Keep your cooties to yourself!

So the other night my house was full of underagers.

Before your mind jumps to the affronted side of the gutter, let me explain myself.

The right side is obviously the affronted side

I have a younger sibling at perfect teen-adolescent high school age. And she had a little soirée the other night, when I happened to be at home, trying to catch up on sleep for an epic few days of work ahead.

Boy, did it bring back memories.

You could pretty much smell the hormones in the air. Girls squealing at decibels I thought were actually impossible for humans to reproduce, boys shuffling, making their little jokes and producing the cruiser or two they stole from their older sister or, if they are really cool, a 6-pack someone else bought for them.

ZOMG it TOTZ made my tongue BLUUEEE

I knew they would all be at least a little intimidated by me, purely because I have a car and can buy alcohol legally. Also because when I speak the tone of my voice is at least three octaves lower than any of theirs.

Even though they were all squealing and ‘pumping’ up their funky beats and seemingly having a good time, I couldn’t help feel awkward for them. I felt like they were all trying too hard to have fun. And then I thought… maybe that’s what we were all like. Maybe throughout all those little ‘gatherings’ and backyard parties we all genuienly thought Cruisers were a ticket to cool-dom and hooking up ( or as it used to be called in my day, ‘Getting,’ ) was a carefully planned operation in which friends from both sides would lodge enquiries with each other before the actual event took place, if it even did at all.

Maybe I’m just older now and look at their young faces (that are yet to sprout hairs, in the boy’s case,) and can’t help but wonder what form of joy they get from this. Pretending they aren’t nervous next to each other, nervously making jokes, nervously sipping fairy floss cruisers, ( but not too fast- don’t want to vomm that up too quick,) nervously hypothesising about who might want to hook up with who but not actually having the vaguest idea what they would do should the situation eventuate.

Thank God puberty ends.

But I mean, I guess adolesence really is a good place to start. Socially, I mean. Not that you really get much of a choice whether you go through it or not,  but where better to get all your social awkwardness out and learn what NOT to do whilst everyone around you is covered in acne and (if they are lucky, ) bum fluff?

So maybe its the hope that they are on their way to a life of succesful social interactions via this awkward pit-stop that makes them enjoy these awkward little gatherings. Or maybe its that whole high-school-esque obsession with social power that provides enough distraction to overcome the awkward, ‘almost’ hormone exchanges.

Let’s hope that by next soirée enough awkward has left their systems so that their squeals don’t permeate my Tarantino session.

EuroTastic

If ever there was a talent contest that parallels a kath-and-kim style leisure suit, it is Eurovision. And let me tell you, it’s beautiful.

Eurovision is not like anything else I think you can see on TV. It’s brilliant serious-meets-cringe-worthiness leaves American Idol and Neighbours for dead. These people are MASTERS of awkward. So good, in fact, they market and sell awkwardness as the content of their show… and it’s like crack to us.

Every theatrically possible way to create awkwardness is covered, or has been at some point in Eurovision’s illustrious past. Most importantly, the awkward cringe-factor. Glitter. Sequins. Spandex. “Sex Appeal”/ attempts to get there. Poorly translated English lyrics diced into other languages. Shameless eye sex. Hairless men that you wouldn’t want to meet in an alleyway. And it’s all so magical.

Then, the awkward thought that this might maybe be taken seriously in some places.  And the joy of imagining the where and when’s of these scenarios.

Then, the wonderfully awkward guilty pleasure of watching ethnic stereotypes being met a.la Borat. A standout of the latter for me was the wonderful wonderful contestant from Serbia, Milan Stanković.

There are five plastic, cross-sectioned tubes at the back of the stage. In two there are women who are wearing stylized, cut-up-once-wedding dresses, doing some form of dance movement. Two others house identically tanned men in blue jump suits. Ready and raring for action.

Milan Emerges from the central tube.

In an electric blue, glittery and not-quite-spandex TAILED coat, covering a top-and-jeans combo in xerox white. There are acrobatics. There is lots of vertical jumping on the spot. And towards the end, the wedding dress ladies descend from their tubes to the front of the stage, turn around, lift their arms up Beyoncé-style, and I believe try very honourably to get bootylicious. My little sister watches this display noiselessly, her mouth slightly ajar in awe. She turns to me and utters; ‘Zorba-rap-fusion.’ What a beautiful phrase. 

For some reason I’m unable to embed the video but you can watch the glory for yourselves here.

The thought this is actually, physically happening somewhere in the world I live in just warms my heart in ways you can’t imagine.

The last main awkward-factor of Eurovision, and at times the sweetest, is the poorly translated English interjections in songs otherwise of national tongue. Aside from the occasional contestants who just reek of sex, but this year I’m yet to come across one.  And this year, a treat from Macedonia with their accompanying RAPPER.  Joy, joy, joy, joy. Pure, unadultered joy. And you can have some of it right here.

(Underneath this wondrous video there is a bit of a comment war about whether Macedonians are Greeks or Turks or something or other.. anyway it gets quite heated. And in this sense took my focus off the Macedonian rapping. That’s the kind of thing I was talking about in my last core post Buy My Blog.)

In a fair dinkum sense, Belgium was terrific and I think should have won. 

It’s even more awkward that when you talk about Eurovision contestants and they are actually good, you need to stress the fair dinkum part.

You were fired. Leave already.

There’s always the people that can’t let go. Be it from school, relationships, phones lost, they just can’t leave it. They can’t say goodbye.

They can’t accept that being fired is embarrassing and it means you probably shouldn’t hang around anymore.

YOU'RE FIRED

Alas, Dear Readers, this is a scenario that confronts me.

The last place I worked before my current position was a quiet little café in a neighbourhood pretty much ruled by pensioners. Suffice to say it wasn’t the busiest place. We did sell a lot of lemon slices though.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Anyway the reason I got a job there was because another girl was leaving. (read: was fired) But little did they know that she wasn’t going anywhere.

My shifts were relatively long- around 7 hours each. So a dedicated effort to appearance was completely unnecessary, if not ridiculous. If you can imagine it, I would take orders and deliver meals to people’s tables in loose-ish faded jeans and a plain black t-shirt, with my hair back because that’s just plain hygienic.  Enter fired girl.

If it hasn’t been implied already, this neighbourhood was not trendy by any means. Most of our customers would come in whilst on a walk or something, generally in track pants and orthopaedic-friendly runners.

Every time she’d come in it was an entirely new, and very pre-empted LOOK. Nay, AURA. One day it would be aloof-I-don’t-care head-to-toe-black with leather heels to the sky and black smokey cat eye makeup, the next it was sun-goddess-summer-fun-look-at-my-floral-dress-and-accordingly-bright-yet-subtle makeup. Standing next to me, in my coffee stained t-shirt, handing someone a chicken foccacia.

Awkward.

I never had any idea what to say to her, because all I was thinking was “You got fired. Why are you still here?”  Followed closely by, “Why on Earth would you spend that long getting ready for a place like THIS?” again leading me back to the initial question.

Surely you wouldn’t want to hang out (and I mean hang out, for hours at a time some days,) at a place that has actually, physically told you, in that many words, ‘We. Don’t. Want. You.”

Another thing I struggled to understand was the way she would speak to myself and the other female employee my age. The word condescending was re-born with every word that exited her mouth. I should also mention she is the same age as me.

It was like being in year 7 again and watching those girls that wanted to grow up too fast strut around in their hitched-up netball skirts. And it was really disarming.

Now being a university student, and dare I say an adult, I found it really really REALLY awkward being back in that adolescent-social-power-struggle time warp. But this time I had a reality to step back into.

Eventually I was offered another position and have only seen her in passing a few times. But I have no doubt she still hangs out there. And I think I’d almost pay money to find out why.

NO GARY NO

So I was riding the train. Like I normally do on my way into uni. Nothing out of the ordinary, just chillin,’ got my headphones in, looking all hipster and aloof in my baggy jumper. (It was really cold ok!) So the train stops at Melbourne Central. I stand up, facing the doors and waiting for the button to turn green so I can begin the pilgrimage to my French tute. I turn to the left inadvertently.

And there’s a man crouched in that little ‘in between’ bit between carriages, holding awkwardly onto the handle leading into our carriage. It looks like he’s been riding the train like that this entire time. God knows where he got on. I don’t even think I want to know. Anyway, I’m standing there, hopelessly confused, when I spy a clue.

There is a lit cigarette from hanging from the hand that isn’t wrapped desperately around the handle for dear life.

This man rode the train in that windy, dangerous, moveable-floor in-between-carriage-carriage, from God knows what station, because he couldn’t wait for a cigarette.

Probably one of the best ads ever.

(And wouldn’t the wind put it out anyway?)

I’ve seen my fair share of nicotine addicts, but I don’t think anything this awkward. Maybe it was just the absurdity of the image that made it seem so ridiculous in my head. But still, how desperate ARE you? And if he HAD got on only a station or two before, surely he could wait the ten minutes for a smoke? And if not, how could he have stayed in crouching-child position, with cold wind and that God awful wind-noise all around him for longer than ten minutes?

This trumps my previous awkward ‘nicotine-owns-you’ smoker moment, where a former colleague asked me to buy him a deck because there was someone in the milk bar across the road he didn’t want to talk to. Armed with a piece of paper with the exact name of the brand he wanted, I walked over. Now I have never bought a packet of cigarettes before, and have little to no idea about the difference between brands. So when I was handed the wrong packet, how was I supposed to know?

Needless to say he wasn’t impressed. Think The Hulk meets Angelica from Rugrats. Yeah. He ended up switching them back and got his happy ending though; in the form of I think maybe half the pack in a 6 hour shift.

Ironically that same day he told me he was planning on cutting out carbs completely in an effort to be healthier.

I can’t think of a segway clever enough to link to this ad I found when looking for pictures of NO GARY NO! But I think it’s worth sharing. So here’s a really awkward French anti-smoking ad to carry this thing home.

Translated I'm at least 85% sure it means 'Smoking, it's being a slave to tabacco'

Friends… Sort of

I found this on YouTube in class the other day… enjoy!

Workplace Banter

 

Being a uni student, typically you have a crap part-time job. Crap in the sense that you need zero qualifications, and don’t get paid a crazy amount. This is all part and parcel of the ‘poor student’ life, and so all you can really do is make friends with the people you work with to make the hours of your shift pass faster.

Now I consider myself a little bit lucky. I actually like my part-time job. I work in a cafe, and get along pretty well with everyone I work with. Since shifts are so long, (9.5 hours,) and we have only two people on at a time, a lot of conversation flies back and forth in a day. Thankfully, this is one of my stronger points. (Talking a lot, that is. SURPRISE! )

So it was just a normal day. I’m flipping eggs and taking orders. We’re not particularly busy, and my colleague is chatting to me about something or other. I can’t remember exactly what we were talking about, but he says,

‘You’d make a really good lesbian.’

Sorry… what?

Now I wasn’t offended in the least by this. Probably because this co-worker and I know each other fairly well, and also because I don’t think being called a lesbian is offensive. It’s the reasoning why he thinks so that hooks me. So I press on.

‘What makes you say that?’ He stops and earnestly thinks.
‘I don’t really know… I can’t explain it. I just think you would be,’ his eyes widen in horror as he considers how this may be read. ‘Not in a… GROSS, or anything way, like not that I’d….’ I can see what he means and re-assure him I’m not offended. Still curious, I bring up the subject with my neighbour that night.  To my surprise, he says he understands my colleague’s reasoning. At least, he tries to.

‘It’s hard to explain… it’s like… I don’t know it’s like… I don’t know… I mean like… well I guess… you’re kind of…like a boy… a bit…’

 I can see he’s struggling to explain what he means without sounding offensive. Again, I re-assure him. It’s no secret I’m a bit of a boy sometimes.

My confusion rests in my friends’ lack of ability to explain what they mean. Obviously there is some kind of lesbian stereotype that matches some kind of characteristic they also attribute to me, but can’t explain. I’m a little taken aback that their minds so automatically jump to judgement via stereotype. But hey, now we’re bordering thesis territory, so we’ll leave that there.

Although I wasn’t offended by what was said, I’d still say it was little awkward. Both my friends faltered self-consciously when I asked them to explain what they meant, and I think both realized they were playing straight into a stereotype they had never thought to question or explore properly. 

It’s awkward on that level but also an awkward question of what is ok to ask people about themselves. Slash, what it’s ok to comment on. But for me, it’s also kind of awkward because when I look at the scenario externally, I feel it should have been MORE awkward, if that makes sense. Like it should have struck me as stranger such stereotypes are so ingrained, and I should have been at least a little affronted at such a comment on my sexuality. But I wasn’t. And whatever kind of reflection that is of myself/society/media/whateveryouwishtoinsert I don’t really know. Which is also kind of awkward.