Sue

I deal with tenants on a day to day basis and I'm used to handling minor and occassionally major issues. It's not very often that I get upset enough to want to whip my phone against the desk and swear like a sailor. But I did today.

"Hello. Can I help you?"

"I'm going to sue you!"

"Excuse me?"

"There has been smoking in the stairwells in this building for over a year and I've complained enough about it! Second hand smoke is deadly, you know! I've got problems now and I have a doctor to prove it. I'm suing you for everything you've got, do you hear? You tell that property person that if it's not stopped by tomorrow morning I'm suing you, Y-O-U."

"Ok, I realise it's frustrating for you. However, I'm sure if you leave a message (this was at about 5:30pm) then the property manager will meet with you in the morning."

"No, I will not leave a message! You fix this now."

"You do realise it I'm not personally responsible for this? You don't need to scream at me."

"JUST FIX IT!"

"If you leave your name and number-"

"No, I won't! I'm not leaving you any information! You just make sure they stop smoking in the stairwells!"

"But if you sue us then we'll find out your name anyway!" I pointed out logically and quite steamily. She continued to screech for another few moments before we both hung up on each other. I was so distraught I slammed my phone receiver against the table and exclaimed, "Nutty bitch!" I got up and walked around for a few moments telling myself that it wasn't my fault and that I wouldn't let some weirdo get to me but it took awhile before I stopped shaking.

I picked up my phone and there was no dial tone. Punching numbers frantically the damn thing still wouldn't work! Shit! I broke the phone! Double shit!

Quickly I logged onto another person's phone nearby and left a message for my manager "Hi C, I don't know what happened. My phone has stopped working. Shall I call support in the morning?"

What was I supposed to do? Tell her the truth? I don't want to get sued for that either.

Travel

Travelling for the first time was a life-changing experience for me. Travel as in overseas not as in the next state over.

17 and still in high school, I had been saving to go to Europe for the past 3 summers. Most parents wouldn't even consider letting their children wander over the Atlantic Ocean by themselves and my father was no different. However, I found a loophole. He said I could go if I could snare another person into coming with me. Perhaps he doubted how very motivated I was about leaving the States because I found someone within two weeks (much to his chagrin).

K was a year older than I and had just graduated high school; she was ripe for an adventure. We bought the tickets, reserved hostel rooms, checked out rail cards, and then finally packed our rucksacks as the date loomed closer.

27 June, 2000. Good day. I was new to everything. New to travel, new to love, new to flying, really. Was quite an eager beaver and I wanted to see and do everything. The excitement buzzing and doing star-jumps in my stomach was almost unbearable but I wouldn't have let go of those flippy feelings for the world.

Once in London, K and I made our way to Earl's Court on the Piccadilly line. My experience of climbing up from the depths of London's Underground and stepping out into the bustling fume-filled street was surreal. I needed to pinch myself. Almost got smacked down by a couple of motorbikes racing by me on the left side of the road...tricky that, trying to get my head round traffic on the opposite side of the street.

We finally found our hostel, the Silver Fern, and picked our way carefully through the smoke-stained air and traveler-riddled hall. The dorm room was co-ed and I met a Kiwi for the first time named Kiernan. He gave me a pen. I used it for the next two years.

Walking out into the potent summer air of London I felt invincible. The whole trip through England, Scotland and France laid ahead of me I couldn't wait for my new experiences. I felt the end was far away and perhaps it wouldn't end at all...

The hostellers were a collective mix gathered from around the world: Ozzies, Kiwis, French, Americans, Germans, Brazilians, Saffas, Canadians...we gathered at the Walkabout in Shepard's Bush and I had my very first snakebite. Foul as they are it tasted damn fine that evening. Dancing to Abba's cheesy hit 'Dancing Queen', getting beer spilled on me by drunk mongrels, and being hit on by a sleazy Ozzie was a novel experience and I reveled in it. I was young. It was fun and very, very different to anything of what I knew.

Ah, the first travel bite. It's exponential. Like a surfer who needs larger and larger waves to get the same high, I need to see more and more new places and experience different cultures to fulfill my travel appetite.

But I'll never forget that first experience of walking up and out into a different country for the first time. My whole life I've felt there was something missing within me and travelling helps fill the unknown void.

Kneeslapper

What's the difference between roast beef and pea soup?

Anyone can roast beef.

Picture it:

Madison Street Bridge, Chicago. Warmish, breezy, beautiful sunny day. About 2pm.

Very attractive blonde professional in tight blouse, pencil skirt, and stilettos is sauntering slowly over bridge.

Matrix-looking man walks past and gets whiplash in doing a double take at sexy prof.

Zoom in: Matrix-man stops on bridge and continues to stare at afore-mentioned hotness whilst talking on bluetooth (annoying buggers). Matrix-man reaches down and in full frontal view of everyone on bridge, re-adjusts himself. 4 times.

Matrix-man walks in opposite direction of jubble-rising minx after a quick play of own jubblies.

Zoom out: Redhead sniggering uncontrollably across other side of bridge.

Snob

I have a penpal in Switzerland that I email back and forth with intermittenly. Her English is 'not so good' and mon francais est tres mal so we just happen to get by through our correspondence somehow. What links us is that she likes to travel or go en voyage.

One thing I've recently found out is that we do not have the same taste in music. I'm a big music snob, I admit it. But I think even the most generic tastes in music would agree with me that an email my penpal has sent to me is 'unnatural':

I like much the music of Britney Spears. Before was my sister her fan. I saw Britney in concert in Zurich. It was splendid!

Oh my. My penpal is a fan (in the words of Cindy Adams from Page Six) of a pop tart. Ms. Spears is nowhere on my list of good music, not even at the very, very bottom where some unfavourable mentionables do actually lurk...

I am trying very sincerely (but not altogether successfully) to stop being a music snob for a moment and be open-minded. Just because we disagree on music won't stop me from emailing her...unless, of course, she says she's a fan of Paris Hilton's music. I will have no control over my actions at that point.

Mot du Jour

Besot.

As in: 'She is completely besotted with him.'

Immature

Due to the effing CTA I now ride the bus home in the evenings from work. And they're almost always horrifically overcrowded. Smelly, too.

Last night I was on this particular bus choppily making it's way down Lake Shore Drive. Driver kept putting the pedal to the metal and then slamming on the brakes whilst everyone was thrown violently forward. Cries of "Damn you!" and "Hey, I'm standing here asshole!" were rife. Seriously thought a mutiny was gonna take place and had mental images of passengers throwing the unhappy and uncaring CTA employee off the (still-moving) bus and taking it over pirate-style (ooh, pirate-style! I quite like the sound of that...aye..).

Anyway, I looked over towards the big window and someone sitting there had written in massive capitals 'POOP'.

It looked freshly written. I hadn't seen that when I first got on. My face cracked into a wide grin and I didn't care if other passengers thought I was a laughing loon. Yes, yes, sure, quite immature but it made my ride home a lot better...lighter, in fact.

'POOP'. *Giggle*

Touch

Lately there's been a lot of blog fodder within my office. Today the VP of the company is doing interviews for a (god know's what) new position. I overheard this conversation today whilst walking (ok, I stopped walking! Alright! Yes, I eavesdropped and was busy 'rearranging' the flowers) through the corridor:

VP: Stretching his hands up in the air over head and sighing, "Ah, yep. Got a new personal trainer now. So sore I can barely bend over."

Interviewee: Chuckles nervously, "Oh really?"

VP: "Yeah, I need to get back into shape, y'know? I can't even touch my toes! Can you? Can you touch your toes for me?" Said super-casually.

Interviewee: "Er, um...ok." I peeked quickly around the corner whilst moving a rose and saw the guy looking side to side to make sure no one would see him. If I'm not mistaken there were little beads of sweat popping up on his forehead.

Interviewee reaches down and tries to touch his toes but he couldn't do it.

VP: "Arms are too short, eh?" He nodded with his finger on his chin, "Yeah, I can't do it either."

Interviewee straightened up and VP swung a 'friendly' arm around his shoulders. They entered the hallway so I quickly dropped my flowers and went in the opposite direction but not before I heard VP say quietly, "You should come to the gym with me sometime."

He's got the job, I reckon.

Burningman Party

Am going to the real thing this year. Lots of effort but it must be worth it.

Photo by Banditoe Studios

What?

I hate those situations where strangers say completely inappropriate things to me. Within two seconds of meeting them they blurt out something personal that I don't need to know. Occasionally this happens to me and I am always divided as to whether they are mentally unstable or they just feel very comfortable in my presence (somehow I always revert back to the former but it could possibly be a mixture of both).

Example: Today I'm at my desk in the office and a food delivery woman has found her way over to me (where the hell is the receptionist when you need her?).

Me: "Oh hello. Who's this for?" Nodding towards the bag of food goodies.

Food goody lady: "I have asthma."

Me: "Right now?!"

Asthma lady: "A little. It's not too bad just this moment. But the weather!" She gestured wildly in the direction of the windows and let out a massive guffaw, "It just makes me want to stop breathing! I can't take it!" She made some heaving noises but she didn't look like she was going to drop dead or anything.

Me: "Er, um, yes...well, that doesn't sound good." I nodded at the food goodies. "Do you know who that's for?"

Heaving noise lady: "What?" She spat out at me like I was crazy.

Me: "The food goodies you're holding. Who are they for? I'll try to get a hold of them to pick it up."

Spitting lady: "What are you talking about? That's my lunch!" Oh dear, she was getting all bent out of shape now.

Me: "Oh, ah...I see. So you're not a delivery woman, then?"

Bent out of shape lady: "What's wrong with you, girl? Are you crazy?" She was looking at me a bit funny. "I stopped in to see Tequita downstairs," said very huffily, "Can't a girl get a break from all this?!" Throwing hands once again towards windows where fair enough, sleet was smacking violently against them. "Shit, you're weird." She backed away from me lugging the massive bag of Corner Bakery food goodies with her.

Some enormous lunch, that's all I can say. And I'm the weird one?

Oh Dear

There are moments in everyone's lives where they do something spectacularly stupid and it is hilarious to most people. I am fortunate to be one of those people who often do or say daft stuff. My lovely friend, J, is someone who doesn't (at least not usually in my presence). However, a couple of years ago she did something so silly that I still snigger a bit...especially when I see a cop car stopped at a stop sign.

J and I were out and about and ready to rumble (but not in a Rocky type of sense, obv) on a clear, beautiful, autumn night in Sydney. We were in the Rocks for a bit before deciding to meet one of her friends, R, over at Manly. Not quite drunk but feeling fine we triapsed down through the Rocks and ambled over to Circular Quay.

The Jet Cat through Sydney Harbour was probably the best part of that night. The dark sky was clear and as we drifted along the lights of the City contrasted sharply against the dark water surrounding it. The tangy smell of sea-salt was refreshing and cool; it made us feel young and alive.

All too soon the lovely sojourn ended by the boat pulling into Manly Harbour. But Manly is gorgeous; definitely my favourite beach in Sydney. J and I alighted and began walking towards the beachfront where the trendy bars and clubs are at. Apparently R was inside one already and probably past tipsy.

Once inside it turns out that R is a bit of an arse. He leaves and we had just taken a ferry to get there! The gall! We humphed a bit indignantly and then decided it would be best to go home, too. The next 5 minutes involve me having to sit on a bench from laughter.

Trying to get a cab, J (who insists she was sober at this point and therefore doesn't have any excuse whatsoever), opens the door to a stopped car at the stop sign. I start shouting at her, "No! J! That's NOT a cab!"

Meanwhile she's asking the driver, "Excuse me, can you take us to Chatswood?" She looked up at me shouting things at her and tilted her head to one side trying to make out what was being said. She later told me she didn't know why I was yelling as she had just got us a cab and I should've been grateful (cabs are hard to come by in Manly).

The man in the car turned back to her and said, "Dear, this is a police car not a taxi. I'm afraid I can't take you to Chatswood. I can take you to the police station if you'd like?"

J turned bright red and then stumbled out, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She kept parroting it over and over. She begun to convulse with laughter. Heaving so much she fell onto the ground and sat there giggling like a madwoman. The copper stuck his head out the window and said to me, "Oh dear."

Oh dear, indeed! I still give her crap about it. Hey, J, do you remember that? *covers mouth and sniggers*

Easter

Mmm, yes. Chocolate. Lots of it. Easter = chocolate, no? This is the holiday based on confectionary goods such as jelly beans and peeps and a massive bunny hiding it's eggs for little children, so I've heard (is it just me or is there something slightly disturbing about this?).

Oh wait...it's something to do with that Jesus guy, isn't it? Well whatever, candy is a much more lovely reason for a holiday, methinks. Just as I'm typing, a lady in the office has handed me a neat little hot pink easter egg with cadbury chocolate inside it. Yes, Easter. Good holiday. Bad for teeth. Good for dentists.

Ok, am off on more sweet adventures to the family's this weekend. Shall report on any bunny sightings (psst! If I actually see a massive upright walking bunny, a real one, then this holiday has evolved significantly from it's origins and also, I shall run away quickly in opposite direction. If I see a massive upright walking bunny with a human inside of it then the commericialisation of Easter lives on, candy, eggs, little rugrats running amok, etc...).

Happy Confection-Consuming Holiday, people!

Pick-up

Chicago's transit system (CTA) is shit at the moment. Today commuting is taking on a whole new meaning of hell.

I momentarily forgot that they were taking a track out for linework and got off at Fullerton to transfer to the redline. Oops. No northbound redlines. I haphazardly looked around in the pelting rain then I thought 'Fuckit, I'll get a cab.' Just this once, mind.

I stopped and got groceries then hailed the first cab I saw. He splashed up to the curb and I quickly opened the door, threw my bags onto the seat and told the cabbie my address. He looked back at me and said in an indeterminate African accent, “What time did the beauty pageant let out?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You just got out of a beauty pageant, right? That’s where you’re coming from.”

I looked at myself in the plastic reflection separating me and the driver with unkempt fly-away hair and 4 bags in disarray; I was a far cry from beauty queen status.

“Um, no.” I chuckled nervously and looked out the window.

“You’re very pretty, you should be in one.” Nutter.

“Thanks.”

I looked out the window, thankful the cabbie stopped talking and that I was about to get home. Lake Shore Drive was looking particularly lovely. Lake Michigan’s waves were lapping up steadily onto beach. The sky was tinged with pink streaks as sun forced itself through the dark, heavy clouds.

The cab turned off onto Sheridan and drove the few blocks to my building. As I gave him the money he said, “Girl, you’re gonna get there. Stay pretty.” By far the best pick-up line I’ve heard in ages.

But it didn’t work, obviously.