RECIPES BETWEEN FRIENDS

Hi peeps.


Check out my recipe page on facebook: Recipe's Between Friends.


http://www.facebook.com/pages/Recipes-Between-Friends/61589743473


If you have any recipes you'd like to share, please send them my way, and I'll post them for you.


Peace out.

A VIEW FROM THE TOP OF THE WORLD

So, Charlie was fixing the flashing on our carport today. 

Every time we get a massive deluge here, the flashing between the house and carport fails, water pours down the face of the house and between the slab and frame, and into the friggin house.

My poor back room (and floating floor) have been flooded so many times, I’ve lost count.  I will say this: the floor has held up awesomely well considering.

Anyway, Charlie comes into the study, where I’m happily blogging, writing up recipes, updating my CWA paperwork and business accounts, and informs me that he needs my help outside.

Now, I don’t know if this happens to you, but if I need assistance with something, it’s the end of the fucken world.  I get a response that is something akin to a temper tantrum, and you would think that I’d asked him to chop his doodle off.

For fucks sake.

However, when he asks for assistance, it’s without warning and without any consideration for what I’m doing.  Sure; 9 times out of 10, I can drop everything and help him, but that 1 time (when I’m whipping egg whites or something that I can’t friggin leave), it’s the end of the world.

I seriously understand where Jade get’s her dramatic tendencies from; I really do.

Anyway, Charlie says that he needs some help with the flashing for the roof.  ‘No worries.’ I say, and following him out of the house.  ‘As long as I don’t have to get on the roof, we’re sweet.’

‘You have to get on the roof.’ He says.

‘Go fuck yourself.’ I say, and turn and walk back into the house. 

‘Wait!’ Charlie comes running after me.  ‘If you don’t help me, I won’t get this flashing fixed, and the house could flood again if we get heavy rains.’

‘Well, considering it’s suppose to be hot for like the next week, I’m sure you have plenty of time to ask Brett or Paul to come and help you,’ his brother and brother-in-law, ‘or better yet, you could ask Jimmy next door.’

‘Jimmy’s possibly out and about somewhere…’

‘That’s because he has a fucken life, and so do I, which you interrupted with your flashing aspirations…’

‘C’mon woman.  I need your help…’ he begged.  He puts on the most pitiful face I’ve ever seen (which is pretty close to his normal face, really).  *sigh* I relent, and follow him outside.  ‘Thanks sweetie.  You’re awesome.’

‘God fuck yourself.’ I mutter, and follow him to the low side of the house, where there’s a ladder propped up against the carport roof.

Now, the carport is cut into a hill, so the roofline where I’m standing is only about five foot off the ground.  I will consent at this point, that five foot is not very high.  However, when you’re asking me to haul my big arse up a ladder, fix foot may as well be fifty foot, s’far as I’m concerned anyway, because the fall is going to break pieces off o’ me regardless.

Charlie climbs up the ladder in like two strides (if that’s possible) and holds the ladder for me to climb, which takes about twenty minutes because I’m petrified.

So, as I get onto the roof, and grip his hand so hard I near break his fingers, I ask myself ‘at what point did I become afraid of heights?’  I never use to be scared of heights… what the fuck happened?

Now, I’m on the flat deck roof of the carport, breaking Charlie’s fingers, and he starts moving and pulling me in the direction he’s flapping his gums about.  I’m like ‘you’ve got me up here, I’m not fucking moving!’ and he’s like ‘for fucks sake woman, c’mon.’ and gives my arm such a massive yank, that he near rips my shoulder out of it’s socket.

Fucker.

‘Where do I step…’ I know that I have to step in certain places, because I’ll dint the roof otherwise. 

‘If you can, step on the screws…’ which makes sense, because they’re attached to rafters, which decreases the possibility of my fat arse falling through the roof, let alone dinting it.

I can see it now: the SES receiving reports that a huge heifer is stuck in a carport roof, only to roll up and see my big arse hanging in mid-air, legs flailing everywhere in a desperate attempt to hide the camel toe I’ve suffered, because the top of my leggings are mooshed up above the roofline.  Clarsy.

So Charlie drags me reluctantly across the rooftop, and I feel like I’m walking across a field of eggs; not knowing where to stand.

‘I need to you kneel down and push against this flashing here…’ he says, and points to this piece of metal that means fuck all to me, but apparently holds all the answers.

‘I don’t kneel, baby.’ I declare.  ‘This body is not built for kneeling, so think of something else.’

Charlie just looks at me.

‘For fucks sake, man.  It hurts my legs to kneel.  Do you need to make me feel anymore inadequate that I do right now?’ I ask.  ‘Let’s get a fucken move on so I can get off this fucken roof.’

So I bend over and push against this stoopid flashing,  whilst be bangs away at the other end with a block and hammer, cursing and carrying on about it not fitting, or some shit like that. 

I wasn’t’ paying attention, because I was too busy wondering if the neighbours on top of the hill a kilometre away could see my knickers.  I was bending over so much, that I’m sure my leggings were stretched to within an inch of their life across my big arse, to the point where they were translucent.  I was wondering what coloured knickers I was wearing, when Charlie said that he had fixed the flashing.

‘Thank fuck,’ I said and stood up, straightening myself. 

That’s when I looked around, and I couldn’t believe what I saw. 

The garden and property from up here looked absolutely amazing!  Seeing things from on high certainly gives a different perspective to things, I’ll tell you that.

Everything seemed… surreal.  I could see the beauty in our colourful gardens and paddocks full of dry feed… I could see the cows grazing in the back paddock, and the water in the massive dam we have… I could even see the road ½ a click away. 

‘Charlie… go get me my phone so I can take some photos…’

‘Go get it yourself.’

‘I’m not fucken getting back up here as long as I goddam live.  Go get my phone…’

‘You will be coming back up here, because I have another flashing to put in.’

‘Go fuck yourself!  I’m not getting back up here again!  Get my phone!’

‘I need your help again in about half an hour, sweetie.  So bring your phone up with you next time.’

‘Which part of I’m never coming up here again do you not understand?’

Charlie just looked at me. 

‘Get me off this fucken roof!’  I followed him back across to the roof to the ladder, making sure I stepped in the right spots so I didn’t end up breaking something (including myself), and he was down the ladders as quickly as I could blink.

‘Don’t leave me up here!’

‘I’m just holding the ladder for you, woman?’  The ladder was folded in like an ‘A’, and I bent over and gripped the top, but just couldn’t move my leg across to step onto it.  I seemed so unstable and I was so frightened of falling.  I was literally frozen to the spot. 

I stood up again and said ‘I’m too scared, Charlie.’

‘Hang on a sec…’ he said, and started pulling the ladder apart, and opening it out to it’s full length.  He leant it up against the roof, and held the base for me.  ‘There you go, that will be easier.’

He was right.  The ladder was extended up to above my head now, and I just stepped onto it, and very carefully climbed down, with young Charlie saying ‘three more steps… two more steps…’ as I climbed down with him securely behind me.

‘See, there you go.  No problems.’ He said, and wandered off to the shed, leaving me standing there shaking for about five minutes until I calmed the fuck down.  ‘You still here?’ he asked when he returned.  ‘What to come up again?’

‘Go fuck yourself!’ I barked, and stomped off toward the back door.

‘I’ll need your help again-‘

‘You listen real good, Charlie-Albert Buttler.’ I stopped and turned to him.  ‘There ain’t no way in hell I’m getting up there again, so you better make sure that second flashing fits, or else you’re fucked.’

‘But sweetie…’ was all I heard before I slammed the back door.

Would you believe he actually fixed the second flashing without my help?  The flashing itself possibly overheard our conversation, and decided it would just simply cooperate. 

As a result, I have no awesome photo’s of my property from up on high, nor will I have any, because that roof can go and get fucked.

And so can Charlie-Albert for scaring the shit out of me.

Peace out.

ROAD TRIP!

For only the second time in ten years, Charlie-Albert and I are going on a holiday on our own.

We’re goin’ on a road trip.

And where is the lucky place we’re heading to?  Canberra.  Yeah.

Charlie and I are so cool, aren’t we?

I haven’t been on a road trip since….the last time.  I can’t remember when, but I do know, that it’s been many years since I’ve had to drive that far.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before (possibly have), but I hate driving.  I hate it with a passion.  Living in bumfuck nowhere means that I have to drive a distance to get to anything decent, and it shits me.

Yes, I know I could move, but I love the serenity of living out here.  So I’ll quit my bitching and get over myself.

Considering this, the idea driving to Canberra for a holiday makes me want to punch someone in the nuts.  However, if we flew up there, we would need a damn car to hoon around anyway, so we may as well take ours and I can just harden the fuck up.

So: a road trip.

The concept set me to thinking what I would need to take with me to survive not only eight to nine hours in a confined space, but eight to nine hours in a confined space with my husband.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I do love my Charlie-Albert dearly.  He is my precious; but the thought of having to travel so far in a car with him, when there is no escape, sees me curling up in the corner of the room, trying to find a happy space as I gently rock back and forth.

As I don’t drink (sometimes I curse that), I’ll not be in the pleasurable position of downing frothy after frothy until I fall into a comfortable state of numbness.

The painkillers I have here, although being most suitable for to the control of pain (which is what this trip in the car will be akin to), could also leave me a blithering mess that just needs to sleep, which not a good road trip will make.

So, I have to hit this 100% sober.  Yay. 

I would imagine that most people that venture out on a road trip, will plan their trip ahead, and mark out places that they can stop along the way, to break up the drive.

I intend to do this, but instead of mapping out roadhouses or petrol stations along the way, I will be mapping out public toilets. 

You know where I stand on the public toilet thing.

Not only will I be mapping out toilets, I will be rating them on what I think their standard will be, according to their locations and what they are associated with.  This will determine whether they are ‘stop worthy’, or not.

For example; if the toilets are attached to a service station that’s associated with a McDonalds, we’ll be stopping there.  McDonalds toilets are nice and clean, and have okay toilet paper.

If it’s just a public toilet at a truck stop; forget it.  However, if I’m desperate, I’ll be using my hand sanitiser and my own toilet paper. 

This got me to thinking about what I will need to take with me, to survive my road trip. 

Forget about my clothes, shoes, toiletries, etc.  No; I need to think about the things I will need to take in the car with me, just for the drive.  So, here is the list I’ve come up with (so far!):

• Toilet paper (four ply that I buy from Coles or Aldi – nothing less will do)
• Hand sanitiser.  Apparently, I can buy this in a spray form now (so one of my peeps tells me).  I shall have to hunt this down before I go.  In the interim, my normal little bottle will do.
• Extra hand sanitiser.  Just in case I run out between here and Canberra.
• Chocolate.  Everyone needs a little comfort.
• Crisps.  With lots of salt.  Yeah.
• More chocolate, to balance out the salty chips.
• Fruit.  To counter-balance the negativity of the crisps and chocolate.
• Water.  I like to keep on top of my two to three litres a day, because I dehydrate like a white man in the desert.
• Coke.  That shit’s for Charlie.
• A shovel.  Just in case I’m desperate and the toilets we stop at are scary.  I can use the shovel to either defend myself, or to dig a hole to pee/poop in. 
• Ipod.  This has multiple purposes.  Firstly, I will provide great entertainment.  Secondly, I won’t have to talk to Charlie.  Thirdly, it will drown out his incessant winging about having to drive so far, and me telling him ‘I told you we should have flown.’

Now will be taking my Kobo (e-reader), but unfortunately, as I suffer motion sickness, the last thing I can do in the car is read.  So I have eight to nine hours of listening to music, ignoring Charlie, and staring at the fucken scenery.  Yay.

So, that’s about it so far.  I think they are the items I will need to survive this drive.  Though, I do believe that from the experiences I gain along the way to Canberra, this list will expand for the return trip.

If you have any suggestions, please let me know.  I think I’ll need all the help I can get.

Peace out.

UP, UP & AWAY!

So it’s Boxing Day, and Jade’s off to Queensland to visit her mother (Satan) for four weeks.

As sad as Charlie is to have to put her on a plane and send her to hell, he (and I) are also thankful for a little respite.

Jade can be quite the challenge.  She is a teenage drama queen, after all.

So her flight was at 10.00am this morning, and considering the potential Boxing Day madness at the airport, we left a little earlier than normal today.

There is also the issue of her airline ticket as well.

You see, her mother, in all of her wisdom, could not get a ‘child’ ticket for the time and date she wanted, so she booked an adult ticket instead. 

Now, call me stupid if you want, but I’m thinking that they have ‘adult’ and ‘child’ tickets for a reason, right?  To me, it’s so that when you rock up to check in and travel, that Qantas can clearly see that the person travelling is the person who the ticket is for.

What are Qantas going to say when we rock up with a child who needs to travel on an adult’s ticket?  Jade has no photo ID, because in her typical Gen Y fashion, she has her student ID.  Well done champ.  How are we gonna prove who you are?

So we get to the airport, and I realise that it’s been a while since I stepped into the Qantas terminal; it’s all changed.  Now, they have these check-in kiosk thingies, that you just check yourself in with.  It spits out your bag tag, and then you dump the tag on the conveyor belt, and off you go.

However, there seem to be so many Qantas staff running around helping people that I wonder if it would’ve been easier to still have the old check in counters with a human behind them.  You wonder if technology is really any better sometimes.

The bonus here, is that this change to Qantas’ check in routine enables Jade to check in without a single person looking her ticket.  Charlie or I could have flown on her ticket, and no one would have known. 

Hello terrorists?  If you’re reading this, the door is wide open for you.

So, as we’re walking to the terminal, Charlie and I lag back a bit, whilst Jade flounces ahead of us.  She’s wearing Daisy Duke’s that are painted on, and high heel platform shoes.  She’s more make up on than a Napoleon Perdis make-up artist, and is about bouncing out of her top.

I feel old watching her.  

She thinks she looks totally amazing, and Charlie and I think she looks like Traci Lord, as she struts her junk through the Qantas departure lounge.  I can see all the women looking at her thinking ‘slut’, and the men looking thinking ‘jail bait’.  *sigh*

When we left home, I said ‘Did you have the beauty machine set to ‘whore’ today love, because fuck me…’  She didn’t appreciate it, as you could imagine, and the pronounced that I didn’t understand her fashion sense.

I understand the way she’s dressed.  I don’t think she really does…

So, I figure that society is gonna take care o’ that for me, and she’ll learn soon enough what’s appropriate, and what’s not.  Charlie and I telling her means nothing, so why waste out time.  She’ll learn the hard way, as she always does.

So, it’s time for her to fly, and she gives us both a kiss goodbye, and waves happily (like the beautiful child she is) as she strides into the gangway leading to the plane, and on to another adventure.

Four weeks of fun, neglect and no discipline for her.

For weeks of fun, neglect and no discipline for us.

Whom will get into more trouble, I wonder?

Boo-ya.

IT'S CHRISTMAS, FOR GOD'S SAKE!

You know what’s driving me insane at the moment?

All this bullshit about political correctness at Christmas time.  It’s Christmas, for God’s sake, not fucking ‘holidays’.

This country is based on Christianity (whether you follow it or not), and the majority should not be made to cater to the extreme minority that do not celebrate this religious event.

I banged on in a previous blog about the behaviour of the minority punishing the majority, and this is another perfect example.

We are also not AMERICA.  They say holidays; Aussies say Christmas.

Our children are raised to believe in Santa Clause, sing Christmas carols, give Christmas presents and cards, go to Christmas dinner and attend Christmas mass (if that rocks your boat).

It is not swept under the rug like a dirty secret that we’re ashamed of.  It should not be modified to cater to the inconsiderate feelings of a few. 

Even the most scroogy people out there, that really hate Christmas and the bastardising commercialism of it, would agree that it shouldn’t be ‘edited’ in the name of political and religious correctness.

If you don’t like Christmas, if you don’t believe it in, then too bad!  We celebrate Christmas in this country! It’s a part of who we are! 

Getting up at the crack of dawn to open presents; sharing ham, turkey and all the trimmings at lunch time; devouring plum pudding and custard; playing back yard cricket; having a bbq at the beach; sharing the odd frothy, and watching the Chanel 9 Carols by Candlelight on Christmas Eve, then again whilst we’re having lunch on Christmas Day; it’s a part of Australian life, and shouldn’t be changed.

Going to the kids end of year Christmas concert, and watching them make an absolutely monstrous hash of traditional carols, is the best part of the festive season.  Not this modified, muted politically correct, non-offensive crap that they’re made do in some schools today.

I WANT TO HEAR CHILDREN SINGING ‘WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS!’ NOT ‘WE WISH YOU HAPPY FUCKEN HOLIDAYS!’  What the hell is that?  That’s not Christmas: that’s insane!

It’s wrong!

You see, there are two issues at play here.  The first one, are the ‘well intended’.  The ones that decide, without complain or instigation from anyone other than themselves, to change things to accommodate everyone.  ‘We must try to please everybody.’

For example, the Montessori school that decided not to celebrate Christmas, for fear of offending the wide diversion of religious faiths they had attending the school. 

Here’s a news flash for you: if people are considering your school as a place to send their children, and your Christmas celebrations are of concern to them, they have a choice.  They don’t have to send their children to your school.  If they do, then they endure the Christmas shebang without complaint.

Don’t make assumptions and changes on what you fear, because yet again, the majority of innocent people suffer because of it.  It’s not fair to make the kidlets miss out on Christmas at school because of something that they simply don’t understand.

The second one, is the cultural minorities that come to this country, settle into our communities, and decide that they’re not happy with the way life rolls over here.  They don’t like Christmas, because it clashes with their own beliefs, so they complain to whoever will listen about it.  As such, we have people stumbling around trying to accommodate them, instead of saying ‘have a mug of concrete, and deal with it.’

I’m over this political correctness bullshit!  Leave Christmas alone, I say to you!  Stop making the kids miss out because of things you fear!  Stop making everyone else miss out!

Australia means Christmas celebrations of an awesome nature.  Tinsel-bombed trees, fairy lights that you have to take a second mortgage on the house to pay the power bill for, people wearing tinsel in their hair, antler headbands (I want a pair), Christmas t-shirts and little Christmas earrings, Carols by Candlelight in the local park, shortbread, gingerbread houses, mince tarts and Christmas puds. 

Good times with your family and friends.

If you don’t like it; deal.  It’s part of who we Aussies are, and we’re not going to change it.

That is all.

Peace out.

THE COURTESY CAR: PART II

So, I return my hot little courtesy car to the dealership last night, and stroll into the service area to collect my own.

I’m a little sheepish after this morning’s… incident, which upon reflection, was only ten minutes of my life, but certainly illuminating, none the less.

As I walk in, I notice that Barbie’s not there, and although she is the world’s worst ‘receptionist’, I hope she didn’t get into too much trouble.

Ok.  I don’t give a crap; let’s be honest.

So I’m greeting by a couple of new faces; two blokes I’ve not seen before, but that don’t mean anything.  There are like a billion people working at this place.

They’re really polite and professional, and I’m feeling good as I hand the courtesy car keys back.

‘What name was it under?’ one of them asks nicely.

‘Buttler.’

‘Ahh yes… the i30.’ He grabs the paperwork, and explains what he’s done for me, like he’s actually done it himself.  Naturally, I pay absolute attention to everything he says (in reality, I’m trying not to fall asleep… car car car… zzzzz).  He looks to clean to have been working on my wheels.  ‘So that’s $350.00, thank you.’

What?  ‘$350.00?  I was quoted $250.00.’  You’ve got to be kidding me?  My heart starts racing! Oh no! I’ve miraculously worked $250.00 into my Christmas budget for this friggin’ service, and its $350.00?  What the hell extra have they done to my car? Why didn’t they ring me and tell me?  What’s worse: I don’t have $350.00 in my eftpos account!!  Did I misunderstand the figure they quote me?  Surely not? What the hell? Panick envelopes me.

‘$250.00?  Who quoted you that?’

‘The dude that booked my car in for the service.’  This dude has a lot to answer for, let me tell you.  ‘I checked the price before I booked it in, because I had to budget for it at this time of year….’  Oh dear God, what am I going to do?!

‘When did you book your car in?’

 ‘Oh… it would have been early December.  Maybe the first week of December?  I know I gave myself three weeks, because I needed a courtesy car, so it would have been early December.’

‘Ahhh… that explains it!’ he smiled.  ‘We’ve had a price increase since then.’

Oh great.  Now I’m out another $100 a didn’t budget for, and I don’t know how I’m going to pay for my service… what the fuck am I going to do? I’m standing there, trying not to show the screaming panic going on inside me, then it dawns on me; I was quoted $250.  I’m not paying any more than that.  No way!

‘That’s a big price increase, from $250 to $350...’ I say in an attempt to calm my panic.

‘It is, and that’s because the service schedules have been changed around.  We change the spark plugs in this service now…’ and the rest of what he said was blurred out because it was car stuff, and instead of panicking, I was trying not to fall asleep.

‘So what I can do for you is reduce this service down to the $250 you were quoted originally, when you booked your car in.’

You fucken legend.  ‘Thank you so much.  I appreciate that, because I was not prepared for an extra $100 at this time of year.’

‘No,’ he laughs.  ‘It’s certainly an expensive time of year…’ he clacks away at the computer, reprints the invoice and takes my hard earned.

I was still so inwardly rattled, that even though I knew my eftpos account had sufficient funds to cover the service, I was panicking that it would decline.  Ever done that?  You know there is money there, but you’re frightened that someone has stolen your identity and money in the moments it’s taken you to pull your card from your purse? 

I find myself handing my card over to pay for something, then trying to look calm and casual, when all I want to do is stare at the little eftpos machine, ready to punch it in the nuts if it declines.

So, I head off home in my freshly serviced baby, reflecting upon what an interesting day it’s been.  One drama after the other, but in the end, it all worked out okay.

I wonder how Barbie’s going?

Peace out.

THE COURTESY CAR

So, I dropped my car into the dealer this morning for its 45,000km service.  Forget that I’m sitting in the 50,000’s somewhere; Charlie and I are going to Canberra early in the new year, and I want my wheels in tip-top condition for the road trip.

Now, I dread taking my car into this dealership, because every time I do, I have to face two things that piss me off. 

Firstly, there are several people that work the service department front desk at the dealership, but I always seem to cop the same chick.  She is so rude and abrupt, that I’m left to assume that she is either married to or fucking one of the big bosses there, because I simply cannot understand why they keep her employed.

From this point on, we shall refer to her as…. Barbie.  Fitting name, really, considering she’s blonde, plastic, and inflexible, but providing someone out there with hours of entertainment.

The second load of crap I have to endure, is that they stuff up my courtesy car booking every time.

So as I walked through the glass doors of the service department this morning, I steel myself, as there behind the counter, is Barbie.

Fucken great.

I walk up to the counter, and Barbie is on the phone to someone, and in true form, she maintains her high standard of customer service, and completely ignores me. 

When I was in business college (about three hundred years ago), I was taught to acknowledge someone’s presence, even if you were not in a position to be able to speak to them.  Clearly, Barbie was not a graduate of the Dandenong Ladies Business College, as was I.  Pfftt.

So she finishes her call, turns straight to her computer, and starts impersonating David Helfgott; bashing away at her keys.  Still no acknowledgement.

‘Any time you’re ready, love.’ I say, and she turns to look at me. ‘Please…’ I hold up my hand.  ‘I would hate to interrupt you whilst you’re doing your job…’ that one flew over her head, hit the back wall, and smashed into a million pieces.

‘Is there anything I can help you with?’ she says with quite an effort.

No.  I’m just standing in the service department of a car dealership because I fucking feel like it!  ‘My car is booked in for a service.  Can you help me with that, or do I need to speak to someone that actually works here?’  Again, back wall.

‘I work here.’ She blinks at me, and turns her attention to something on her desk that I can’t see.  ‘What name is it booked under?’

‘Buttler.  Buttler with two tees.’

She seems to be scanning down some kind of list.  ‘Lee?’

You’re kidding, right?  How many fucken Buttlers with two tees do you have on your list? ‘Yep.  That’s me.’  I said, dumping my keys on the counter.

‘You’re in for a forty-five thousand service?’

‘Yep.’

‘What’s the reading of the odometer at the moment?’

‘Somewhere in the fifties.’

‘Oh,’ she looks over the top of her glasses at me.  Clearly, these glasses are designed to give the illusion of intelligence. I know better.  They failed. ‘You’re quite over, aren’t you?  You know; it’s not good to go so high over your service.’

‘Oh!’ I laugh.  ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t realise you were a mechanic…’

‘I’m not…’ she blinks.

‘Really?  Well let’s leave the mechanical stuff to them then, shall we, and you can give me my courtesy car so I can be on my way.’

She blinks a couple of times, then turns her attention to what I assume is another list that yet again, I cannot see.  ‘What name was the courtesy car booked under?’

Whose fucking name do you think it would be booked under? For a fleeting second, I seriously consider giving her a false name, but knowing my luck, she would start looking for it.  ‘Buttler?  Buttler with two tees?’

‘There’s nothing here on the list for Buttler.  Could it be under any other name?’

‘Why would it be?  I’m the one that needs the car.’

‘It’s just not here...’ she frowns.  ‘Looks like we have a problem…’

‘Correction; you have a problem.  I’m all good.’

‘Well, there’s no booking here for you, so you’ll just have to wait in the courtesy lounge for the service to be completed.  The service lounge is just around the corner to your right…’

‘I don’t think so, champ.’  She just blinks at me.  ‘I booked this service in three weeks ago to secure a courtesy car.  I expect one.’

‘But we don’t have one booked for you.  Who took the booking?’

‘Same guy that booked my car in for a service.  I was pretty specific about the courtesy car, as this is not the first time this has happened.’

‘Oh… well, it’s not here, so I can’t help you.’ She sits back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest.  Here we fucken go.

‘Wrong answer, love.’ I sigh.  ‘I’m now starting to believe that there is some kind of conspiracy going on at this dealership, because the last three times I’ve booked my car in for a service, I’ve had this exact same problem.’  I explain.  ‘I book it in, and you conveniently don’t have it on your list.  Every time.’

‘Well…. I can’t explain that…’

‘No, I’m sure you can’t.’ you fucken light bulb.  ‘I need a car to get to work.  The end.  Please organise a vehicle for me.’

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.  You’ll have to wait.’  She says firmly. 

Really?  Mmmm… ‘Is that your final answer?’

‘That’s the only answer I can give you.’ She says, a little unsure now.

‘Fair enough.  Get the manager.’

‘Why?’

‘Because clearly, you can’t help me anymore, and I need to speak to someone that can actually fix this problem, and not just shove it aside.’

‘The manager won’t be able to over ride what I’ve told you…’

‘Why?  Are you in a higher position than he is?’

‘Well… no…’

‘Then get the manager.’

‘He won’t be able to fix this….’

I sigh heavily in an attempt to calm my boiling blood.  ‘The last thing you need, is for me to go in there’ I point to the showroom ‘and ask for the General Manager, because if that happens, the shit’s gonna hit the fan. Please don’t make me ask again.’

Barbie looks at me, sizes me up, and stands so abruptly, that her chair goes flying across the space behind her, and slams into the filing cabinet.  She turns and walks out of the reception area, and I hope, in search of the Manager.

This is gonna get interesting…

‘What seems to be the problem, Mrs Buttler?’ the manager says through a forced smile as he strides into the service area.  Barbie had magically vanished… possibly sooking out the back there somewhere… whateva…

‘Well, I don’t really have a problem, champ; you do. Once again, it would appear that a courtesy car has not been organised for me.’

‘Did you book one in when you booked in your service?’ he asked, flipping through, what I assume, were the bookings.

‘Of course I did.’ I sighed.  I’m over this now.  ‘You see, this is not the first time this has happened, so I have had plenty of practice remembering to book the courtesy car.’ He looked at me, perplexed.  ‘Once I can forgive; but this is the third time you have hot organised a courtesy car for me.’

‘Three times?’

‘You clearly don’t recall a conversation I had with you several months ago about this very issue, do you?’

‘Ahh… no…’

‘Of course not.  You speak to hundreds of people a week, why would you remember me?’ I rolled my eyes, momentarily becoming a teenage drama queen.  Jade would be proud. 

‘When I booked my car in for its first service, I was told I couldn’t have a courtesy car because I’d left my booking too late, so I booked it in to a dealership closer to work so one of the boys could pick me up.  The whole reason for me buying a car from this dealership, apart from the price, was so I could get it serviced when I came down to work.  I live in the country, and this dealership is on the way into the city, and I can drop my car off and take a courtesy car in to work.

Anyway, when I called back to cancel the service I had booked with this dealership, you answered the phone’ and I pointed at him ‘and asked me why I was cancelling the service.  We had a lovely little discussion about it, and you assured me that I would always have a courtesy car, as I come in here so often.  All you asked is that I give you at least two weeks’ notice when booking my service.

Now, I have kept my end of the bargain.  You have not kept yours.’

‘What I can do for you is organise a demo car for you to take.  How does that sound?’ he smiled happily.

‘Fantastic!’ I said sarcastically.  ‘As long as it’s an auto, I don’t give a crap, mate.  Just get me a car so I can get the hell out of here.  I’ve already wasted enough time, and I’m gunna be late for work.’

‘Fair enough.  I’ll be back in a moment...’

‘No worries, champ.  I’ll be here.’

He came back a few minutes late with a set of keys, and we went through all of the paperwork bullshit that goes along with taking a courtesy car these days.  It’s like I’m gonna do a runner with their car.  Newflash: you have mine, fool!

‘I would also suggest that you have a chat to your receptionist,’

‘Why?’

‘Because she was nothing short of rude from the moment I walked in, and like the damn courtesy car, it’s not the first time I’ve copped her attitude.’

A smirk flittered across his face for just a moment, and I got the distinct impression that it wasn’t the first time he’d had this complaint.  ‘Shall do.  I apologise if she has upset you in any way.  Please don’t let your opinion of her reflect upon the dealership.  We do strive to provide good customer service…’

‘Get rid of her, and you will achieve it quite easily.  If she’d handled the situation more professionally, you and I wouldn’t be having this discussion.’

‘Fair enough.’

So I took my little red hatchback, and hammered the crap out of it all the way to work.  Drove it like it was fucken stolen. 

That’ll teach ‘em.

I wonder if Barbie will be there when I go to pick up the car?

Peace out.

THE THINGS THAT SHIT ME ABOUT CHRISTMAS

Tis the season to be jolly.

Pffft.

I’m over Christmas already, and it hasn’t even started yet.  I’m had it hammered into my head for months now, on television and in the stores.  Sale after sale, decoration after decoration, and slowly, slowly, the crowds in the shopping centres are getting bigger and bigger.

I was smart this year.  Well, I think so anyway.  You see, I started my Christmas shopping in July, and have been buying on line for months, spreading out the ridiculous cost of everything, and stashing away my goodies in an attempt to avoid the nightmare Christmas crowds.

However, as I find myself inevitably forced to face the crowds for gifts I can’t buy online, some things have become glaringly obvious to me.

Decorations

Just after grand final day.  That’s when I saw the first Christmas decorations appear in the stores.  One of my friends posted a picture of a Christmas tree on Facebook around this time, as she was as horrified as I was. 

Please explain to me why stores put these decorations up so soon?  Surely, having to put up with all of the bullshit through the month of December is bad enough, but having to endure the torture for a full three months is enough to force me out of shopping centres, and online.

This is why retailers are struggling this year: it’s the suffocating displays of tinsel.

I’m tipping that on the 27^th of January 2012 (day after Australia day) we will see Easter stuff in the stores. Just you wait and see…

Christmas Paraphernalia

I think plum puddings, Christmas cake, gingerbread houses and trees, white Christmas, truffles and my kryptonite: mince tarts; should be available all year round.  I love this stuff; it’s awesome.  It should be in the stores all the time so I’m not forced to have to make it. 

However, in saying that, I dare say all of this good stuff is compensation for the fucken crap we have to endure through the festive season.

The decorations you can buy these days (I sound like an old woman) are absolutely beautiful.  It’s such an effort to put everything up, that it’s a shame to take them all down.  In fact, some people don’t.  How many of you have fairy lights that have been up for like the last ten years?

I love this shit.  It should stay up and make pretty all year, I say to you.

Shopping

Shopping annoys me at the best of times, unless of course it’s grocery shopping or shopping in cookware supply places, like House or The General Trader.  Anything else I don’t really give a shit about.

Unless it’s chocolate.

So having to deal with the great unwashed whilst I’m shopping is horrifying. My little bottle of hand sanitiser gets hammered, let me tell you.   I would rather be stripped naked, tied up and dragged across a field of broken glass than have to deal with the shopping crowds during the Christmas period.

The whole experience seems to bring out a different aspect to our simplistic human nature.  A vicious, violent and selfish side, as we desperately dive for the last box of chocolates, the last Barbie doll, the last ipod/pad/phone, the last book and the best bargain, all of which we don’t really want to buy, but are forced to by, not only because of our tendency for material satisfaction, but out of sheer desperation for social accolades rated on the awesomeness of said present.

I tire of being rammed with trolleys, shoved and bumped out of the way, pushed in front of in queues, having things taken out of my hands by other shoppers (yes, that has actually happened to me), and being rammed by untethered infants.  Gaaaa….

And don’t even get me started on the car park… OMG… the most passive people become aggressive stunt drivers in a shopping centre car park at Christmas time… sweet Jesus it’s frightening…

Thank god for online shopping.  It’s the sanctuary for the sane and patient.

Excessive Cost/Commercialisation

If some people really tallied the amount of money they justify on Christmas presents, they could save it, escape the whole commercialised circus, and go overseas on holidays for a couple of weeks.

Think about it.  How much money do you spend on Christmas?  You could be sunning yourself on a beach in Bali right now, my friend.  Instead, your awesome holiday is sitting under the tinsel-bombed tree in your living room, wrapped up and tagged with other people’s fucken names on them.

Christmas presents have gotten out of control.  We find ourselves spending more and more on shit that people don’t need.

The other night, Kitty Flannagan said on The Project; ‘Everyone you know has a popcorn maker, and egg poacher, a donut maker and a crock pot.  It’s called a saucepan.  Get into it.’

How much shit to we purchase for the people we love, to show them how much we love them, which we don’t need to do, because for 364 days a year we have already shown them, but we have to purchase them some ridiculous gift to prove it, all out of guilt and in the name of Christmas.

The real meaning of Christmas has been lost in a whirlwind of commercialisation and social niceties and necessities.  I don’t need a present from you to know that you love me.  However if you buy me chocolate, I’m yours.  In every way.

The Crap Gift

This really speaks for itself, doesn’t it?

Now, I don’t expect presents from anyone, though in true hypocritical fashion, appreciate them when they are given.  However, if you are going to spend your hard earned money on me, then buy something that I will use and treasure.

A plastic, singing fish mounted on a piece of wood is not an example of something I will use and treasure. 

If you don’t know what to buy me, then clearly, you don’t know me that well, and I shouldn’t be on your fucken list.  However, if I am fortunate enough to be on your list, then don’t waste your money on a singing fish; just ask me what I want, or buy a voucher so I can go and get what I want. 

And shove your singing fish fair up your clacka.

Public Toilets

You know where I stand on this.  Just know that they’re out of control at Christmas time, and I can’t cope with it.

Again, thank the good Lord for online shopping and hand sanitizer. 

I am waiting for the day that they have spray on hand sanitizer, so that when the great unwashed and their children get within my hoop, I can spray them and the air around me.  Now there’s a present idea…

You Can’t Get Anything Done

You can forget it if you want your plumbing fixed, the gutters repaired, your lawns mowed, your tv connected up, a new wardrobe installed, your car serviced, a doctor, a dentist, anyone medical, or anything that requires a tradesman, because the whole world ceases to exist during the Christmas/New Year period.

Sure, these guys work hard and need a break, but if something of mine is broken (including my body), being the typical, self-centred Gen X that I am, I want it fixed immediately.  I don’t care if you’re on holidays in Bali with your family (because you were smart enough to give them THAT as a Christmas present instead of a heap of plastic fish).  I need you now!

Teenage Oxygen Thieves

Again, I feel this says it all.

I curse school holidays.  Why can’t kids just not go to school all year round?  Seriously?  Surely there is more stuff that they can be taught?

They hang around in groups in shopping centres, on the streets, at cinemas and in stores and take up space and make noise.  They wear no clothes, dirty clothes, ripped clothes, oversized clothes, undersized clothes, clashing patterns; messy, bleached, dirty, sticky-upy hair, and make up applied with a trowel (boys included).

And they smell.  Not just the ‘I haven’t showered for a week because I’m on school holidays and don’t have to’ smell; they smell of twenty cans of impulse each, chewing gum, V, smoke and attitude.

Ggaaa….

People That Complain About Over Indulging

Here’s a thought: don’t.

Don’t complain.  There are people fucken starving in the world, and you’re complaining about having too much ham to eat?  Fucken get over yourself.  We’re lucky to have that shit, and I tell you, at the cost of about fifty thousand dollars a kilo for ham now, we are fucken lucky to have it.

Sure, we have to mortgage the house to get it (and again, to accommodate the social expectations that the festive season demands) but we get it just the same.  Then we glaze it, gorge on it, enjoy it and complain about it.

Just a side note: seafood is not Christmas fare.

People say they put on weight over the Christmas period.  I don’t, but yet again, I’m a heifer anyway, so I wouldn’t notice a couple of extra kilo’s.  That’s a good crap for me.

The food we eat isn’t that bad, and it’s only for like a couple of days anyway.  We have 362-3 days to recover from it and torture ourselves at the gym and with every other morsel of food we put in our mouths anyway.  What’s the problem?

As for alcohol?  Well, if you’re going to drink yourselves under the table to celebrate, firstly: go hard, and secondly, suck it up princess.  You indulge, you suffer.  Follow up your booze with a mug of concrete, and harden the fuck up.

People That LOVE Christmas

Gaaa….

Family Gatherings

This is always interesting. 

Getting a whole heap of family together to ‘celebrate’ Christmas, when ordinarily, you wouldn’t socialise with one another in a pink fit.  In fact, some of you hate each other, back stab each other, criticise each other’s work/parenting/partner/clothes/hair/car/house, and so on.  Not only are you forced to spend time together in the name of Christmas, but you’re forced to buy one another presents.  Hahahhaa…

God love Kris Kringle, I say.

Aside from the stress of present buying and organising the annual Christmas meal, the family gathering is the single most stressful part of the festive season, which is sad, as it should be the most joyous.

However, some of you have fucken nutters for family members, so have a ball with that.

All in all, most of us see Christmas as a joyous celebration spend with family and friends, offering kindness, love and appreciation for the year coming to a close.

For the rest of us, it’s simply a head fuck, and I can’t wait for it to be over.

Merry-fucken-Christmas.