Yep, you read it right. Last week I drove to work in my thongs and it ended in disaster.
For those of you from the USA who read my blog, I know, I know… and yes, I was driving to work in my thongs – two of them – and when I got there I realized I had no shoes on!
Confused? Don’t worry, so was I!
As everyone in my life knows all too well – I am a complete shambles at the best of times. I fall over, run into things, accidentally tell strangers that I love them, forget how to get home and vomit regularly. However, in recent months, I had been reaching all new levels of coordination and things were going swimmingly.
No longer was I the bitter, sarcastic blogger who dated psychopaths and had an unreasonable fear of fake hair… As I said to another blogger several months ago, it’s hard to blog sarcastically when you’re happy with life… (and yes, contrary to popular belief, I had been getting out of the house at that point in time!)
Alas, it all came unraveled when I wore my thongs on the drive to work on Thursday. I had stayed at my boyfriend’s house, which sends me on a total different route to work and it was one of the first really warm days of the year, so I had just thrown my thongs on at the last minute as I ran out the door, not thinking much of it. I’m someone who avoids shoes at all costs, so I always keep a pair of work flats on the car floor for everyday use.
Unfortunately I didn’t think much of the fact that I had sent my car in to be serviced either, and the car that I had borrowed (strangely) did not come with a pair of emergency shoes on the passenger side floor. So, to cut a long, dramatic morning short, I turned up to work with no shoes, frantically yelling out to a colleague across the carpark something along the lines of ‘My shoes! My shoes! No shoes! No shoes! OMG! Shambles! HELP! HELP!’ while waving both arms frantically in the air…
Ah, you know that look of panic people get as they desperately think of a way they can pretend they don’t know? Yep, that look is ALLLL too familiar for me!
So half an hour and one trip to Kmart later, I had a pair of $8 shoes making my feet sweat and I was back on track. Or so I thought…
This morning, I took the same route to work. I was back in my own car (spare shoes and all) and for a Monday, the day was looking fine. About half way through my drive, I switched my handsfree thingemy on in case I got a call, as I’d thrown my bag somewhere in the back of the car and had no chance of reaching my phone if I needed it.
Beep… Beeep… attempting to connect… no phone found… attempting to connect… no phone found…
After a small panic, I ran into the office, waving my arms in the air like a madwoman. My colleagues have come to await the daily drama that tends to signify my arrival, so there was an air of anticipation as I ran into the office yelling ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got my shoes! I DON’T have my mobile phone but it’s going to be OKAY!’
Being a Gen Y girl and lacking the ability to memorise a single phone number since about 1999, I had no idea what my boyfriends phone number is. So I called myself. No answer. Redial…
Yep, oh shizz indeed! But we had a plan, boyfriend would drop phone to my office at lunchtime and I would buy him lunch, which I did. I was all ‘sit down, get comfortable, let me buy your lunch and drink and prove my gratitude for you driving halfway across Melbourne for me…’
And then it fell apart…
In an effort to be super helpful and after I was clearly told the squeezy ketchup sachet wasn’t opening, I insisted on having a crack at it and with all my strength, attempted to outsmart what was, I swear, the most complicated condiment packaging ever made.
Unfortunately… the ketchup won…
We were both covered. As was our table, my bag, the entire pile of napkins on the table, the chair next to me… and the random stranger sitting no less than two metres away from me.
I spent the entire afternoon pulling pieces of dry, crusty ketchup from my ponytail and fringe while randomly bursting out in fits of giggles.
I took it as a sign I had been neglecting my blog.
The universe has spoken. I will blog more.
I will also stop wearing thongs in the car… Except on weekends and public holidays.
And possibly also eating ketchup.
Also – I’m still scared of fake hair.
I have always been told that when you receive flowers from a man for no apparent reason, it’s a sign that he is cheating on you. I don’t exactly agree with this theory, but I do find the whole flower-giving thing fascinating.
I remember being younger and always wanting a nice boy to give me flowers. Not some crummy bunch of roses or, even worse, a single rose, but a pretty, well-planned and thoughtful bunch of flowers, which may or may not feature lilies or something similar.
But the flowers I envisaged and the flowers I actually got back then were vastly different. The lilies were replaced by god-awful weed-like flowers and the beautiful, ribbon-bound box was replaced by clear and white flowery glad-wrap that screamed of having been bought in a hospital foyer or stolen from a cemetery.
As I got a bit older, I completely lost interest in flowers. I never expected them and never really got them, but when I was about 25, I started to notice that they were making a comeback. Gone were the days, however, of flowers bringing joy and happiness.
First, there was the bunch that arrived with the statement ‘I might have an STD…’ (please note that the might turned out to be a definitely did not) and then there were the ones that came shriveled up after being hidden behind the heater in the lounge room for an indeterminate period of time, resulting in me arriving late for work after being ordered to go to the florist to exchange them…
Yep, flowers weren’t so glamorous anymore. They brought disease scares, anger and embarrassing encounters with florists. But I am a girl and don’t we all, deep down, dream of one day receiving flowers from a secret admirer declaring their undying love for us?
What we don’t realise though, is that this is actually the behavior of sociopaths and serial killers… and holiday crashers… yep, holiday crashers!
I mean, if you really think about it, if a person has the ability to interact with people, hold a conversation and enter into a real-life relationship, why wouldn’t they just mosey on over and ask you out? Alas, hindsight is a wonderful thing…
Back in 2009, I was a few months into my current (recently resigned from) job. Part of my role back then was to do presentations to young people about living and working overseas. Me being me, this involved lots of goofiness, many bad jokes and technical disasters.
My main problem with these presentations was that if I told a joke or a story that should get a laugh didn’t, I would just keep on pushing… bad joke after bad joke… higher pitch… faster talking… and it would start getting just plain awkward.
For example, I was once talking about San Francisco and started telling the story about riding a bike over the Golden Gate Bridge, taking a wrong turn (can you even take a wrong turn?) and ending up going overland to Sausalito all the while turning right involuntarily because I get balance issues when riding in the wind…
Alas, after being met by dead silence, this story led to the one about getting lost on a ‘quick drive’ before returning the hire car, the one about accidentally offending a group of dutch backpackers after telling one that his friend smelt like cabbage and finally wrapping it up with a declaration that I love San Fran because the hills made me feel like I was in Full House…
You know, FULL HOUSE?
It must be my lisp, audience does not comprehend… Cue terrible attempt at singing the Full House theme song:
Everywhere you look… everywhere you go (there’s a heart)… There’s a heart, a hand to hold onto.
Silence… crickets chirping… tumble weeds rolling through the room… you get the idea.
To this day I tell myself the crowd were just too young. They clearly didn’t know Mary-Kate and Ashley when they were knee-high to a grasshopper!
But back to my story, I was having one of these HORRIBLE evenings where the crowd was giving me absolutely nothing. No number of cheesy jokes, funny stories or even crowd interaction was saving it and besides one over enthusiastic guy in the second row, whose fake laugh was way too elaborate to be genuine, the audience were having none of it.
So you can imagine my complete shock when a massive bunch of roses turned up at my office two days later with a card that read:
I saw your presentation the other night and have been thinking about you ever since. Do you want to go for a drink sometime?
My colleagues and I tried to think of who it could be, with one suggesting it was ‘probably that one person who was laughing at your jokes!’ and after some crafty investigation, I had a full name and an email address.
Looking back, I should have read between the lines, seen the unwritten references to kidney stealing and paid attention to the music that started repeating in my head.
But really, the guy had made a pretty big effort and as someone who cannot even remember having asked anyone on a date before, who was I to reject someone without even meeting them?
So, I went on a date with him and despite there being no chemistry whatsoever and him judging me for liking Simon and Garfunkel while saying his favourite type of music was ‘anything they play on Triple J’… I didn’t regret it. I told him I wasn’t interested, we agreed we would be friends, added each other on Facebook and caught up a few more times before he went overseas.
Fast-forward to early 2011 when I was planning a work trip to Canada, followed by a week of Tennizzlle-time in New York City on the way home. I was contacting a few business partners and customers who were over there to catch up, one of whom was this guy. He wasn’t going to be in the cities I was visiting in Canada, but was going to NY with some friends around that time. I sent him my dates and said we’d have a drink if we crossed paths.
A week before I left, he emailed saying he had great news, it turns out we were going to be in NYC at the same time, so we agreed to have a drink. It all seemed so normal…
We met at a bar downtown before dinner and had a quick beer. We had the quick catch up, how’s life, blah blah blah, and then I asked him ‘So, what are you even doing in New York?’
His response: ‘I came to New York to spend the week with you’
This guy had driven from Montreal to New York to holiday with me… without me knowing.
After a few deep breathes, I talked myself into it. I’m the queen of miscommunication and I probably misunderstood something along the way. I’m sure it’s fine, when he says SPEND the week with me, he doesn’t mean SPEND the week with me. Nervous laugh, nervous laugh…
That was Thursday night.
By Friday, it was clear that he did actually mean spend the entire week with me…. Every single second of it…
‘Oh, you want to go to Forever 21 and try on seventy dresses? I’ll come!’
‘Oh, you want to purchase outfits for your dogs? That sounds like great fun!’
‘Should we plan out all our evenings in advance and buy tickets to everything?’
‘Let’s go to the farmers market and buy some food to cook in the luxury Soho apartment I have rented for us to hang out in’
By Saturday, I had lost my shit. Somewhere between Canal Street and Union Square, after being dragged around by his know-it-all self all afternoon trying to find ‘the best coffee in New York’, I had had enough. I hadn’t spoken to him for at least an hour when I made my escape, yelling something along the lines of ‘Space! Tennizzlle time! Forever 21!’ before throwing myself into the midst of a crowd of fast moving locals and running for my life.
A few months later, I was at work one afternoon and received a text message from a US number.
‘Hey, are you free to catch up?’
Assuming it was someone from our US office, I responded ‘Yeah, sure, but I have no idea who this is!’
‘Oh, sorry, it’s Michelangelo*, I’m in Melbourne but still using my Canadian number’
These days, if I want flowers, I just go buy myself some damn flowers. They’ll always be tasteful, they won’t be on the verge of death, they won’t die overnight and I will be able to sleep soundly in the knowledge that my kidneys will still be attached when I wake up in the morning.
NB – In doing a little Google research for this post, I typed ‘Flowers from a man’ into the search bar. I love the predictions Google comes up with and where they lead you. This time, I got ‘flowers from a man who shot your cousin’… as you do!
Also, if you were thinking about sending me flowers, feel free! I like lilies (just in case you didn’t get that) and I will accept them graciously. Just don’t be expecting me to go on a date with you afterwards!
*names and numbers have been changed, though not very well
When it comes to vegetables, I am the first to admit that I am absolutely clueless.
I’d like to claim I grew up in a vegetable-free household which would explain this and several other unexplained mysteries, such as why the heck I can’t use cutlery like a normal person, but it would be a lie.
Adding to the confusion, I was a dedicated vegetarian for seven long years and I still have no idea about vegetable-related matters!
I recently found myself making a salad at someone else’s house. I was trying to be all helpful and enthusiastic, but quickly found myself having a small panic attack when faced with something I suspected was a zucchini, green skin and all, and didn’t know what the hell to do with it… peel it? Don’t peel it? Slice it? Bake it? Throw it in a cupboard and pretend it was never there…?
Turns out it was actually a cucumber and yes, you can eat the green bit!
This is just the most recent of many situations I’ve had resulting from my lifelong vegetable confusion. Others include:
I’d heard of the elusive yam but was pretty happy living in the knowledge that it had never crossed my path. It just didn’t sound like a friendly vegetable, or a tasty one for that matter, but more like some kind of angry little man in a cape wielding a Bamm-Bamm style club.
That was, of course, until I blogged several months ago about my fear of mashed potato and for some reason, these yams kept coming up in my comments.
Do you like yams?
How do yams make you feel?
Do you eat mashed yams?
Things were getting weird.
I was confused and finally accepted that it was time to consult my friend Google.
So, for anyone who is unfamiliar with the yam equation, here it is:
Yam = Sweet Potato = Awesome!
You know those cultural miscommunications you have when you are so clueless as to what is going on you just smile and nod and accept that you will never know the truth? For me, Kumara was one of these.
For quite a few years, when kiwi friends kept saying things like ‘it’s kumara, right?’, ‘does this have kumara in it?’ and ‘I’m going to get kumara on the side’, I was seriously confused. Initially I thought kumara was a bird or maybe a person, but after much smiling and nodding and a whole lot of confusion, I realised they were simply trying to say ‘sweet potato’!
Better than that girl I once heard about who told her boss at a staff event at a chalet that he ‘had such a nice long deck’.
Ah, bless those little kiwis!
However, the real beginning of my vegetable confusion can only be blamed on one vegetable…
Many years ago, while still reasonably new to the world of vegetarianism and after a chinese doctor told me I was going to die if I didn’t eat meat, I made it my mission to learn to cook vegetables. I bought myself a cookbook, aptly titled ‘Learning to Cook Vegetarian’ and dog-eared the pages of anything that looked even remotely manageable (ie. Had less than ten ingredients) for experimentation.
One of my first attempts was some kind of baked creation, which seemed pretty straightforward. I copied down my little list of ingredients… garlic… onion… potato… turnip… turnip? Turnip! What the heck was a turnip?
Keep in mind here that this was before the days of Google on your phone, or even readily available high-speed internet, so my investigation of what the heck a turnip was consisted of squinting at the photo in the recipe book and by process of elimination and some vague recollection of a turnip character in a childrens book I had read long ago, came to the conclusion that it was a root vegetable with a sprout, which may or may not also have big eyes and wear a pair of runners…
Not one to shy away from a project I have committed to, I decided not to scrap the chosen recipe and chose another, but to take my new found knowledge to the supermarket to source the aforementioned turnip and everything else that the recipe called for and, of course, me being me, I got everything else and left the turnip for last.
With pretty much no idea what I was actually looking for, I had been standing in the root vegetable area for a good twenty minutes, reading all of the price labels when I found it. The excitement was overwhelming:
Turnips – $3.50 per kg | Beetroot $4.00 per kg
I looked up to the corresponding box and to my horror, there was no separation between the two vegetables – just a whole load of round things rolling around in one big box!
Having never seen beetroot except from can, I had reached a whole new level of confusion. Refusing to accept defeat or ask for help, I took a gamble and grabbed what most closely resembled the turnip I had envisaged – I figured if they had been stored in the same box without proper labels, there can’t be much difference anyway… Right?
Needless to say, to this day, I have never cooked or bought a beetroot OR a turnip ever again.
Other awkward vegetables I have encountered include ‘Green Onions’ (which, it turns out was my Fast and Fabulous cookbook seeing how far I would go to find a vegetable that DOES NOT EXIST), ‘Chinese Leaf’ (otherwise referred to as any leafy Chinese vegetable, walking around the markets asking for Chinese Leaf is not recommended!) and ‘Pepper’ or ‘Bell Pepper’ (which, contrary to popular belief is referring to a capsicum, NOT a chilli!) amongst many, many others.
On a side note, a few weeks ago I finally worked out how to install emoji emoticons onto my iPhone. Clearly a fairly simple task once you realise it’s an app.
My newfound love of emoticons was going well, I’ve been throwing them in here and there to create confusion or make a completely unclear point. In the midst of a recent texting conversation, I needed to throw in something completely unexpected. Insert Emoticon:
Think to self: A PURPLE zucchini! Of course! No one will see it coming!
The response: “Eggplant?”
I don’t have a particular hatred for them; I just do not have any urge whatsoever to participate in them. Or, if I’m being completely honest, to watch them either.
Being an Aussie, this seems to be a particularly difficult fact for people to deal with.
Early last year, I was on a first date when out of nowhere the guy turned to me with a confused look and asked:
‘So… what sports to do you play?’
I was stumped. Not just by the fact that this was a point of conversation, but that this was even a question for anyone who no longer had compulsory PE classes!
‘What do you mean none? What sports do you like then?’
‘Well… what do you DO then?!?’
‘Ummm… normal things, what do YOU do?’
Silence… ‘Good point’
I might add that this conversation occurred with someone whose sporting activities consisted of a weekly Frisbee game and riding his bike to dates… who was he to judge?
The incident, however, made me even more anti-sport and got me thinking about the cause of my total disregard for what is an inbuilt passion for most of the population… and when it comes down to it, I can honestly say it can be attributed to one thing…
Otherwise known as the most pointless sport on the face of the planet and one which I was forced (not even exaggerating, FORCED) to play for years!
Let me take you back for a moment to my childhood when I was attending a small Christian-obsessed primary school in Melbourne’s east.
They had fairly creative interpretations on how Jesus wanted us to live and by the time I had left at the end of grade 6, I was fairly certain of the following facts:
- The Wakefield twins from Sweet Valley Twins were actually the devil incarnate
- My new puppy was never going to make it to heaven because God didn’t have enough room
- Slap bands were evil (I’m not quite sure how, they just were!)
- If I didn’t get praying every night, there was a fairly good chance that I, too, would have lost my place in heaven by the time I started high school
Having said that, I did also learn a few invaluable things during my time there, the most useful of which was that if you have something stuck in your eye, blow your nose like crazy and whatever it is will eventually vanish…
And the least useful of which was that sometimes when you need a band aid and your school has forgotten to order more, it’s okay to just wrap your damaged body part in sticky tape and hope the bleeding stops…
But back to the story – team sports!
For the first few years of primary school, we had mixed sports, where we would all line up and walk down to the park to play rounders, or softball or go running. I was okay with this, I loved getting covered in mud and throwing myself in the line of flying objects.
But then came grade five… and new students… and one over-enthusiastic, netball-loving mother… and it was all over.
Every PE class, all the boys would line up and head to the park for ‘boy-sports’, while we were left to play netball in the schoolyard.
For two long years, they played this cruel joke on us, which involved having us ‘select’ our sports at the beginning of each term. Every term I would rate 1-9 every sport BUT netball, which I refused to acknowledge as a sport, yet every term I would end up Wing Attack (otherwise known as the dullest position in all of sporting history) in the midst of ten or so squealing girls who would cry if the ball hit them.
So I decided to take a stand against this absurd excuse for education! I would change the sporting curriculum and fight for the rights for girls to play whatever sports they chose!
Alas… taking a stand in a school of 100 kids doesn’t really go far and instead of leading our year level on an anti-pivot revolution, I found myself sitting alone in the shade on the only grade 6 mixed sport day, after an incident involving a protest against legionnaires hats and some badly planned chants…
But I was not done! This was just the beginning of my lifelong revolt against team sports…
I let things slide for a few years and actually made the odd effort to get involved. In year seven, I attempted that jumping thing over the stick and even swam in a swimming carnival (I’m not entirely sure this was voluntarily, but I’m taking it anyway!)… Then things started to go a bit haywire once again…
First, I got in trouble for pitching overhand in baseball and then got squashed when a large girl with fuzzy hair and a giant scab on her arm fell backward onto me when I wasn’t paying attention during some kind of marching event… Not long after, I got hit in the head with a volleyball and got reprimanded for kicking a squishy ball INSIDE the sports centre…
It was not going well… but I had not given up all hope… And then it got to year nine and they sent me to camp…
But not just camp, this was an eight-week camp I like to refer to as hell.
I got sick from the fresh air, then when I threw up in my bed the nurse found my chocolate stash in my pillow. I got in trouble for holding a chicken ‘offensively’ and was forced to apologise in French – to the French teacher… Porqoui? JE NE SAIS PAS!
I suspect they saw my disdain, my lack of cooperation and my total disregard for their completely ridiculous teachings… Because when it came to elective day, they told me the only option left for me was team sports…
I’m not joking.
So, first thing that morning, I marched myself straight over to the farmer and talked myself into his class on farm skills. Yep, farm skills… And I spent the WHOLE day with my hand up a cows arse!
But, you know what? That was a million times better than spending it running around after a ball, or swinging a bat, or pivoting…
And from then on, I quit team sports. I don’t and won’t play them, and as far as watching them goes… if you promise me LOTS of free beer and cute boys… I’m open to negotiation.
I had a flashback the other day to when I was working at a large stationary/office supplier and a customer called me a ‘F*@#ing American’ as he took his purchases. Lovely guy.
I am probably as far as you can get from being American, but being a big fan of the US and of pretty much every single American I have ever met (except that crazy guy who took me to Ireland and cried over dinner), I was very confused as to what he was trying to achieve by calling me this.
I have no idea why that memory popped into my mind, but I started recounting all the crazy experiences I had while working in customer service in my younger years. I realised after running through the numerous times I was yelled at, insulted and disgusted, that with the exception of the one experience mentioned above, they can all be attributed to one thing – I worked in a video store.
After dropping out of my first year of uni, I spent about 18 months working at a massive video store in the suburbs of Melbourne. I had been studying Media arts and working in a video store seemed like the ultimate job for a drop-out.
Don’t get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoyed my time there and met some awesome people but at the same time, I came up close and personal with some of the dregs of society.
The New Release Junkies
Probably the worst of all video store customers are the New Release Junkies – the ones who come in at least three times a day asking ‘any new movies? Any new movies?’ It’s like they have a radar and as soon as a delivery guy comes through the store, they magically appear, hovering, grabbing and pleading while you’re trying to establish exactly why you have ended up with 300 copies of The Man Who Sued God and why everything keeps scanning up as Shallow Hal.
The Games Junkies
As above, these people hover, but it’s PC games that they are after. They’re on edge and can literally spend hours in the store or waiting outside, ready to pounce at the first sign of a delivery guy. They know when the games are coming out, they know when they should have arrived and they sure as hell know when you’ve stashed them in the back room until the official release date and they’re going to do whatever necessary to get to them!
The Combination Junkies
So combine the top two, and you’ve got some seriously obsessed people who really need to get out of the house more (and going to the video store and back does not count as an outing)! They hover between the games and the videos, they know the release dates of not only the games, but the movies as well and they have also been known to come in repeatedly on a Saturday hoping that some miracle of miracles has occurred and the delivery driver has decided to bring new stock on the weekend – just for them!
The Porn Hirers
So, if you are someone who hasn’t quite mastered the art of using the internet and you still like to go to a video store and hire the same videos that have been… used… by other people with similar interests, may I suggest that you do not borrow from a video store where the only person working is a perky 19 year old female. In fairness, I was willing to let the odd filthy movie pass by without too much judgement, I totally get it, people have needs, blah blah blah, but when we get to the stage of five pornos for $10, you can rest assured that I am judging!
Our store had two regular borrowers of porn, both of whose faces are quite literally burnt into my memory, even 9 years later. The creepy one was a really old man who would always come in during the day, generally late morning and always take out five videos, all porn. He was sweaty and gross and I used to make every effort to minimise the contact I had with the actual videos while processing his rental, picking them up by the corner to scan them, before flinging them over to the door side of the counter. I had it down to a fine art. I wouldn’t make eye contact with him and he’d be out the door with no more than five words exchanged between us.
No more than forty minutes later, without fail, he’d be back. He’d shuffle in, drop his videos into the returns chute and be off. Luckily each video was only a few minutes in, so it wouldn’t take me long to rewind them all…
The Late Night Creeper
I wish I was in the habit of naming people here as this one had a totally suitable name for the creeper that he was. I was warned as soon as I started working that he would turn up late at night, hover around the store, changing his mind, hassling the staff and trying to stop you from closing… ‘You’ll smell him before you see him’ one of my collagues explained… and oh, smell him I most definitely did!
Our store had two entries and despite keeping us open 15 minutes past closing, he would always insist on departing through the back door (which he knew would be locked), before riding his bike back around to the front door and trying to get back in. This failing, he would proceed to the overnight chute, where he would lift the cover and scream into the store ‘I made a mistake! I meant to borrow the Wizard of Oz!’ Ah, creeper…
The Horrible Children
I absolutely love kids and I am fairly confident that if anything was going to put me off ever having them, it would be working in the video store. Although looking back, I suspect the parents had as much to do with it as the kids did.
There were several horrid children who would frequent our store, but one in particular stands out. She had pigtails and we shall call her ‘Annabella’. Granted, in the real world she would have been cute, however I now associate the name with the screeching of a mother desperate to get her unruly child under control.
The highlight would have to be the day Annabella broke into the ice-cream cabinet and insisted on having one bought for her, which she promptly ‘lost’ and left the store… At closing time (about five hours later), it was found under D in comedy… absorbed into the covers of at least three different movies.
The Vomiting Child
So I totally understand that children get sick and that when they are sick, taking them to borrow videos might seem like a nice idea. Hell, it might even BE a nice idea. However, if you’re one of those mothers who is concerned that they might throw up themselves if they try to clean the child’s vomit up from the entire counter area, I would not only suggest that you do not take your sick child out in public, but that maybe you reconsider motherhood altogether.
Trust me, I totally understand the feeling of ending up elbow deep in your child’s vomit and dry-reaching while trying to remember why I even left the house that morning.
P.s. I think you never coming back to our store was a really good idea.
There were so many more worth mentioning, the people who would ask me to fill in their Centrelink books pretending they’d applied for a job every month… the couples who would launch into an all-out argument in the new release aisle every Saturday night… the creepy guy who used to bring his kids in and stare at me while telling me I looked incredibly similar to Jodie Foster… All those people who kept stealing Eddie Murphy’s Raw and Delirious… That nutcase who accused me of stealing his money and having ‘an arrangement’ because his bank froze his credit card…
To this day, I cannot spend more than five minutes in a video store without getting nervous. I feel myself looking at the people surrounding me and categorising them in my head. Crazy parent. Unemployed with no intention to ever work. Couple who should stop renting movies and leave the house for a change…
If you fit into one of these categories, I apologise for any offense caused. You taught me many valuable lessons in life and for that I am grateful.