THINGS I SAW WHEN I WENT TO SCUMSHINE SHOPPING CENTRE

So, I went to the bank for work the other day. 

This is a rare event, because my boss usually does it whilst he’s zipping around between projects.  However, sometimes I get to go out and play.

I enjoy going to the bank, because it means going to Sunshine Plaza, and fuck me; that’s an experience in itself.

These are the things I saw whilst walking through Sunshine Plaza (for the entire 7 minutes and 45 seconds I was there.  Yes; I timed it.).

·         A dude in black and green check oversized shorts, black t-shirt and multi-coloured hair, with more piercings and tatts than Tattoo You Magazine, ordering a cream éclair from Donut King. Wtf?

·         Lots of fat chicks in clothes that were simply too tight

·         Lots of skinny chicks in clothes that were simply too revealing

·         Lots of men in clothes they shouldn’t be wearing at all, because clearly; they’d dressed themselves this morning

·         Lots of different nationalities dressed for winter (it’s 27 degrees out)

·         Fat Caucasians in fluro (and not the safety wear type fluro either)

·         Every second chick, not dressed for winter, in scraggly, fluro off the shoulder tops that looked like they needed a good wash an iron.  Clearly, they were on special somewhere in the centre

·         People queued up at the junk food shops in the food court, but no one at the sandwich place

·         Absolutely no one else in the bank… they must be at Centrelink…

·         Quite a few junk stores that had Hello Kitty stuff in the windows or on display tables out the front.  Must have known I was coming… lucky there were no handbags.  I needs me a new ‘steppin-out’ Hello Kitty hand bag…

·         People everywhere were staring at me.  So much so that I touched the front of my jeans to insure that flossy wasn’t flashing, and checked my top to ensure that the girls weren’t on display.  After a while, I figured it’s because I looked clean, wore nice clothing and deodorant

·         A dude walking around in a sheepskin hat.  Again, 27 degrees…

·         A girl pushing a pram with one being dragged along beside her, and one on the way.  She looked sixteen…

·         Lots of goths with blue hair… must have been a special on that colour or something…

·         I bought some donuts for the boys at the office (and myself, of course), and when I produced a $50 note, not only did the chick behind the counter pause, but a hush fell over the entire shopping centre…

On the way back to the car (which was parked fairly close because no one in Sunshine can afford to go shopping), an old tart pushing a trolley stopped me and declared ‘I like ya yella bolero jackit!’  I was so stunned that this filthy, smelly, trackie clad socialite with teeth the Collingwood Football Club would be proud of, knew what a bolero was.  ‘Where’d ya geddit?’

I think she asked where I got it from, so I politely replied ‘City Chic.’

‘Weeez that?’ she barfed.

‘Werribee love.  It’s in Werribee.’

‘Oh…. s’long way to Wezzabee.  Might save me money and go next pension day on tha bus.’

‘You do that love.  I can see you in one of these little numbers.’

‘Yeaheah!’ she agreed, and off she went to fuck knows where, pushing her trolley of groceries along. 

As I watched her go, I had visions of her sitting up the front of the bus, handbag tucked tightly under her arm, clad in her best trackie, steppin-out slippers, and Tweed Ode Parfum.

Fuck me.  7 minutes and 45 seconds people. 

That was enough.

Peace out.

THE DENTIST

*sigh*

Does anyone look forward to going to the dentist?  Really?

When I went a few months ago, I was told I needed two crown caps and two fillings.  Yay.

So, after talking to Medibank Private, and learning that I would be out of pocked $1000 for each (each!) crown, I figured that I would simply tell the dentist that she has to come up with a better plan, or alternatively, when these two teeth shit themselves, I’ll be quite happy for her to pull them out, and eat through a fucken straw.

$1000?  Really?  Wtf?  I can handle two fillings, but I can’t cop $2000 for two teeth.  Fuck me…

Anyway, I had an appointment for my first filling the other day, at 4.15pm in Kilmore.  Strangely, I was looking forward to this appointment, because one of the ‘to be filled’ teeth is getting a little tender, and the other is simply a broken tooth that is scratching at my cheek.

I would like to point out that, even with these issues, I’m still miles ahead of your stock standard Collingwood supporter.

So I rock into the dental clinic at 4.10pm, check myself in at reception, and take a seat to wait my turn.

Now, I know I’ve said this before, but the thing that really shits me about these professional services, is the wait time.  We’re expected to be on time.  We get penalised if we’re late or cancel within 24 fucken hours, but if they’re running behind, it’s somehow acceptable? Like… our time is not as important as theirs, so we can sit there and fucken wait as long as we have to, or we’re back to waiting two months for another appointment…  fucken shits me.

Anyway, I drag out my reliable Kobo and start reading the latest Michael Scott.  I’m distracted by this woman who returns her ‘new client’ paperwork, and runs through a list of her allergies and ailments with the receptionist.  I absently wonder how this woman is still alive with all the shit she has wrong with her…

Then, to my horror, this woman parks her arse beside me, and starts grilling me on the benefits of an e-reader.  Fuck!  Leave me alone!

Thankfully, she’s called for her appointment, and leaves me in peace.

After a while, I pick up my phone and check the time (I’m one of these annoying people that don’t wear a watch): it’s 4.45pm.  I’ve been sitting here for 35 fucken minutes.  My patience starts dissolving, and I make a mental agreement with myself that if I haven’t gotten in there by 5pm, I’m outta there.

Quite frankly, I’m happy reading, but as I continue to do so, I’m distracted by the realisation that if they don’t hurry the fuck up, I’m never getting out of here tonight.

A short while later, a familiar looking face walks through the door behind the reception desk, says goodnight to the ladies, and heads off through the double doors, and into the car park.

It takes me a few moments to realise; that’s my dentist.  That’s Dr Funky (I named her that, because she’s not the stereotypical dentist I’m used to.  She’s pretty groovy).

She’s also just knocked off the for the day.

Now, I’ve only been there once before, and I’ve only met this chick once; but that looked like her… I think.  Her hair is down and she’s casually dressed, so I’m not 100% sure.

Surely, if I’m booked in to see her again, she would know I’m here?  I know I re-scheduled my last appointment… maybe they booked me in with a different dentist?

I shove my Kobo back into my bag, and stroll over to the reception desk.  The receptionist gives me a vague smile, but I can see ‘what the hell are you doing here?’ look flicker across her face.

‘Um… I had a 4.15pm appointment with Dr Funky… and I could have sworn that was her just leaving…’ I explain, pointing toward the door.

A frown creases her brow as she quickly grabs her mouse and starts searching the computer screen for answers.  ‘Your name was…’

‘Buttler.  Buttler with two tee’s.’  Great. They’ve fucked up.

Then, the entire colour suddenly drains from her face.  Yep; she’s fucked up.  Great. I shoot a quick glance at my phone; 4.55pm.  45 minutes lost.

She turns to her co-worker.  ‘Um… can you have a look at this for me?’ she asks, and her buddy rolls over in her chair and looks at the screen.  ‘This lady had a 4.15 appointment with Dr Funky…’

‘But she’s just left…’

‘Exactly.  This lady’s been waiting…’

‘Why is that not flagged on the screen?’ he buddy points, and looks up at me.  ‘Did you check in with reception when you arrived?’

‘Of course I did.’ I snap.  ‘Checked in with you.’

‘Oh.’  The two of them exchange ‘oh fuck’ looks.

I’m not going to bail them out.  I’m not going to say it.  They can say it to me.  They can tell me they’ve fucked up.

‘Look, I’m terribly sorry…’ the first receptionist finally says, ‘but it would appear that you weren’t flagged in our system as here, so we didn’t tell Dr Funky that you were waiting…’

‘Really?’ I snap.  ‘How could that be possible?  Honestly?  I’m mean; I’ve been sitting directly in front of you for the last 45 minutes.  Did the thought what the hell is she doing here not enter your mind at all?  Surely you don’t have people just sitting randomly in your waiting room?’

‘Um… I assumed you were waiting for someone…’ she stumbles, and her friend blushes about four shades of red.

‘Assumption is the mother of all fuck ups, my friend, and this is a perfect example.  You should have checked.’

‘Why didn’t you come to reception sooner?’ her friend asks a little sternly.

‘Why should I?’ I snap.  ‘It’s your job to keep on top of your patients, not mine.  You’ve had quite a few people in and out of this reception area whilst I’ve been here.  I thought you were running behind, as you were the last time I was here, which is why I didn’t approach you.  You should have been keeping better tabs on the patient list, and me.’

Fair point well made, I thought.  The two ladies just died a little more.

‘So, we can stand here all evening and discuss the fact that you have stuffed up, but it doesn’t get my tooth filled, does it?’  They just blinked at me, and looked at the computer screen.  Clearly, there was no one here to treat me. ‘I live in Tooborac.  That’s half an hour from here.  By the time I get home tonight, I will have wasted nearly two hours of my life on a non-existent appointment today, because of you.  I could have been doing far better things than this.’  They both hang their heads.  ‘What are my options now?’

My immediate reaction was to tell them to get fucked, march out the door, and find another dentist to treat me.

Problem is, I get two free check-ups per year from Medibank Private, and I’ve now used them both.  Forgive me for being a tight arse, but if I go to another dentist, they’re going to want to do a check-up before they fill anything.  I’m not lashing $160 because of the inefficiency of these two.

I have to stay here and re-schedule. *sigh*

‘Well, would you like to re-schedule?’

‘Considering I’ve used my free check-ups with Medibank, I feel I have no alternatives at this point, do I?’

‘Um…’ receptionist number one starts scanning through the computer appointments, and I open my phone diary.  ‘We can slot you in next Monday?’ she offers happily. 

‘I can’t do next Monday.’ I sigh.  ‘You don’t any evening appointments, do you?’

‘The latest we do is 4pm.’ she says firmly.

‘Really?  How come I had a 4.15 then?’ Another good point well made. ‘You don’t do Saturdays either, do you?’

‘No.’

‘Great.  It’s gonna have to be a Monday afternoon.’  So the ladies scan through their appointments, discussing it between themselves whilst I impatiently wait.

‘Um…. I can put you in at 2pm on the 19^th of November…?’

‘November? That’s like a month away?’ Oh you’re fucking kidding me?  ‘I need a tooth filled.  What do I do if something happens between now and then?’

‘We would try to get you in on the emergency list.’

‘I suggest you put me on that list now, because I shouldn’t have to wait a month for something that is not my fault, and has inconvenienced me so.’ I say quietly.

‘We’ll put you on the list.  Absolutely.’ She says quickly.  I sigh again, and key the appointment into my diary, wondering how I can get in to see someone sooner. 

‘I’m so terribly, terribly sorry about this situation,’ she says genuinely, and my heart of stone softens.  But only slightly.

‘There’s nothing that can be done now, is there?  Nearly two hours of my life, love.  What would happen if I wasted nearly two hours of Dr Funky’s time?  That’s something you need to address with her, because I certainly will when I come in for my appointment.’

‘Ahh… yes.’ She nods, the colour draining from her face again.  Don’t think I won’t be telling her love.  It’s not good enough…

As I turn and head out the double doors, I can’t help but feel sorry for them.  They seem like nice enough ladies, by why the fuck aren’t they keeping tabs on their patients?  If I was sitting behind that desk, that’s exactly what I would be doing.  But, that’s just me.

As I drive home, I resolve to keep my appointment with them next month, and the first thing out of my mouth, before the dentist shoves all of her instruments into it, will be a complaint about my last appointment, and a question as to how she’s going to compensate me for my lost time.

Wonder how I’ll go with that?

Peace out.

BED TIME

The one thing I have learnt whilst being in a relationship (if you call Charlie constantly annoying the crap out of me, and me wanting to throttle him all the time a relationship), is what ‘going to bed’ actually means.

Now, get your mind out of the gutter, you deviants. 

I don’t mean special-cuddles-going-to-bed.  I mean physically going to bed at the end of the day to sleep.

Our bed-time routines are so strikingly different, that it’s astonishing, and I got to wondering if I was alone… do other husbands do this?  Do other wives do this?  Is it just me?

So, I thought I would share my observations with you.

BED TIME FOR CHARLIE

‘I’m going to bed love.’ He declares, as our DVD finishes.  He stands up, stretches, farts, giggles, gives me a kiss, and off he goes.

He strolls into the ensuite, goes to the bathroom for twenty fucken minutes (what the fuck he does in there, I don’t know), brushes his teeth, turns off the lights and heads into the bedroom.

He changes into his pyjamas, dumping his clothes at the end of the bed, climbs into bed, farts loudly, giggles, and is asleep within twenty seconds.

BED TIME FOR LEE

‘I’ll join you shortly.’ I smile, as I watch him head up the hallway.

I take out the DVD, place it in it’s cover, and replace it on the shelf.  I turn the TV and all it’s associated crap off at the power point, kill the lights, and stroll into the kitchen.

I unload the dish washer, reload it, and put all the clean stuff away.  I quickly wipe down the benches again, check that everything is neat and tidy, turn off the power points that we’re not using, and head into the laundry.

I unload the dryer, fold all of the items onto the bench (deciding that I’ll put them away tomorrow), and have an in-depth conversation about the DVD I just watched with Forrest the cat, who is sitting on the bench watching.

She waits very patiently as I stack the warm towels and clothes, and as I throw an old towel over the top of them, she climbs onto the warm pile, and settles herself in for the night. 

At least she waited until I covered the new clothes.  Bless.

I re-load the dryer, and set the timer to go off after midnight (we have a problem with the timer on the washing machine, so we have to use one of those automated timers that hold the power until the right time clicks over, and off she goes).  I reload the washing machine, and set that off.  I flick the lights, and head off to the study.

I do a quick check of emails and Facebook, commenting on a few things, before shutting down the computer and heading back to the kitchen.

I kill the lights in there, and head off to the bedroom.  Charlie is in bed, snoring, and I wander into the ensuite.  I brush my teeth and go through my nightly beauty routine (cleanse, tone and moisturise!).  I pee, flush, and wash my hands; thinking that doesn’t take twenty-fucking-minutes, and head into the bedroom.

I grab my empty water bottle, return to the ensuite to fill it up, and return to the bedroom again.  I top up my cpap machine with water, and set up the mask.

I wander into the walk-in-robe, select my clothes I’m wearing to gym tomorrow, and curse myself for forgetting my bathers.

Hurry back down to the other end of the fucking house to get my bathers and towel, and return to the bedroom.  I pack my bathers and towel into my gym bag, place the clothes I’m wearing tomorrow on top of it, and push it under the bed a little so I don’t trip over it in the night.

I see Charlie’s clothes at the foot of the bed, where I will trip over them, and kick them as far under the bed as I possibly can.  Teach you to leave them in the middle of the floor.

I strip off (no jimmies for me!), put my mask on, switch the cpap into life, and clamber into bed.

My body sinks into the mattress, and I remember my alarm.  I sit up, change the time, and settle back down again next to my husband, who’s been asleep for about ten minutes now I’d guess.

Fucker.

I lay there for fuck knows how long running through the things I have to do tomorrow, ranging from gym, swimming, groceries, vacuuming, mopping, ironing, washing and gardening, before I start to drift away.

Only to be woken with a start as Charlie farts loudly, and laughs in his sleep.

Finally, I drift away, only to be woken through the night by my insistent bladder.

Yep; going to bed is exactly the same thing for Charlie and I.

Peace out.

PET HATES: PARENTS WITH PRAMS

The ‘Parents with Prams’ car spaces piss me off.

Infact, prams piss me off in general, but I’m going to focus on these fucking car spaces for a moment.

Why to parents with prams need their own special car parks?  I’m sure there are dozens of you out there right now, screaming a million valid reasons why you need one.  But quite frankly; I don’t care.

You don’t need your own car park.  You have a choice.  You are perfectly able bodied; children are not a disability (well… one could argue that).  You are able to get your forty-seven kids out of the car, with all of their prams and crap, and cart them into the shopping centre just fine.

It’s not a disability; it’s a head fuck. 

There’s a big difference.

These fucken ‘Parents with Prams’ car parks are taking up the valuable space that should be allocated to pensioners or disabled people.  They don’t have a choice.  They can’t walk from the far end of the car park to the front doors, like you can. 

They need the car parks, not you.

All this is, is a marketing ploy by the supermarkets/shopping centres to make it easier for the people that spend most of their time at the centres, shopping for the family or buying shit they don’t need to pacify their screaming feral children. 

Pffft.

Nothing shits me more than seeing some Fifi in a Mercedes 4WD pull up in one of these spaces, wearing her designer clothes and silicone tits, unload her perfectly groomed children and expensive, flashing pram, and strut into the shopping centre, whilst the oldies in the car space beside her are struggling to get their walking frame out of the boot.

These spaces should be fucken outlawed.

Peace out.

MAD COW

So, after my blog hiatus, I mentioned that there have been quite a few things going on in my life at the moment, some of which I couldn’t reveal until the time was appropriate.

Well, for one of them, the time is now.

For a long, long time, I’ve been working on an idea.  A simple idea, and one that I believe I would thoroughly enjoy.

I’ve started up my own little business (if you would call it that) selling baked goods at some of the local markets in my region.

I love baking.  Absolutely love it.  Love it more than general cooking, I suppose.  I’m not into the whole cake decorating thing though; that doesn’t really interest me.  I just love baking.  And what I love more, is people enjoying my baking.

There’s nothing like seeing people get excited over the prospect of indulging in something sweet; something seemingly… ‘naughty’. 

It’s just a cake, but people melt when they see them.  A cake is comfort.  A cake is a promise of something tantalisingly delicious and indulgent.  A cake is home.

As a child, I remember a house full of the intoxicating aroma of freshly baked cakes.  Mum, being a member of a busy CWA Branch, would be constantly baking for functions.  Of course, you would always call into Stone Manor, and find a freshly baked cake, slice or biscuits in the cupboard, just waiting to be shared over a cup of tea.

It’s something that I’ve inherited, and most friends would attest to having the cake or biscuit boxes placed on the table in front of them when they’ve called in to a cuppa.

It’s a comfort for me, and fair to say, that my love for baking has definitely come from my mother.

However, in saying that, one thing I have not inherited, is her ability to produce a magnificent sponge.  I produce magnificent Frisbees.  Fucken stupid things. *flips bird at Frisbee sponges*

At least the chickens enjoy my failures.  And there have been a few, and not just fucken sponges either…

So, my need to bake every possibly cake recipe I come across has collided with my desire not to make the rest of my family obese from a solid diet of cake, and the result is a simple cake stall.

And the whole process behind it has been quiet involved, though extremely therapeutic.

Gone are the days of banging out a few cakes, throwing them on a trestle, and selling them to the punters.

Now, food safety standards must be met, permits must be in place, and labelling must be clear.  It’s all about ensuring that you’re getting good quality product prepared in hygienic kitchens, and I like this. 

You know I’m anal about hygiene (refer to my previous toilet blogs).  If you think I’m anal about public toilets, well that’s nothing compared to how anal I am in the kitchen.

Paper towels and bench disinfectant are my best friends, and hand sanitiser is a staple.  No surprise there, really…

It’s interesting that some markets will not let you in now unless you have your permits in place, which is a good thing for the consumer to know.

However, when I was at a market on the weekend, I was horrified to see that a local community group (who shall remain nameless), were running a sausage sizzle, and weren’t using gloves when they handled the food!  I was mortified!

When our CWA Branch does a sizzle at Bunning’s, we’re so anal about gloves and food handling!  We have to be!  It gives the customer comfort that we are operating hygienically.

Though, I don’t know what the difference is between a piece of latex covering your hands, and thoroughly washed and sanitised hands, just quietly.  However, this bit of rubber gives us all comfort, and I was shocked to see it not being used.

Though, the sausages I bought didn't give either my mother or me food poisoning, so I can’t complain.

 

Mad Cow Cakes. 

That’s me.  Fitting name, don’t you think? J  I can see those that know me well laughing at that name…. J

I went live with a Facebook page on Saturday night, after my first market.  Check it out here:

http://www.facebook.com/MadCowCakes

The next day, I was doing my second market for the weekend, a lady said ‘I recognise that name!’ and I instantly thought someone’s stolen my fucken name! Oh no!!

However, she is a friend of a friend of mine (Belinda) on Facebook, and Belinda was good enough to share the link to my Mad Cow page on her Facebook profile.  The lady at the market had seen Belinda’s post on her newsfeed, and remembered it.  When she saw my stall, she instantly recognised the name and the logo.

The page had been live for twelve hours.

A good friend of mine (Jane – the 50 Shades of Crap fan), had driven 100kms to visit me at my first stall, and bought a lumberjack cake (her fave) from me.

Throughout the day, she posted pictures on her Facebook page, the consumption of this cake.  By 7pm that night (I think), it was gone, and her last picture was the empty wrapper on a plate.

The next day, a gentleman came up to the stall, and said ‘I recognise that cake… I’ve seen it on Facebook.  I’m a friend of Jane’s.’

The power of social media.  In business today, you’d be a fool not to use it.

So, my little venture has kicked off to a successful start; by my standards and expectations, anyway.

The only thing I have to do now, is buy a gazebo that’s fucken waterproof (don’t ask) and won’t blow away at a puff of wind.  I spent Saturday getting drenched through this fucken useless canopy, and Sunday having constant, mild heart-attacks (which is seriously not good for me) because I though the fucken kite over my head was going to lift up and blow away.

I had visions of a fat chick, holding an arm load of cakes, running down the main street of a busy country down, chasing a fucken green and white gazebo, whilst a group of freeloading vultures helped themselves to the cakes and slices sitting innocently on my trestle back at the fucken market.

I will be interested to see where this journey takes me.  I’m starting off with two markets a month… who knows where it may lead.

Peace (and yummy cake eating) out.

THAT'S MY CAR!!

‘Good afternoon!’ she smiled happily.  ‘What number love?’

‘Eleven.’ I smile.  Seems like a nice chick.

She looks at me, blinks a couple of times as the smile drops from her face, and turns to look out at the fuel pumps. 

What the fuck? I wonder.

‘That’s not your car.’ She says firmly. At this moment, I mentally call her Big Bertha.

Shit! Did I get the wrong pump number! I panic, turning to look at the pumps myself.  Nope.  There’s my car; parked beside pump number eleven.

‘No… that’s the right pump.  Number eleven.  Sixty dollars and ten cents, or something like that.’

‘No.’ Big Bertha shakes her head.  ‘That ain’t your car.’

What the fuck is this woman on about?  ‘That is my car…’ I insist, brows furrowing.  Hurry the fuck up.  I haven’t got time for this shit.

‘No… that ain’t your car.’

‘Well who’s is it then, love?’ patience gone, hand on hip; shits cracked.  I hear a couple of people in the queue behind me murmuring.  Possibly as annoyed as I now am.

‘You didn’t drive in in that car…’

‘Really?  Well fuck me!  If that car’s not mine, which one is?’

‘Um….’ She looks out at the concourse, scanning the vehicles.  ‘I don’t know…’

‘Well, this may give you a clue…’ I raise my car keys so she can see the black clicker thing, press the unlock button, and the lights on my car flash.  ‘Holy shit!  It would appear that I’ve just unlocked the car!’ I cry.  ‘What a minute….’ I click it again, and the car flashes.  ‘Well, guess I’ve just locked it now! Amazing, considering that’s not my car.’

She just looks blankly at me, and back out to my car again.

‘For Christ’s sake, can I pay for it now?’ I ask, holding out my card and cursing not having cash so I could throw it at her.

She starts waving a finger toward my car.  ‘No… I’ve seen someone else in that car.  They come in here regularly… that’s not your car…’

‘Of for fucks sake!’ a man says from behind me, causing me to jump.  I turn to look and see this big burly dude covered in tattoos and wearing a Monster beanie.  Don’t think I’ll argue with him.  ‘Who gives a fuck whose it is?  She’s put fuel in it, and she’s prepared to pay for it.  Get a fucken move on!’

‘There’s no need to swear.’ Big Bertha barks at us all.

‘Well hurry up then!’ he says crankily.

What the fuck do I say to that?  I hold out my eftpos card again.  ‘I need a tax receipt love.  Let’s get a move on.’

‘But… that’s not your car…’ she’s STILL going.

‘Oh for fucks sake!  I do not understand what the hell the problem is here!  Whose car do you think it is?  Do you think I’ve stolen it?  Clearly I have the keys!  Do you want my fucken licence details?  Do you want to ring Vic Roads, and see if that registration, which is *I rattle off the rego* is linked to my licence?  Do you want to call the coppers?  Whatever you want to do, hurry the fuck up! I simply do not have time for this!’ I bark at Big Bertha. 

At this point, another woman appears from the back room or office or whatever the fuck, a completely puzzled look on her face, and asks what the problem is.  She glances at my face of thunder, and the long queue forming behind me.

‘She won’t let me pay for my fuel!’ I bark.

‘For some stupid reason, she thinks that the car out there doesn’t belong to this woman, and she won’t let her pay!’ the man from earlier pipes up.  ‘For God’s sake, let’s get a move on!’

‘What don’t you think it’s her car?’ the second woman turns to Big Bertha.

‘I didn’t see her drive in in it…’ she replies weakly.

‘I did.’ Another voice from behind me (because EVERYONE is now behind me) says quietly.  We all turn to see this tiny slip of a thing standing behind the tattooed bloke.  ‘I saw her drive in..’  Of course. She was on the bowser beside me filling up as I pulled in.  How come I got in here before she did… I briefly wonder…

The second woman turns back to Big Bertha.  ‘Do you want to call the police?’

‘OH FOR FUCKS SAKE!’ I yell, and the two ladies behind the counter jump in surprise.  ‘WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?’ I wave my card at them.  ‘I DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR THIS, NOR DO THE GOOD PEOPLE BEHIND ME!  GET A FRIGGIN MOVE ON!’

Big Bertha blinks a couple of times, punches a few numbers into the terminal, and points at the eftpos machine. ‘Please insert your card…’ she instructs quietly, and her buddy starts serving the person behind me from the next window.

What the hell….

I watch the eftpos machine, punch in my numbers, and the second it says ‘approved’, I rip my card from the machine, and storm from the shop without a backward glance.  Fucken morons.  What the hell was that all about? I wonder as I stride across the concourse to my car.

I raise my arm, showing Big Bertha my keys, and click the button to unlock it.  I climb in, start her up, and I’m off.  I would screech out of there, tyres smoking and stuff, but knowing my luck, I’d lose control of my car, slam into a bowser, cause it to explode, which in turn, causes a chain reaction that incinerates everything within a one kilometre radius of the servo.  Not cool.

The big bloke with the tattoos is walking out of the shop as I drive past, and gives me a conspiratory nod.  I’m sure he’s none the fucken wiser than I am.

I’m at a complete loss to explain the reasoning behind Big Bertha’s behaviour.

What a fucken ass hat.

Peace out.

SQUIRTS

*sigh*

So, the other weekend, I was so excited to be catching up with my cousin Mez, and the prospect of spending a day shopping and chatting was wonderful.

Mez had told me about a TS+14 factory outlet in Abbotsford, so we made a date to meet down there, and do some shopping and have some lunch.

So, before I leave home, I decide to try out the new tub of Celebrity Slim powdered protein before I go.  I like to have the Celebrity Slim shakes for breakfast sometimes, and when I was shopping for some more the other day, I saw this bulk tub of the powder and thought ‘Self; why not by the tub, cos it will be like totes cheaper than the sachets’.  (I actually do think like that). 

Yeaheah! I’m a fucken genius!

So I make up my shake, jump in the car, and off I go.

Now, cos I have this groovy little iphone holder for my car, I thought I would try out the Google Maps app on it to test how it goes, because I don’t know where the fuck I’m going.

However, it takes me about twenty minutes to learn that this stupid app is only good if you’re in any other seat bar the drivers, because you cannot seriously watch the stupid screen (which always goes black after a few minutes) and the road at the same time.  Plus, I need someone to tell me where to turn and which exit form a roundabout I need to take… I don’t want to have to figure it all out myself.

So I pull over, drag out my old GPS, which is so out of date it gets me lost, but I figure it will be all right going into the city, and set him up to rock n’ roll.

Stupid fucken iphone.

Anyway, I’m cruising along St George’s Road, somewhere near Preston or Fawkner or Northcote or something… I don’t know… and my stomach starts to churn.

Oh sweet Jesus no….

I’ve had nothing other than my slim shake and a banana to eat… surely it wouldn’t be the shake… I have these stupid things all the time and they usually don’t upset my tummy… surely not…

Churn… churn… church… great.  Well, the factory outlet should have a toilet, so I’ll christen that when I get there.

Suddenly, my iphone does what it’s actually meant to, and starts ringing, startling me so much that I nearly evacuate my bowels on the spot.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello honey!’

‘MEZZZA!!!!’

‘Where the fuck are you?’

‘On St George’s Road somewhere..’

‘That means fuck all to me…’

‘Ha!’ Mary’s not at all familiar with this side of the city… ‘I’m about half an hour away.  You said 9.30, right?’

‘Yeah… but it didn’t take me anywhere near as long to get here as I thought.  So I’m here, and they’re already open.’

‘Go in and have a wander around my love.  I shan’t be far away.’

‘No worries love.’

‘Tell me… do they have a toilet there?’

‘No honey.  They’re fucken useless.’

Holy crap.  ‘Okay mate.  I may have to make a pit stop before I get there, but I’ll be there as quickly as I can.

I hang up, pull into the nearest Macca’s (lucky I was driving right past one), and make a discreet dash to the toilet, all the while wondering if I should buy something so I don’t feel so guilty about using their facilities (which were spotlessly clean, by the way.  No hand sanitizer required).

However, after my last rosti wrap experience, I figure I’d be in even more bowel strife if I bought something, so I opt for just bolting out the door.

Fuck me, it must have been the shake.  Maybe it has more lactose in it than the sachets?  All I need now is the squirts… how can I shop all morning with that shit (pardon the pun) going on, and no fucken toilet?

So, I head off again; destination Abbotsford, and I fly along through the outer city suburbs through non-existent traffic.  Fuck, why couldn’t it be like this all the time?

Just as I find the outlet, my stomach starts doing summersaults again.  Oh no… not again? Wtf?

I park the car, stumble into the outlet, and find Mary in one of the isles, arms laden with clothes to try.

Kisses and hugs (as well as you can with 50 million garments in the way), and I ask ‘So they definitely don’t have a toilet here?’

‘No.  But, last time I was here, they let me use theirs; otherwise you had to go to the café up the corner.’

Great.  ‘You go try your goodies on, and I’ll ask if I can use the facilities.’

I wander up to the counter, and politely ask if they have a toilet I can use.  The sales assistant gives me a disapproving look, and says ‘well, we have our private toilets out the back, which I can take you too.  Normally, we shouldn’t do this…’

‘I’m surprised you don’t have toilets here, actually.  With all the shopping tour buses and stuff coming through…’

‘Yeah… I don’t know why they don’t either.’ She agrees, leading me out to the warehouse.  ‘The toilets are just over there.’ she points through the racks, and I wander off.

Now, you know how anal (again, pardon the pun) I am about toilets.  Right at this point in time, she could have pointed to a bucket in the middle of Bourke Street, and I possibly would’ve used it.

Instead, I’m greeted with clean, basic toilets that give me a lot more than simple relief.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m wandering around the clothing racks, when it hits me again.  You have got to be fucken kidding me…

It’s a warm day, I’m uncomfortable, my arse ring is on fire, and need to go again?  This can’t be happening…

I can’t ask them again.  I can’t.  They’ll think I’m fucken mental.

I go to find Mary, who’s still going nuts in the change room.

‘Honey, I’m going to have to go again.  I’ll dash up to the corner café.’

‘No worries honey.  Are you okay?’

‘Not really.  Something’s upset my stomach.  I’ll be back soon.’ I say, and leave her there, happily trying on more clothes.

So, it’s a lovely sunny day in Melbourne, and I’m semi sprinting up the street to a funky looking providor, who I very gingerly ask if she has a toilet I could use.

I get the eye roll, and she reluctantly shows me through to back area of the shop.  I thank her repetitively as she leaves me to evacuate my dignity in this ridiculously oversized toilet that seems to be doubling as a storage room.  Great.  At least it’s clean (and has hand sanitizer).

‘Thank you so much for letting my use your facilities.’ I rave as I walk back into the shop.  ‘You have no idea how appreciative I am.’

She smiles finally. ‘It’s okay.  I completely understand.  We get ladies in from TS all the time, because they have no toilets.’

How the fuck did she know I was from TS?  Is it because I’m a hefalump and TS is for fat chicks?

‘I can’t believe it either.’

‘They get buses there all the time… I don’t know what they do to cater for them?’ she gets all chatty now, leaning against the counter as she speaks.

‘Well, I’ve just driven an hour and a half from the sticks, and I can’t fucken believe it either.’  Which is true.  We crap on together for about another five minutes, before she’s totally in love with me, and I leave her to her work.

I return to the outlet to find Mary sitting on a chair at the counter (she has very unstable legs), waiting for me.

‘How did you go?’ we both ask each other at once, and laugh.

‘I’m okay.’ I said.  ‘But seriously, I’m going to need to go again.’ I can’t believe it.  My stomach just won’t stop churning!  ‘I can’t go back to the café, and I can’t ask TS again…’

The shop assistant joins us, and is about to ring up Mary’s clothes, when Mary asks ‘Can my cousin use your toilets again… she’s not feeling very well…’  Good on ya, Mez.

I blush furiously as the shop assistant gives me a look from head to toe, and turns to the other sales assistant.  ‘Can this lady use the toilets… again.’  The sales assistant that looked after me the first time, gives me the ‘again?’ look, and I die a thousand deaths as my stomach churns even more.

Dear God; kill me now.

‘Sure.’ She sighs, and leads me out the back again.  This time, she waits with me, because clearly, I’m going to steal everything from their fucken storeroom. 

So imagine this.  I’ve got the runs, and I’m sitting in a staff toilet in the middle of a warehouse, behind a factory outlet in Abbotsford, trying not to die of embarrassment, and evacuate my bowels as quietly as possible, which is impossible, whilst a sales assistant stands near the toilets waiting for me.

My day just couldn’t get any better.

As I emerge from the toilets, I find the sales assistant standing quite a distance away from the toilets, near the entrance to the outlet.  Thanks for not standing right outside the door where you could hear every farty noise my arse was making.  Dear God…

I thank her profusely, and suddenly, she becomes quite concerned.  I explain that I think my breakfast has simply upset my stomach as we walk back into the outlet.

I find Mary at the counter waiting for me.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Shithouse.  Pardon the pun.’ I smile.  ‘You know what?  I need to go somewhere, have a cuppa and some panadol, and chill out.’ I declare.  ‘I need to settle my stomach down, because I want to have a wander around the racks here, but I can’t with my tummy churning so much.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’ Mary smiles.  ‘Where shall we go?’

‘Well, there is a coffee shop up the corner, or we can find a Macca’s on Nicholson Street.  They will have toilets and we can have a cuppa there too.’

Ten minutes later, we’re pulling up in front of a small Macca’s on Nicholson Street, which is attached to a Caltex servo.  I buy some panadol (great binder if you have the runs) and we sit down to a nice relaxing cuppa in Maccas.

It takes about half an hour for the panadol and the tea to take effect, and an hour later, Mary and I are back at TS14+ trying on more clothes and having a great time, my squirty adventures of the morning becoming a distant (embarrassing and inconvenient) memory.

I swear, when I’m elderly, that I’ll be one of those annoying old biddy’s in the nursing home that shits herself all the time, because she has no control of her bowels and can’t stomach anything that she’s fed.

I guess I can take comfort in the knowledge that experiencing this will be great revenge on the fucken dumbarse Gen Yer’s that will have to look after me.  Suckers.

As for my Celebrity Slim shake?  I think I may just water it down a touch…

Peace out.