Mr. T: …hello?
Me: Why are you not home cooking my dinner?
Mr. T: I was at work. My computer clock isn’t showing daylight savings time, so I thought it was an hour earlier than it is.
Me: Are you joking?
Mr. T: I did wonder where the hell everybody went. I’m on my way home now, I’m on the freeway.
Me: Ohhhh….kay. What did you want to cook for dinner? I’ll start it.
Mr. T: I dunno. What’ve we got?
Me: [rifling through fridge] … um … umm … chicken or … umm… schnitzel.
Mr. T: WOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Me: [confused and startled] What, the schnitzel then?
Mr. T: What? Hey, there was just about an accident right in front of me! This car tried to merge into a 4 wheel drive, just in front of me. Wow that was so close!
Me: Ah. I did wonder what was so great about schnitzel.
Mr. T: Are we having schnitzel?
Me: HELL YEAH! WOOOOOOOOO SCHNITZEL!
Mr. T: Yeah. Medication for you.
Look, sometimes at work I do actual work. In fact, I end up working depressingly often. Today, though, was one of those days when I was chasing and ringing people and emailing and following up and really? That’s not what I like to do. That’s not even what I’m paid to do. But SOME PEOPLE get to go back to France for a month’s holiday, and OTHER PEOPLE continue working, including (very kindly might I add) following up on some of the work of SOME PEOPLE. Not that I’m jealous. Or anything.
Anyway, during one of my interminable waiting-on-hold-on-the-goddamn-phone downtimes, the work digital camera happened to alight upon my desk. And with a complete lack of imagination, I picked it up and took a photo of what was in front of me. I give you … my snack.
(Although I do like to think of it as less of a ‘mid-morning break’ and more an ‘art installation’. An interactive art installation. I interacted with it very soon after that photo. Art is delicious.)
At my work, most printing goes through the Photocopier: a giant beast of a machine that is photocopier, printer, fax, scanner and Emperor of Rome all in one imposing beige cabinet. We plebians are not allowed to touch the Photocopier. We may replace paper in its many paper trays if we perform the proper rites and sacrifice some chickens, but we are not to touch the mysterious inner workings. If it demands replacement toner or other similar ablutions be performed within its bowels, we must call the Registered Service Technician. But our IT guy has the phone number of the Registered Service Technician deep within his brain, and our IT guy has been AWOL for the past two days … and the Photocopier abruptly stopped Photocopying and brusquely demanded we change its Waste Toner Bottle. Immediately! And don’t forget the baby wipes to prevent a rash!
There was only one thing to do. My co-conspirator and I quietly shut the printer room door and secretly began the process of changing the Waste Toner Bottle. This involved removing the old Waste Toner Bottle, adorning it with an orange plastic hairnet (very Queer Eye) and sealing it into a zip-lock bag. Before we could insert the new Waste Toner Bottle, my co-conspirator handed me a long stick. “This is the cleaning rod,” she intoned, reading from the Bible (er, instructions). “We need to clean the toner holes.”
And so it was that I knelt before the Photocopier and vigorously rammed the cleaning rod into the first toner hole. I could certainly see why the Registered Service Technician liked to keep this part all to himself. As my co-conspirator dissolved into helpless mirth, I couldn’t help myself:
“Who’s your daddy, Photocopier?”
Well it is racing season here in Melbourne, the Spring Racing Carnival to be exact. I’m not much into the racing, truth be told. If I wanted to get all dressed up and get incoherently drunk, I’d do it at night, rather than the cruel glare of day … wait, I do. So the daytime drunken revelries hold little appeal, and I’m not a fashionista, and I find gambling a tad boring. But give me free tickets and I’m there!
So it was that Mr. T and I frocked up and headed along to Derby Day last Saturday, ostensibly the most serious and racing-oriented event of the season (because it has the most expensive entry tickets, is my guess). Mr. T is in serious martial arts mode and trained for 4 hours on Saturday morning, and when he came home he sat on the floor and wouldn’t get up. I was fully ready and had rung the taxi, and I stomped my heel-clad foot and forced him into the shower. People, I had braved the throngs of Myer and bought a feathery headpiece thing the night before – don’t tell me about the fighting and the exhaustion and the sneak attacks and the adrenaline. I’VE BEEN THERE. And did he have to fight frantic women and attempt to match the colour of a red-orange dress? He did not. I care not for his deep-muscle bruising and grazed knuckles – he didn’t even NOTICE my hat.
Derby Day had beautiful weather, great food, seats directly opposite the winning post – we drank, we ate, we drank more, we bet money and we lost money. Apparently picking your horses on whether they come from New Zealand or not isn’t the sure-fire winning technique I thought it would be. Who knew? And yet picking random numbers won me the table betting pool, giving me $50 on the last race to send us all home in a winning way. You know what I did. I wish I could say I didn’t, but I did. So we all drank more until they closed the bar, then we came home on a packed, packed train (note to revelers: singing “Advance Australia Fair” on the train home is deeply, deeply sad and I would have pitied you all if I could have stopped laughing) and once I got home, I thankfully kicked off my shoes and took photos of all the pets wearing my hat.
Weezer, Island in the Sun. No wait, now it’s Wham!, Last Christmas (Pudding Mix). I should really find the “shuffle” button on this thing.
Kath and Kim.
DING da da da!
Yes, we have an inorganic hard rubbish collection. It doesn’t mean you can throw all your shit out on the grass verge THREE WEEKS before the collection begins.