Katie and the Great Dimmies Debacle

I could sing the praises of Footscray till the cows come home.  It’s one of dwindling few suburbs where you can get an awesome feed for five dollars, and if you’re still hungry after that you can mosey on over to the donut stand and experience a piping hot, oozy jam pastry that’s bordering on a religious experience.  Yes, I reckon this place is pretty rad, but not when it comes to the basics.  There is no supermarket here.  They closed the Coles the day I moved in, and took the Kmart with it.  Several times I’ve found myself traipsing despairingly around Footscray on a doomed hunt for vegemite, fuelled only by my wit and leaking donut.

So I knew I was in desperate territory yesterday when I locked myself out of the house an hour before work.  Tom and I had nipped out for coffee in our morning ensembles of trackies and ugg boots, only to find ourselves on one side of the door, and our work attire on the other. 

‘What the fuck are we going to dooooo!’  Was my constructive response to the situation.  ‘I can’t go to work in this!’ 

Possessing slightly more reason than me on this particular occasion, Tom suggested we drive to West Footscray and locate ourselves a clothing store.  With no time to lose, we bumbled back into the car and commenced the expedition. 

‘WHERE IS THE KMART?  THERE IS NO KMART!’  I observed as we drove in.  At the ‘plaza shopping centre’ there were two tyre and auto places, several indiscriminate shops that looked like they hadn’t been open since 1982, and a Dimmies.  My heart sank as my fate dawned on me.

Running around the isles of Dimmies like a demented trashbag, I was able to locate the following:        

One giant smock slightly resembling a shirt, correct colour.

One pair of pants in my size- apparently from the pre-war era, with a ridiculously high waist band and ample room for Monroe-esque thighs.

Two types of shoes to choose from!  Oh joy.  Wait, no.  Just one type, because the work shoes were all for left feet.  One pair of imitation Converse, to add a touch of cool to my Dimmies get-up.

Grim determination on my face, I bought the disgusting outfit, clamoured into the car, and began pulling off my clothes before realising I needed a bra.  I sighed, told Tom to turn around, and ran back into Dimmies, semi naked in tracksuit pants and ratty singlet top, screaming ‘I STILL NEED A BRA!’

The shop attendants, who by this stage had decided just to do what I said, lest some unidentifiable fate befall them, hurried me to the dismal underwear selection.  Grabbing the first bra I saw, I bolted back to the car, almost completely de-robed by the time I closed the door.  Tom didn’t say anything, as I set about yanking on the ill fitting attire.  He seemed to have adopted the same wary resignation as the shop attendants, and simply drove, eyes trained on the road.

We got to the Restaurant two minutes late.  I couldn’t run inside because the fake Converse bit around the heels.  So I half limped, half jogged into work, swearing under my breath all the while. 

‘Katie?’  Asked Tina, my manager, apparently unsure as to whether the dishevelled mess before her was indeed her employee.

And wasn’t I.  Standing there panting, almost swallowed by my wrinkled shirt, I wondered why on Earth I’d come to work at all.  Then I sucked in a deep breath, forced myself to look at my manager, and explained my ordeal.  By the time I got to the bit about the bra, Tina was in stiches, and congratulating me whole-heartedly on my resolve. 

She also suggested I get dressed for my morning coffee run from now on.  But I don’t think it should be my responsibility to account for Footscray’s short comings.  Footscray, I love you, but open a damn clothes store!                 

The World of the Waiter

I’ve been writing solidly for months now.  Pushing my words on all who will indulge me, and many who won’t.  In this time I’ve made enough money to purchase myself a shiny new cheeseburger from McDonalds, which places me in the upper echelons of the Australian artist set, but doesn’t cover luxuries.  Like rent.  And soap.  My predicament led me last week down a path well trodden by struggling artists, a path to the local Restaurant, where I now hold the enviable title of Section Waiter.  

Waiters are odd sorts.  The other day, while lunching in Brunswick, my mustard-keen server inquired as to the quality of my experience a record breaking 3 times before I had even received my salad.  

‘Everything alright here?’

‘Still yes.’  

When she did put down my meal, she proceeded to peer at it in disgust before regaining composure and suggesting, ‘Would you like some minced lamb with that?’         

We’ve all had interactions like this.  Exchanges that leave you wondering if your server has just insuffilated an enormous line of ketamine.   So, now that I’ve rejoined the fold, I thought I would take the opportunity to clear a few things up for you.  Behold, the world of the waiter.      

Waiters don’t have a fucking clue what they’re talking about.

You:  ‘What’s the Waipara Hills like?’

Me:  (Not the faintest idea what the Waipara Hills is like.)  ‘It’s got lovely citrusy notes, with a nice long finish, and quite a floral bouquet.  You’ll love it.’  

Never once in my embarrassingly long hospitality career has someone called me over and complained that I’ve mislead them on the aroma of their wine.  The wordy-yet-vague explanation is a technique known to all waiters, applicable to a wide range of questions, and a great time saver when you’re trying to do the work of six people because your tight arse boss refuses to staff the restaurant properly.

It’s a tad annoying when you hail us, taxi style, while we’re carrying an Everest sized stack of plates back to the kitchen.

Offending customers hold the belief that as soon as one adorns the apron, one is no longer subject to the laws of physiques.  They can carry infinite loads for indefinite periods of time whilst simultaneously penning an urgent coffee order.  I’m not an aggressive person, but when a diner gestures for me to come over while I’m clearly straining in pain under the weight of greasy crockery, I kind of want to kick their face.  Because my hands are occupied.  

We top up your water so we can spy on you.

Ever wondered why your waiter insists on topping up your nearly full water glass while gawking awkwardly at the table, trance like stare on their face?  Water top ups are a handy excuse to survey where you’re at.  Its pretty hard to tell whether your coffee cup is empty from a meter away.

If you are a tiny girl, you probably shouldn't order a steak equal to a large portion of your body weight.

The Restaurant I currently work at serves steaks that could take a trucker out.  They are not for the faint hearted, and certainly not for you if the steak is larger than the entire width of your abdomen.  For some reason, tiny people believe that their presence in a restaurant gives them magical powers, allowing them to consume five times what they normally would.  It’s so sad having to shovel huge chunks of food into the bin.

Some waiters are just shit.   

Most waiters are employed by bitter bosses who have been sucked dry by the competition an overheads, leaving about 4 cents to pay the staff.  These meager offerings don’t exactly attract Melbourne’s finest, creating a skill vacuum at your local pizza place.  Some people try really hard but just can’t get it right, like miss spiced lamb.  Others just don’t give a rats, meaning obsessive people like me can’t help but do their work for them, all the while cursing loudly at the Gods that brought upon them this lowly existence.  So, basically, if it seems like your waiter is a bit shit, that’s because they are.    

Footscrazy

Life on the farm was fun, but there comes a time when one can no longer justify one's own blatant freeloading.  That time arrived when the renovating jobs began to dry up, but not before we managed to buy two pigs under the guise of better utilizing the property.  They are obscenely cute which I'm hoping will offset the responsibility we've casually dumped on Val.  

We've landed in Footscray, aka Footscrazy and entirely deserving of its title.  Footscrazy has its very own set of social rules.  It is entirely acceptable to wax lyrical at great volume about one's sexual exploits, especially at the bus stop.  The bus stop is also handy for obtaining cigarettes, purchasable from any obliging smoker for a handy twenty cents a piece.  Our house is just outside the action, and includes a lovely couple, their two kiddies and an industrious hive of bees.   

For us, moving in here was a no brainer.  Madeline and Dave are ex-Brunswick-ers themselves, Maddy is studying the same thing I did, and Dave is a blacksmith.  A blacksmith!  The younger boy is two and a half, and so cute I have to refrain from eating him.  

So excited were we about our find, we rushed over to Caitlin's place to divulge the news, which was received with due rapture until we got to the bit about the littlies.  'What!'  Exclaimed all four hipsters in unified revulsion,  'Kids?!'  

For an instant I was swept up in the tide of disgust.  I glanced at Tom to check he hadn't fallen off his chair with the sudden realization of our colossal oversight.  He looked okay, and I quickly regained my resolve.  'Yes, Kids.'

Ensuing protests ranged from 'but they'll wake you up in the morning!'  to 'What are you going to do if the eight year old is really annoying?'  But the central theme appeared to be that the kids would rob us of our freedom.       

Children would render it frightfully inappropriate to stay up late nursing glasses of warm goon and talking bullshit!  There could be no more audible swearing, no loud arguments, and certainly no cries of passion!  What a muted, regulated existence!

Since that night I’ve pondered our reasons for inflicting this apparent hell upon ourselves, and I’ve come up with this.  I suppose we want to be regulated.  Before we went on the aborted road trip, we spent a vast majority of our time engaged in the exact activities which are now a no-go.  It was really fun; drinking and laughing and socialising non-stop.  But toward the end I was having trouble coming up with eloquent arguments to justify our choice of lifestyle.  No one actually said anything, but I couldn’t help but assume there were a few people wondering when Tom and I were going to get our shit together.  Hence the trip, and now that we’re back, the self-imposed regulations.      

I’ve spent a sizable chunk of the last few months fretting about being behind in the life race.  I’ve been hopelessly confused about the practicalities of becoming an adult, certain only that whatever was involved, it would be decidedly more boring than partying till ya puke.  So it’s come as a huge relief that I’m actually enjoying living with kids. And I've even started to voluntarily decline party invites. Who knew.              

Trying to be Boring

There’s no manual for maturity.  If there was, I would have scowered it several times over by now, because my adulthood-related anxiety is increasing by the day.  In the absence of a guide book, my friends and I have been left to skulk self-consciously into the world of the grown up, tentatively taking cues from one another, none of us quite sure how we’re meant to behave.    

But you wouldn't know it.  On any given drinking sesh, we can be seen engaged in a brazen boasting match over our latest success in the game of the grownup.  Lizzie declared recently that she was ‘so over partying’, to which I retorted in feigned humility, ‘Oh yeah, I can’t even stay up past midnight anymore!’  To admit one’s confusion with the practicalities of the adult world would be to betray one’s own stinking immaturity. 

As a testament to our transition into the next frontier, Caitlin shunned the usual birthday debauchery this year for a quaint weekend getaway.  The invitation stipulated that all should be adorned in winter woollies, and that rowdy behaviour was not to be tolerated.  On the weekend just gone, we duly packed our swags and convened in the King Valley.  The beginning was to script, if a tad frigid.  We drank tea, chatted about cows and cooed appropriately at the rolling hills.  I couldn't help but think our version of maturity was a touch contrived, more of a patched-together parody than the real thing. 

Our valiant efforts at sophistication gave way after approximately six hours.  I walked out to the balcony to find Jim engaged in some sort of collision match with Mike, the aim of which appeared to be to career into one’s opponent as fast as drunkenly possible.  Mini-groups had split off and were absorbed in emotionally charged deep and meaningfuls.  There was crying, laughing, running and the forbidden screaming.  Chaos had descended in spite of us all. 

The next day, sheepish looks plastered to our faces, we rushed to excuse ourselves from the events of the night before.  'It wasn't me making all that noise!'  Insisted Jim, and when I questioned Sophie as to how late she had stayed up, she squirmed and threw Rosie under the bus.  'I was in bed really early, Rosie was up til 4!'  

Nobody want to be the one left behind, the one still floundering around, drinking and partying, when everyone else has moved on to bigger and better things.  In a very short space of time, the rules of the game have changed.  It’s no longer cool and hipster to sleep in, shun work and drink like a fish.  In our fear of becoming the loser who won’t grow up, those pleasures have been re-cast as taboo.  We’re coming up to 30 now, and we’re in a mad rush to act like it.    

On the Farm

Our piggies on Tom's mum's farm.

Rejected and Dejected

Yesterday I had the dubious honour of being inducted into the Scorned Writer Club.  Sitting in a café, eagerly perusing the day’s emails, my heart skipped a beat when I spied the words ‘The Big Issue’ emblazoned in the subject box.  I gulped, clicked, and in one fell swoop was brought down like a precariously stacked pile of old novels.  My first rejection letter.

‘While it was an interesting read,’ said the editor, ‘unfortunately your piece does not quite fit the content of The Big Issue.’

I can’t say I wasn’t warned.  Many a kind-hearted elder had attempted to prepare me for my fate.  ‘How are you going to cope with the rejection?’  Mum had queried.  And to her I had replied, in an overly confident rookie sort of way, ‘Oh, yeah, that.  I’m prepared for that.’

Turns out preparation requires more than a few casually uttered rebuttals.  I was crushed.  The lynch mob that lives in my mind spied their opportunity, and went for it.  ‘Told you so!’  They shrieked in delight.  ‘The only thing you’re good at is having an over-inflated sense of importance!’  Their taunts rang out louder and louder in my head, until I was drowning in a chorus of reprehensions.

Because the truth is, I’m embarrassed to admit, that maybe, just maybe, I didn’t think it was going to happen to me.  Let’s call it optimism.  But when people so kindly introduced me to the teachings of Coping with Rejection, Section: Emerging Author, I handled it like a smoker does when cautioned on the dangers of cancer.

Trudging back to Mum’s, I wondered if my ego would be able to withstand the months of emails that lay ahead.  I cursed my mother silently for inspiring me to follow in her footsteps.

She must have heard me because she was standing in the drive when I got back.

‘How’d it go?’ she smiled, a bouquet of freshly picked herbs in hand.

‘Shit.’  I kicked a bit of dirt for effect.

Mum didn’t flinch.  ‘Did you get your first rejection letter?’

Annoyed at her intrusion into my mind, I shrugged.

‘Don’t worry, Katie!’  She insisted.  ‘You’ll get heaps more of those before you make it.  We used to say a real writer should be able to paper a whole wall with rejection letters.’

I pictured my bedroom wall, covered corner to corner in YOU’RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH.  Fantastic for the old self esteem.

‘No one makes it on the first try!’  My mother beamed, and handed me a bunch of parsley to take inside.

Scattering herbs into the salad, I mused over the idea of ditching the writing and grovelling to an ex-employer.  I wouldn’t have signed up for it if I’d known it wasn’t going to involve my preferred type of gratification:  instant!  But the trouble was, I was kind of hooked.  The idea of giving up words caused a shiver of loss to reverberate down my back.  Frustrated, I turned my attention back to the evening meal and resolved to start papering my wall.

Vilified over Breakfast

For some reason indiscernible to me, the good folk of Wangaratta find my mere presence to be deeply offensive.  At first I thought I was being paranoid, but in the face of mounting evidence, I’ve become irrevocably convinced of my own vilification, and I’m really getting VERY FRUSTERATED by it all.

I’ve just come from McDonalds.  I like to go there in the mornings before I write because you can get a coffee and a macaroon for $5.  Up until recently I was under the mistaken impression that a macaroon was just like any other biscuit.  I was wrong and have been making up for lost time ever since.  Anyway, I had been happily munching my morsel when a little girl sat beside me.  She was super cute and we exchanged a smile and I thought how lovely it was and went back to my article.  When I got up to leave, the little girl also stood, and the poor thing tripped while attempting to dismount her stool.

I looked up to give the mother a sympathetic smile.  The sort of smile that says, ‘Oh what a clumsy little pumpkin!’  But what I was met with was an unsettlingly accusatory glare.  She must have thought I tripped her child!  Tripped her child and then smiled at her in taunting mirth!

She’s got me all wrong!  I thought, bruised by the error in judgement.  So as the two of them exited beside me, I held the door open, again smiling at the mother.  And do you know what she did?  She just walked right through that open door and gave me another scornful stare!  I stood, paralysed in disbelief, as they walked away.  By the time I reached the car, I had become so obsessed with the injustice of it all I was sweating and muttering profanities to myself.

To that mother:  Why would I intentionally trip your daughter?  Why!  What sort of a rampaging sociopath do you think I am?

And before you conclude once and for all that I have indeed gone utterly insane, I must inform you that this was not an isolated incident.  Oh no.  Restaurants, supermarkets, electronic stores.  Everywhere I go, people look at me as if I’m quietly devising a rural terrorist attack.

Of course, when I complain to my boyfriend/ boyfriend’s mum/ sister’s partner’s dog, they all pull the standard ‘Don’t worry Katie, they’re just jealous of your bountiful youth and beauty.’  But I’m onto them.  Because I can tell you I did not look remotely beautiful, let alone youthful, this morning.  I looked like I’d had a dreadful night’s sleep and was desperately worried about the prospect of never succeeding as a writer.  So there.

The next time someone looks at me as if I’m intent on un-footing their spawn, I’m going to say:  ‘Excuse me, but what exactly is it about my demeanour that is causing you to give me that deeply disturbing death stare?’

Devoid of an explanation, I fear I won’t be able to stand it much longer.  I may well end up internalising my anger and carrying it forever on my face.  Much like that woman in McDonald’s.

Fishing for the Cat

No one in my family is quite sane enough to act as a barometer of normality.  We are rudderless, left to wander out into strange and unexplored territory, confused, bleary eyed and each pointing the finger at the other in an embarrassing display of mutual blame.

And so it was that Anna and I found ourselves traversing the streets of Oak Park, each wearing ratty pyjamas and Anna nursing gingerly a can of salt-free-sardines, open and with a fork sticking out.

‘Abbie!’  We howled.  ‘Abbie, come back!’

Abbie is Mum’s cat.  She is new and shiny and more important to my mother than her morning hit of caffeine.  We had been forbade from allowing Abbie onto the dangerous streets of our suburb, rampant as they were with cars and mice and evil cat thieves.

‘You let her out!’  Insisted Dad as Anna and I stood before him, a mess of tears and panic.  Mum had made the mistake of entrusting us with Abbie-watch, and under our lax supervision, she had disappeared and was somewhere out in the unforgiving, cat killing world.

‘But you’re the one who left the door open!’  My voice was shrill with fear.

More desperate accusations were hurled.  Voices grew louder.  Chaos engulfed the Horneshaw house as each of us squirmed to disqualify ourselves from Mum’s impending wrath.

In the midst of the anarchy, someone screamed ‘Sardines!  Get the salt-free-sardines!’  I scrambled to locate the fish, Anna the tin opener.

‘WHY ARE YOU EATING SOME?’  I shrieked at Dad.

‘They’re good.’  He replied, and Anna and I stared back at him in bewilderment as we hurried to commence the expedition.

On the street behind ours, we were struggling to open a fortress like gate when a car pulled up to the house.

‘What’s going on here?’  Asked the owner as he exited the vehicle.

‘We’ve lost our cat and she’s black and gold and new and Mum really loves her and will kill us if we lose her and we think she might be in your garden!’  I explained.

Maybe it was the pyjamas.  Maybe it was Anna hovering behind me, half eaten sardines in hand and worried scowl plastered to her face.  But the man seamed horrified.  He looked at his wife in silent warning to remain in the car.

‘Do you think we could please have a look in your back yard?’  I begged.

Apparently deciding that our story was legit, the man told us to hold on a minute and disappeared into the house.  We waited in terrified silence.  He returned looking solemn with no cat.  As we thanked him, my brave exterior gave way to heaving sobs.  Anna had frozen into a curious state of shock and was immobile, sardines held out in front of her in an offering to the Gods of cat salvation.

As we turned toward home, reeking of fish and failure, another man appeared in the distance.  I could recognize that jaunty, self satisfied gait from a football field away.  It was Dad.

‘What on earth are you two doing?’  He asked as if he hadn’t himself been immersed in the frenzy that had taken place minutes earlier.  Clearly, he had found the cat.

That night, Mum returned home to the three of us sitting in uncharacteristic silence.

‘What’s wrong with you guys?’  She joked, pouring herself a glass of wine.

‘Nothing.’  Said Dad.

Tom :)

Check out this mushroom we found near the farm!

Life on the Farm

I am currently residing in a shed in the country.  Also living in the shed are my boyfriend, my boyfriend’s mum, my little sister and Jack the dog.  How did this novel arrangement arise, you ask?  Through sheer, unabated laziness.  That’s how.

You see, a few months ago, Tom and I decided abruptly that we would like to own a house.  Like most of our decisions, there had been no forward planning, and certainly no scrimping and saving for years beforehand.  Lol.  Instead of doing that, we had been lazing around, hardly working, and making sweeping proclamations such as ‘We don’t need material possessions to be happy!  We’re just fine with smelling the breeze.  The very inexpensive breeze.’  After a while the breeze lost its sheen, and we realized we wanted a house, after all.  No biggie.

We told Tom’s mum and she sighed and looked exasperated.  Then she said why don’t you come live with me and help me do up my property in the country.  We said thankyou and yes and were bailed out yet again.

The property is a beautiful heritage shop on the Murray.  But we can’t reside there while we renovate it, so we are packed into the little dairy in Wangaratta where Val so frugally exists.  To complete the motley crew, I’ve brought my sister along.  She was bored with living with mum and dad so I suggested she take a leaf out of our freeloading book and come to the country!  So here we are, neatly packed into eachother’s pockets in a converted sheep house.

Life in the sheep house looks something like this:  My alarm goes off at eight.  I begrudgingly roll out of bed, then stumble around in the dark like a zombie for a while, piling on whatever clothes I can find to ward off the bitter cold.  Tom tells me to be quiet.  I curse him loudly and complain for a while about his choice to sleep in.  He says go away and I say FINE and indignantly pace the two meters between our bed and the makeshift kitchen.  Desperately, I down some coffee.  As it kicks in, my grumpiness subsides and I feel a bit bad about pestering Tom.

I fire up the computer and try to write.  My brain is blank, so instead of writing I stare at the flashing curser.  I HATE the flashing curser.  Val walks in and says ‘Good morning!’  I grumble something back and return to the screen, but now I can’t write because Val is annoying me with her tea making noises.  I would go somewhere else but there’s only one big sheep room.  Finally, an idea begins to take shape.  Fervently, I transcribe my imagination onto the page.  But I keep getting distracted by the guilt that has welled up inside me over grumbling at Val.

To atone, I trudge out to the billabong and join her for tea.  As we sip and talk, Anna and Tom emerge.  Anna has lost her shoe.  We find the shoe.  Now it is time to go the property to renovate, and as usual I haven’t got nearly enough writing done.  I finish that night, glass of wine in hand, surrounded by the hum of chatter and cooking and joking in the little dairy.

Tom and I have a tendency of finding ourselves in odd arrangements.  If we were better at planning ahead, we could be quaffing scotch in an opulent city apartment by now.  But the sheep house, I think, is more fun.

The Bitch Within

I’m not a bitch.  I’m a nice person, seriously.  One time I forced myself to stay awake all night to monitor the breathing of my frighteningly drunk little sister.  Another, I hauled my sorry ass out of bed to rescue a friend who’d broken down.  And I try really hard to sound captivated whenever my boyfriend talks, because I feel like it would be nice to have a captivated girlfriend.  On a scale of one to Mother Teresa, I reckon I’d score pretty well.

But I’ve got a secret.  A secret bitch.  She comes with me everywhere, and despite several valiant attempts, I can’t for the life of me get rid of her.  She’s wedged in my brain amongst the worries about not being good enough and the remembering to put the rubbish out.  Her name is Claire, and I hate her.  

The other day a friend of mine gave me a piece of her writing to have a look at.  I’ve clocked up a very minor degree of success in my dogged endeavour to become an Actual Writer.  This, apparently, qualifies me to cast my eye over the work of others and give something resembling sound advice on where they might improve it.  Now, I haven’t learned much in my 27 years.  But I’ve learned this:  When a friend passes on their writing for ‘suggestions’, the suggestion they want is, ‘Wow!  This is fantastic!  Enthralling!  And surprisingly professional considering it’s the first thing you’ve ever written!’  Unless you want to sink the friendship, that’s what you should say.  

Enter Claire.  While I was skimming the work, she insisted on reading over my shoulder.  ‘What an infantile attempt at dialogue!’  She laughed.

‘Shut up!’  I hissed at her.  ‘Don’t you dare get involved when I give the spiel.’

Trying my best to ignore her incessant mutterings, I reached the end of the piece and launched into encouragement mode.  ‘It’s great!’  I beamed.  ‘Love the use of metaphor!’  

My friend looked suitably spurred on, and all was right in the world.  Well, it would have been, if Claire hadn’t already smelt blood.  ‘You’re not even going to mention the clichés?’  She chastised.  ‘Or the over use of adverbs?’  

I would really love to recount at this point my courageous vanquishing of Claire’s mortal soul.  But that’s not what happened.  The truth is, she’s got kind of a hold on me.  While my friend was manoeuvring the conversation in the direction of her dead cat, I was being methodically lured to the dark side.  ‘You should at least give her some constructive criticism.’  Said Claire, her tone now deceptively reasonable.  ‘Mention something about the length of sentences.  It would be helpful.’

This is where she gets me.  She masquerades as a well-intentioned informant just long enough for me to make the tortured decision that yes, I’m sure, that is actually MY idea.  It’s my very own, very kind idea, so I’d better say it.

‘Sorry to digress.’  I blurted.  ‘But I’ve just thought of a couple of tiny things you might want to change in that piece.’

My friend’s ears pricked up.  

‘Well, some of the sentences are a bit lengthy.  And the dialogue could use some work.’  

My friend nodded, but her pain was palpable.  I’d just bad mouthed her baby.  Claire cackled triumphantly.  I felt guilt well up inside me like hot lava.  

I’d fallen victim to the bitch within.   

I want nothing more than to see my friends succeed.  But every time one of them threatens to surpass me on the success scale, Claire flies into a rage.  ‘They don’t deserve to do better than you!’  She screams, amongst other, equally disturbing judgements.  She really is a piece of work.  I wish I could exorcise her from my thinking for good, but until I work out how to do that, I’m just going to have to keep on reminding her who’s boss.       

Me and Tommy

Katie, post explosion.

The Amazing Exploding Girl

A few days ago, I lost the document I had been working on.  This caused me to erupt into a delirious rage.  The librarian, also a woman, caught site of my display and embarked on a frenzied but futile campaign to retrieve the file.  There was no use, it was gone.

 

By the time I got home, the initial shock had given way to a deafening racket.

‘What the f**k are you gonna do now?’  Jeered my brain.  ‘You’ll have to start that piece all over again!  You’ll never get it done in time!’

I felt like a piece had been pulled from the Jenga stack of my mind.  It was chaos in there.

So, as I’m sure you can imagine, I was none too pleased when my frenzy was met at the door by Tom’s suggestion to ‘Calm down Katie!’

‘HOW COULD I POSSIBLY CALM DOWN!’  I hurled, and then screamed a bunch of other stuff that I don’t want to recount.  And I threw a paper cup.

Tom stood, stunned, until I did begin to calm down in earnest.  At that point I noticed the water all over the floor and felt a touch embarrassed.  But it was his fault!

In what universe were men taught that a great way to respond to a woman in a blind panic is to request that she calm down?  Why won’t they learn it DOESN’T WORK?  It’s a horrible, destructive thing to do because it causes women (me) to lose all control at the thought that you are not taking their Very Big Problem seriously!

If there is anyone out there who, having been instructed by their significant other to calm down, instantly assumes serenity and then says ‘Thanks for the advice, honey!’  I would really like to hear from them.  

I will commend Tom only on the fact that he doesn’t take the bait.  He waits for the fury to subside, and then commences making suggestions.  

‘Did you back it up somewhere?’

‘No!’

‘Did you search the computer?’

‘Yes!’

‘Have you emailed it to someone?’

I had.  As the memory hit me, the mental racket silenced as quickly as it had begun.  I had sent it to mum.

Tom looked very pleased with himself.  I didn’t want to thank him because that would be admitting that I was a neurotic moron.  I said it very quietly, then made to escape.  But Tom was too quick.

‘If you hadn’t gotten yourself into such a state you would have figured that out yourself.’ 

Bravo, sir, bravo. 

I get it.  I get that us chicks would do much better to remain perfectly relaxed when faced with a life crisis.  This would allow us the use of our shiniest problem solving tool kit.  But the truth is, aside from the residual shame, I feel pretty damn good after chucking a hissy fit.  Calm, you might even say. 

The 27 Year Old Teenager

It’s come to my attention that adult life- a career, a house, a kid- doesn’t simply manifest itself of it’s own volition.  Apparently, you have to like, prepare for it.  Having failed to do any of this preparation, I’m now 27 years old, and I’m in a bit of a pickle.

As a kid, I would contemplate my future with zealous anticipation.  The beautiful weatherboard house, the perfect bouncy kids, the job that required me to wear lady-suits and carry a brief case.  They were all there in little Katie’s imagination.  Growing up, the vision changed slightly to suit my evolving ambitions, but it was always there, a wonderful life I would someday be ready to embark upon.

My early 20′s were full of parties, boys, and crappy hospitality jobs.  Every penny earned was promptly squandered on goon and sparkly dresses.  When I did manage to save a bit, the money would go to traveling.  It was awesome.

Caught up as I was in all this revelry, I somehow neglected to notice that while I was partying I was also getting older.  Until the other day, when it suddenly occurred to me that I had become a grown up.  In light of my revelation, I decided to check Facebook to gauge what the other grown ups were doing.  As I scrolled through the photos, a common theme materialized.  Hannah’s profile pic was of a pudgy one year old.  Lizzie’s timeline was dominated by snaps of an impressively large house.  More than a few of my Gen Y counterparts were beaming at me through the computer screen, adorned in big white dresses.  They had all morphed into proper adults.

After a very small freak out I decided that actually, this was all really great.  I was ready.  I had done my dash as a bright young thing.  It was time to realize the dream I had nurtured since childhood.

Eager to get started, I bounced into the kitchen.

‘Hey Tom, I haven’t done the maths yet but I was thinking if we saved for a few months, we could buy a house in Brunswick!’

Tom gave a hearty laugh and continued to eat his omelette.

‘Northcote then?’  I questioned.

‘Katie,’ he began, frowning now, ‘we’d need two more lifetimes to afford a place in Northcote.’

My heart hit the floor with a thud.  In the proceeding minutes, Tom set about dismantling my dream, one piece at a time.

Inner city suburbs were unrealistic.  Of course he’d like to have a baby with me, but we needed to get set up first.

Recoiling from the interaction like a burn victim, I returned to my room to have an existential crisis.  Everything so far had been so easy.  Apparently, if I wanted the life that six year old Katie had so clearly envisioned, I had to work.  Really hard.  For ages.  Even if I started right away, I thought, I would be 35 before my Facebook wall would begin to resemble those of my fellow high school alumni.  I thought of my friends.  Had they been preparing for maturity all these years on the sly?

To find out, I caught up with Lizzie.  She of the impressively large house.

‘We both saved for about seven years to get the deposit together.’  She informed me.

Horror abounding, I realized there were quite a few unwritten life rules that my friends had been quietly following, while I had been been spending all my money and writing non bestsellers.

I returned home in a panic and asked Tom if it would be okay if we could have a baby real soon and could he please get a corporate job and maybe ask his Mum if she felt like chipping in for a house?  He said no.

So as you can see, I’m in quite the quandary.  27, broke, and fumbling around in a of vocation synonymous with poverty.

Now, when I look at Facebook and see a pic of a friend playing peek-a-boo with her two year old, I am ashamed to say I feel just the tiniest bit of resentment.  And jealousy.  How dare they be living my dream?

Given my recent discovery, I could decide to put the computer down right now, forget about this writing stuff, and go get a real job.  But I love it too much.  So I’ve hinged my hopes on the belief that my current book-in-progress will propel me to stratospheric levels of fame.  Wish me luck.

Worst Wingman in the World

I am a really crap Wingman.  Now before you all rush to reassure me on my hook-up assisting prowess, I must lay bare the facts.

The other day, while catching up with a friend I hadn’t seen in forever, an opportunistic fellow approached the table.  ‘Drats.’  I thought.  ‘We have no time for men folk!’  And turned my attention to the intruder.

‘We’d love to chat,’ I said politely, ‘but we’re a bit too busy this evening.’  Congratulating myself on my concise rejection, I turned back to my friend to continue the fun.

‘Katie!’  She hissed.  ‘I’ve been looking at that guy all night!’

Woops.  To add insult to injury, my friend then insisted that we leave the bar to make good on my assertion that we were ‘busy’.

I’d love to site this as my only offense.  But unfortunately, I have a whole filing cabinet of them.  It would appear that when the brochures on ‘How to politely decline the advances of a randy prospective lover’ were being distributed, I was in the loo.

In light of this, I have a few questions for you, dear reader.  I feel I owe it to my single friends to demonstrate an at least passable level of wingman etiquette, and I need your help.

1.  How does one decipher whether or not a man is trying to get them between the sheets?  My lack of perception on this one has led to some decidedly awkward interactions.  Said awkwardness usually ensues when I mangle the old boyfriend slip-in.  Most people slide the mention of their other half seamlessly into the discourse.  Not I.  What tends to happen is I find myself getting so anxious at the prospect of the slip-in, I just blurt it out and get it over with.

‘So, Katie,’ the guy might ask, ‘what do you do with yourself?’

‘Write.  I write and then I go home to my boyfriend.  Which I have one of.  A boyfriend.’

As you can imagine, this doesn’t go down too well if the friendly lad in question has no designs on my hiney.  But how in God’s name can I tell?

2.  How does one come up with appropriate conversation fodder when playing wingman to a friend?  Apparently, chit-chat regarding periods, other men, or test results from that doctor’s visit the other day are ALL OFF LIMITS.  (I’ve learned the hard way.)  Which leaves me with work.  And hair.  Seriously, I’ve got nothing.

3.  How does one succeed in appearing transfixed by a guy, when they are in fact so bored they have been over the Collingwood list in their head  twice now?  Safe to say I’m yet to master this one.  Recently, while listening to the not-so-good-looking friend detail the feeding habits of his pet turtle, I’m ashamed to say I let out a yawn.  Things went down hill from there.

4.  Which brings me to my last and most destructive wingman habit.  How on Earth does one tell if her friend likes her prospective hook-up, in the absence of a set of covert signals?  In the same interaction as above, having endured the chronicles of turtle feeding, I decided enough was enough.  Without warning, I stood up, announced that ‘I’ve just remembered I have a really important meeting in the morning!’  And left.  Catching up to me, my friend, far from being thankful, yelled ‘That’s the third time you’ve stuffed this up for me now Katie!’  Wounded, I decided I had better seek some advice.

As far as I can tell, the main responsibility of a wingman is to not stuff things up for their single mate.  Considering I repeatedly neglect to fulfill this expectation, I don’t even deserve the title of wingman.  I am merely a drunk, awkward, conversation-killing loser who for some inexplicable reason has been brought along.

Yep, that’s me.  At your service.

(Help!)

Snap from Confest

I'm no dirty hippy!

The Drunk and the Drumstick

Why is it that every time I slot myself back briefly into the parental nest, I wind up looking like a degenerate drunk in need of rehab?

You see, I am mildly afflicted with a bug presenting most commonly in Gen Y’ers such as myself.  I believe it goes by the name of failure-to-launch-itis.  It’s symptoms include intermittently fleeing the coop in a flourish of wild declarations- ‘Thanks for the dinners, but I don’t need looking after anymore!  I’m 25 now, old enough to take care of myself!’- only to return a few months later, penny-less and bedraggled, expecting to resume the rent-free lifestyle without so much as a raised eyebrow from the folks.

Time spent away from the parents is punctuated by carefully choreographed conversations, all of them containing a highly edited depiction of life events.  ‘Oh Mum, I’m so perfectly responsible now, you wouldn’t believe it!  A real pinnacle of the community!’

So perhaps I only have myself to blame for the situation I now find myself in.  I’m in the throws of my latest bout of the illness.  Lured back to Melbourne by a series of un-missable parties, I’ve parked my behind in the spare room as-per-usual and set about attending the festivities.  Now, is it my fault that each of these events has just so happened to be saturated with alcohol?  Is it my fault that, in an effort to appear un-pretentious, I have felt obliged to consume copious amounts of said alcohol, resulting in me returning home on numerous occasions just the slightest bit, um, tipsy?  No, didn’t think so.

But it appears the disparity between phone-call-Katie and party-attending-Katie has resulted in some alarm on the part of my parents.  I’m not sure, because my memory of the occasion is slightly murky, but I think the misunderstanding may have been exacerbated by a scene that occurred the other night.

I had been enjoying cocktails with the editor of a certain magazine.  Ensconced as we were in our conversation, we may have accidentally downed one too many martinis.  And so it was that I found myself, drunk and ravenous, squatting in front of my parents’ open fridge and greedily consuming leftover chicken.  Somewhere between the wing and the drumstick, Mum walked in and caught me in the act.  ‘Jesus, Katie!’  She sighed.  ‘What’s going on with you?’

‘What’s going on with me?’  I retorted.  ‘What’s going on with me is that I’m a very successful person now!  A very successful and hungry person!’

Perhaps it was the harsh blue glow of the fridge light, but Mum seemed unconvinced.

The next day I found myself seated at the kitchen table on the receiving end of a lecture on responsible drinking habits.

All of this has caused me to briefly consider the notion that I might indeed have morphed into a drunk, chicken munching decrepit.  But fear not, I’ve realized where the problem really lies.  It’s with my overbearing parents!  Which is why I’ve told them that I don’t need looking after anymore!  I’m 27 now, old enough to take care of myself!  And left, never to return again.

My Festival Faux Pas

I was a nerd in primary school.  In an unforgiving social hierarchy built on Adidas snap pants and Tamagotchi’s, my yellow tracksuits and sprout sandwiches guaranteed me a place precisely at the bottom.  Multiple attempts at social climbing, including such brilliant ideas as wearing tights on my head to resemble the long hair I was so lacking, only served to secure my fate.  Most people would quietly move on from their childhood torments, but not I.  I carry my ex-nerdism around everywhere I go, a cumbersome chip on my shoulder. 

Ever since my miss-spent childhood, I have been waiting for the opportunity to correct my peers’ error in judgement.  Someday, I have mused wistfully year upon year, someday I will run into one of my popular counterparts, and then, then they will see!  I will be looking effortlessly fabulous, my now genuinely long hair cascading perfectly down my back.  And I will say ‘Oh, hey, fancy running into you!’  And go on to explain that I’ve been so busy with my glamorous writing career, I’ve forgotten all about primary school!  ‘Wow, Katie has become so fashionable and cool!’  They will think.  And the injustice will be forever rectified. 

  

Now, I realize that this scenario requires me to be forever looking alarmingly amazing.  Which unfortunately is what brings me to the point of this column.  I failed.  I screwed the whole damn thing up.

Twice a year, Tom and I attend an uber-hippy celebration called Confest.  Confest is a heaving mass of alternative culture, where nakedness, mud baths and spontaneous singing are offset by the constant beat of a bongo drum.  It was here that my image as a dirty hippy was so cruelly sealed. 

It was day four.  My hippy-festival-hygiene had degenerated to the point of comparability to a ground-dwelling monkey.  My legs and armpits resembled forests.  My hair carried the dirt of fifteen mud baths.  And I was crying.  Sobbing like a hyena.  I had lost Tom, and the lack of both phone reception and sleep had caused me to react in the most dramatic of fashions. 

‘Katie?’  Ventured a wary voice from behind me.  I whirred around frantically.  And there in front of me, looking perfectly turned out in an inexplicably still white shift dress, was my worst nightmare.  Sarah from primary school. 

After several seconds of quivering, stunned, in my underwear, I realized that this was actually happening.  So I wiped the dirty snot from my nose and made a desperate attempt at a recovery.  ‘Oh hey!’  I spluttered.  ‘I’ve, um, I’ve forgotten all about primary school!’

Sarah stared at me as if I needed to be institutionalized.  And then she made an excuse, went to kiss me on the cheek, thought better of it, and left.  That was it.  That was my how my so oft-longed for encounter unfolded. 

What a horrendously ruinous coincidence!  I thought as I returned to my sobbing.  How is it that I’ve spent my whole bloody life looking fabulous, and the one time I’m a touch underdone, I run into Sarah!

It was then that I spotted Tom.  He was sitting on a log, beaming at me lovingly.  He’d witnessed the whole encounter.  As he enveloped me in his comforting embrace, I realized with sudden clarity that I was not fabulous, never had been.  I was Katie.  And that was ok.