very FUCKEN much! That went all over me! Fucksakes!

Me: It's time for you to leave. Bye-bye. SECURITY!!

Home, James

2004-08-15T13:49:00.000+10:00

[existential rant]

Aside from the not getting a root thing, you know, I've come to accept that my life is in general pretty fine and that I HAVE THE POWER (as it were) to change it at will and that despite or perhaps in spite of my foibles I'm a nice person with ethics and morals and the getting to heaven thing blah-blah-blah.

But then a new girl starts at work and suddenly all the guys are all over her because she's blonde and small and not interested in any of them, and that's when I think, oh yeah, that's right, I'm Good Ole Mavis!!

Good Ole Mavis who doesn't have to work so hard at making people laugh at themselves or her because gee, she's so funny and smart and self-deprecating but can't get a root because she's not BLONDE AND SIZE SIX, and gee, look at her pour a beer and get rid of the drunks at the end of the night, gee, wouldn't want to meet HER in a dark alley would you, but that new girl, phwoar. I'd meet her anywhere!!

Why can't that stuff be easy for me instead? Why does pulling have to be so much damn work, or even getting any guy to pay some attention? It feels like I need to start hiring out a billboard advertisement (YES! I HAVE A VAGINA TOO! PLEASE TAKE ME TO THE MOVIES ALREADY AND I'LL LET YOU SEE IT, PROMISE!) just to get some godamn validation from the other half of the population.

Last night I came to realise that I am just not that girl, that fending-off-men-with-a-stick girl. I am the 'nice personality' girl with the okay body and the 'funky street cred edgey clothing' rather than The Knockout. I am the one that people rely on and can confide in but not see as a sensual, sexual being. The one who gets her heart broken every godamn time and only gets some once in a ferkin halley's comet cycle. Just call me Pretty In Pink and give me a fading movie career already.

Last night I gots to talking to two pretty hot guys from the band that played. And we were getting along fine and there was laughing and eye contact and whatever and then they see A (new girl) and suddenly it's all over ("Who's SHE?" they said. "She's the most gorgeous creature I've ever seen!" Why can't *I* be that girl? Why does all my gorgeousness have to be on the godamn inside behind a "nice personality"?).

When they left they said to me, "See you Mavis! It's nice to finally meet a REAL person working behind a bar!". Great. I'm the real person behind the bar that every one confides in but no one will root. HMPH!

[\existential rant]

The moral of the story

2004-08-10T11:34:00.000+10:00

Wednesday, 8pm

- Mavis is here. Hurrah! (Big hugs.)
- (Strong arms! Why haven’t I ever noticed this? He totally lifted me off the floor there. What's with all the hugging? Weird. He’s never done that before.)
- How are you?
- Well. (All the better for seeing you, I think.) And you?
- Good. (Smiles.)
- Excellent. (Smiles. Smiles all round. Is he looking at my mouth? I’m looking at his mouth. How come I never noticed those lips before? Or those crinkly bits at the corners of his eyes?)
- How’s your week been? (He’s smiling at me. He never smiles at me like this. Not that I’m complaining, mind. Oooh. Twinkle. Definite twinkle.)
- Oh, yunno. Up and down. Glad the weekend is here. (Uh-oh. Funny feeling in my belly.)
- Let’s have a shot. Just you and me. (No complaints here.)

Wednesday, midnight

- How’s it going up there?
- Quiet. Shall I close the upstairs bar?
- Yep. Yes please, darl.
- You going to the party on Saturday? After work? (He smiled at me again. In THAT way. Definitely. Smiling. Lots of smiling going on. I think I like it.)
- Yep.

Thursday night

- You again. (Smiling. What is with all the smiling?)
- I know. I keep coming back to work here. Amazing.
- It’s as if you like us, or something.
- Well, without sounding like an arse-licker, I’m really glad you hired me. I like working with you guys. I like how you don’t want me to change. Big difference coming from a corporate job where there was nothing but whispers behind people’s backs and me being very uncomfortable in a suit.
- We’re pretty impressed with you too, Mavis. We like having you around.
- I had some ideas. For the bar.
- Yeah?
- Yeah. What about a cross-promo with *indie radio station* DJs on a Saturday afternoon? They’d dig it. We’d totally dig it.
- That’s a great idea.
- (There’s that smile again. He’s totally smiling at me. Oooh! I can feel his leg. Right there! Next to mine. Oh. How come I never noticed the eyes and the smiling thing until now? Dammit.)
- We should meet up for coffee and talk some more about your ideas. What do you reckon?
- Sure. (Did he just … ask me out for coffee?)

Next Friday

- Mavis! You’re here! Let’s celebrate. A shot?
- Why not. You’re the boss.
- Excellent. (Big smiles. Twinkling, even. There’s twinkle! Twinkle is good, right? Particularly twinkle from an unexpected source.)

Later

- (Gentle nudge) Have I mentioned how lovely it is to work with you?
- (Grinning) Well, it’d be fucken shit if it wasn’t, right?
- Pretty much, yeah.
- ‘Cause we work together a lot, don’t we?
- Yep. Yep, we do. (Smiling)
- And we’ve been working together a fair bit recently, haven’t we?
- That’s true. (What’s with all the smiling? Why is there all of a sudden no-one else around?)
- And I do the rosters, don’t I?
- Uhh … yeah. You do. (Where’s this going?)
- That’s because I like working with you too. Dufus. I like you as well.
- Oh. (Really? Me?)
- Believe it or not. You don’t have to believe it. But it’s true.
- Oh. (Oooh. I’ve gone all … heart-beaty. How’d that happen?)

End of the night, part one

- (Long glance. Grin. Well, I’m not looking away first.)
- (Twinkle. Grin. Wink.)
- (Fuck that’s an incredibly sexy smile. How did I not notice this before? There was winking! And Grinning! And twinkling. Oooh. Heart-beaty again.)

End of the night, part two

- Take it easy. I’ll see you tomorrow. (Biiiig hug. Bigger than usual. Hmm.)
- (Grinning.) You will. I look forward to it. (Smiling.)

The conversation, with her, Saturday

- Hey. I need to have a chat to you.
- Sure. Sounds intriguing. What gives?
- This is totally confidential, by the way. I’d infinitely prefer it that you didn’t discuss it with anyone.
- Uhhh … I guess so. What’s going on?
- There’s been this thing. A weird kinda … thing. With him.
- Oh. Really? What kind of thing?
- It’s sort of hard to explain. And I don’t really have any context. We don’t know each other very well. I figure you might be able to help me out, with what these things might mean. I’m not sure if I’m making accurate assumptions or just making an ass of myself.
- Right. You’re being kind of cryptic.
- Well, there’s been touching. And lots of hugging. It’s strange, because, yunno, he’s a pretty stoic kind of guy.
- What kind of touching?
- Not bad touching, mind, nothing gross or nothing I can’t handle. In fact, it’s kinda nice.
- (Sly smile) Maybe he likes you.
- I don’t think I’d have a problem with that. But I just don’t know what all this stuff means. I don’t have any context for it.
- I don’t really know either.
- Oh. Bugger.

Several shots later

- (Whoopsie! Fell over again. Oops. Bad form. Fuck. Still at work. Not good. Not a good look.)

The conversation, part two

- I’m going. (She’s putting her scarf on. Is she going? Why is she going?)
- Oh. Okay. Um … see you later?
- I just can’t stay here. I just can’t be here and I have to go.
- Right. (She’s acting a bit weird. Is she acting weird?) Are you coming to the party, then?
- I just have to leave. See ya.

The after-work party

- (We’re at the party! Together! Whee! Is … he … now … ignoring me? I don’t get it.)
- (Oh. There she is. I thought she’d gone home.)
- (Why are they … gee. They sure are talking a lot. A lot.)
- (Oooh! There’s that other fellow I know. I’ll go chat to him for a while.)
- (Wait! Where’d they go?)
- (Oh. Out there by the fire. I’ll go chat.)
- Mavis. I have to go. (She says! Is she avoiding me too?)
- Mavis. Wait here. (HE’S LEAVING WITH HER?!)
- (HE TOTALLY JUST LEFT WITH HER. WHAAAAT?)
- (Waiting. Waiting. FUCKING WAITING. Looking around. Hmm. No one left here that I know. At all. Still fucking waiting. I don’t think he’s coming back. They left together. I can’t believe they left together and just … abandoned me here. Fine. FINE. I’ll just take the beer and go, then. FUCK. FUUUUUCK.)

The cab ride home

- OVER HERE! MATE! TAXI! I need to get to the corner of … of … oh, fuck, where do I live again? (Okay, this is bad. Too drunk to remember address. But, still have beer. Will open beer when I get home. Oh …) Yeah. Carlton. Near the Nova cinema.
- Have you got the money?
- Whaaaat? Of course I’ve got money. Drive the cab, dammit.
- Why are you crying?
- The guy I like ran off with a friend of mine and they left me abandoned at a party where I didn’t know anyone. Good enough for you? (Oh Christ, I’ve started crying. Fuck. I’ll never stop now. Fuck.)
- Maybe you did something.
_ I didn’t do anything. Turn left. No, there. THERE. Just there.
- You seem really upset. Give me a hug.
- (Gawd, I’m really sobbing now. How embarrassing.)
- (DID HE JUST HONK MY BOOB?)
- (MOTHERFUCKER JUST COMPLETELY HONKED MY BOOB!!)
- Thanks. Thanks a whole fucking lot. Creep.

The cook-off, and subsequent hubris

2004-05-26T12:07:00.000+10:00

She is incredibly bossy, and she thinks she can cook.

After I cooked a roast loin of pork with a roast melange of beetroot, whole green apple and spanish onion with a sweet balsamic sauce, she challenged me to a cook off.

Not that I minded, initially. She's done part of a chef's apprenticeship, after all. Good practice, I thought. A good way to get these cooking skills up and running. Plus it would mean that once a week I'd get fed for free, and let's face it, the government doesn't actually give me enough to live on, so free anything at this point in time is worth it.

Especially if it's gratis food prepared by a quasi-chef, right?

Ahem.

In regaling this story I am tres conscious of my own hubris, but really, there's limits.

I know that I am a reasonably good cook. I'm not great at it (yet); primarily because I don't have a great deal of technical knowledge about food and flavours and the actual acts of cooking in kitchens with big fat meanie chefs peering over my shoulder. And I'm always conscious of these things. I am all too well aware of my limitations.

She smokes in the kitchen. Not only does she smoke in the kitchen, but she smokes while she's preparing food. And while others are still finishing their meals. Ugh. Anyways.

The mains - corned beef with cream sauce, snowpeas and roasted corn. For dessert - double chocolate pudding.

Upsides: I didn't have to eat the snowpeas. This is good; they were not topped or tailed and were overcooked by a mile (snowpeas, dammit, need to be topped and tailed and steamed for an absolute maximum of two freaking minutes. Crikey. Even *I* know that). They were just inedible; during the 20 minutes it took me to eat what little I could from my plate I suffered countless flashbacks to a childhood spent sitting at the dinner table long after the adults had left it, an eight-year-old totally unwilling to eat that last, cold, grey, stringy bean.

Another upside: there was meat, and I had PMT.

Yes. I am clutching at straws.

Downsides: the meat was overboiled and tough; the sauce - a basic bechamel adorned with spring onions and an entire tub of runny cream - was undercooked and tasted of raw flour; the corn was burnt on one side and raw on the other and thoroughly cold; the pudding was under-cooked in the middle and there was no cream or ice-cream to go with.

As I hacked away at the last piece of meat on my plate, she lit up a cigarette. In an unventilated room with heaters on. While other people were eating, for the love of god!

What could I do? I ate as much as I could without seeming rude and got the sam hill outta there ASAP.

Come five days later and it was my turn again. This cook-off malarkey was giving me the pips, mainly because I was clearly getting the shittier end of the deal. No matter; it was my turn to yet again prove that I was the better cook (hubris, Mavis, hubris).

The menu - spaghettini with cherry tomatoes, olives, Italian parsley and parmegano, followed by mini pastries adorned with sauteed buerre bosc pear and brown sugar, served with a side of ricotta and golden syrup cream . I wanted to cook something light and easy - which it was. The pasta was a bit over-oily and because I lacked a pastry brush and was too stingy to buy one, the pastry lacked the lovely, crisp, golden edges that I dreamed of. Oh well.

I AM STILL THE BETTER COOK, HUBRIS OR NO.

Upsides, downsides

2004-05-25T13:39:00.000+10:00

I cooked for the house last night and things went quite well, although, of course, I found much more wrong with my food than they did. I wonder if "real" chefs go through this too? I seem to always find something wrong with what I cook or think of a billion ways it could be improved upon.

The menu consisted of pumpkin and mushroom risotto with a side salad of rocket, buerre bosc pear and blue cheese, followed by pink grapefruit with a cinnamon and vanilla infused toffee for dessert.

Upsides: The subjects did not complain about the food.

Downsides: The risotto was cooked rather unevenly; this was due in part to the fact that the pumpkin - which I had been expecting to moosh right down like it did the last time I made pumpkin risotto - took forever to cook, as I didn't par-boil it. So while *most* of the rice was at the right texture, some was not and that also applied to the pumpkin.

I also wrongly estimated my quantities: I've not cooked for six people in some time. There is a giant pile of leftover risotto (no one is complaining).

As a result of me wrongly estimating my quantities, I didn't really use enough basil to warrant any significance to the taste.

The salad - the pears were under-ripe.

The dessert - I made it too early. The toffee was of a reasonable texture but the vanilla bean was of inferior quality and the cinnamon I used outweighed it. I should have adjusted the amount of cinnamon according to how much vanilla I had to use. By the time it came to eating it, the toffee had sunk to the bottom and was virtually unmoveable. Also, I prepared the grapefruit into lovely, flower rounds but this made eating them difficult, despite how thoroughly gorgeous the dish looked.

I think next time I will cut the fruit into eighths and avoid the inner-pith and segment skin altogether and think of another way to make it look pretty. Also I think I will warm the fruit before serving and add the toffee at the last minute.

As an alternative I think I might try using blood oranges and adding a touch of fresh mint at serving, just for a bit of extra balance.

C is for ...

2004-05-24T13:44:00.000+10:00

After a weekend in Richmond with good pals - and despite the humiliating loss to Port Adelaide on Saturday night - we return to the northern side of the river to get another step closer to that elusive chef's apprenticeship.

Ten this morning saw me at my job network provider for my initial interview, which went okay. It's a pretty snazzy place; latest computers and all the mod cons for me to use, which I fully intend to do. At least they were more helpful about what I need to do next, and they've hooked me up with a possible kitchen job in the area. They reckon they'll call later today or tomorrow - we'll see.

Still battling with chronically low self-esteem and depression. Not too sure how long it will last but with any luck once I get on my feet a bit and find some regular work and a regular place to stay things will pan out.

Up, down and all around

2004-05-22T16:24:00.000+10:00

I'm back in Melbourne and am currently on the verge of leaving again, immediately.

I knew coming back that things wouldn't necessarily be easy but I didn't think they would be quite this ... this ... tumultuous.

I have felt very much like I have been imposing on a house that is already guested out and as result have tried to spend as much time as possible elsewhere, which would be fine if I was spending all this time elsewhere with some purpose, as opposed to just wandering about trying not to spend money. It's upsetting because I don't enjoy feeling like an imposition or that I am barely welcome. I feel compelled to just be as out of the way as possible, which isn't much fun, generally.

The cooking side of life is progressing, but very slowly. Yesterday I went to a New Apprenticeship Centre to start the process of my cheffing apprenticeship and came very quickly to realise that it's going to be far more difficult than I first anticipated. Firstly, the NAC doesn't actually HELP anyone get an apprenticeship; they just coordinate the program once it's started. Job Network providers are supposed to help you actually GET an apprenticeship but it comes down to me assaulting restaurants and hotels with my sans-gourmand-experience resume until someone pities me enough to employ me.

I'm not quite sure about what to do next; aside from some creative reworking of my CV.

Leaf blowers; winter blues

2004-05-18T10:35:00.000+10:00

Leaf blowers: why in the sam hill do people bother? What the hell is wrong with using a damn rake already?

Winter blues: today is the first real day of winter. Over the past few days the clouds have become increasingly threatening and today they finally burst open and haven't stopped yet. It was nice to wake up all cosy this morning and hear the rain on the tin roof outside. Soothing.

Testing

2004-05-17T13:17:00.000+10:00

What a strange old place the internet is.