I'm finally exporting this piece of drudgery that is my group's Doco (although it is looking a lot better than originally forecasted) after toiling away in the plastic and steel blindly fluorescent-lit basement of Swinburne Prahran for most of my waking hours for the past week and a half. I feel like the lighting here is slowly chipping away at the edges of my now-brittle brain and leaking into my perception of reality and what real sunlight must look like.
I've been told that I have a talent for introspection and being that my waking life has been completely consumed by this project for the past few weeks, I've had little time for it or anything else that would maintain my mental stability. Things have been all over the place, so much so that with my leg dragging me down, literally and metaphorically, I've been finding comfort in things, places and people that aren't part of the 'old and comfortable' or 'tried and tested' category. If I stop all this linguistic wankery and rhetoric then it'd probably be clearer- I'm happier with people I don't know well, in places I don't normally frequent. It just seems to be a sad thing to be the regular who's now injured rather than the new person who's getting better. It's like if Rear Windows followed the exciting life of LB Jefferies before he ended up in agonizing plaster-trapped boredom.
I almost bought an SLR camera too, before I realized the joke and decided to wait.
Everything is so slow. Editing is slow, rendering is slow, exporting is slow, public transport is slow, healing is slow, hospitals are slow, moving on my own two feet (the one thing I relied on being fast) is slow. When I forgo the splint for a day, I end up leaning heavily on the collapsible black cane I bought from a chemist in Balwyn a few weeks ago, and even though it's completely irrational because it's just an injury, I feel old.
The strange thing is that I haven't always regarded that as being a bad thing. When I hang out with younger people I feel young, and when I hang out with older people I feel old- maybe it's just the people I hang out with, but I seem to prefer the latter when the choice is there... but then I get these sudden urges to be young and drink myself into a stupor and cause myself some damage that can only hazily be recalled.
My definition of young is, of course, immaturity, impulsiveness and emotional extremes. I remember feeling love and hate like the two things could flood my chest and burst out Aliens-style (If only Sigourney Weaver was there for me to hold on to...). My definition of old is borne from observation, so obviously when I imagine old I think of the elderly, but I've never really thought about older. My hairdresser asked me my age, and when I told her she said "Oh, it's just that we couldn't tell if you were a young-looking older person or an older-acting young person."
I've never worked out whether or not I should have taken that as a compliment.
Right now, sitting, stretch your legs straight. Lift one off the ground.
I can't do that. As much as I squint and concentrate and pull and push, it won't happen. After about ten minutes I can lift my foot an inch or two off the ground, before my knee puffs up royally and I go searching for my painkillers.
The result of a dangerous combination of a bar tab and dance music.
I drank more beer than is reasonable for someone of my size at a 21st the other night, and was just slowing down as to enjoy the music and get my groove on. It wasn't even strenuous dancing. However, my kneecap decided it was lonely on the front of my knee and decided to hang out with the outer side of my leg briefly, before I went crashing to the floor and relocated it back to its original position.
Despite all the numbing effects of alcohol, I was still in a lot of pain, and decided the only way to combat this problem immediately was to down another few beers whilst waiting for someone to come and carry me home. This solution had pros and cons, pros being that the pain in my knee became less of a priority, con being that my main priority was now to unceremoniously vomit all over myself.
After being washed and tucked into bed I slept pretty soundly... before waking up to a dull ache in my puffy knee which slowly accumulated into chronic pain as my liver processed all the alcohol I had ingested the night before. Rich, who will be referred to as that awesome guy from now on, drove me to Box Hill Hospital and acquired me a wheelchair before wheeling me into casualty. That was at about 12:30pm.
At around 4:30pm, I was finally seen to by a doctor who prodded and poked my puffy salami leg, and pumped me full of drugs before sending me back to casualty to await an x-ray. At around 6:00pm, I had said x-ray and was wheeled back to casualty to await the results. At 8:30pm the doctor put my leg into an ankle-to thigh splint and gave me a prescription for more painkillers than I could ever want, and sent me on my way, eight hours after having walked in.
When being wheeled into the Doctor's surgery after waiting for around 4 hours, the nurse said "It is so busy today, everyone is complaining about the waiting time... I wish I wasn't here today." I smiled and replied "Yeah, me too." but I don't think she got the joke.
So, I'm not allowed to bend my leg for several weeks, I even have to sleep with this fucking thing on.
Let me take you through my morning:
I woke up, trying to roll over into a more comfortable position only to get a painful reminder of the dead weight in my left leg. I carefully slid out of bed and waddled over to the shower, before returning to get the things that were going to prove to be the most difficult to put on that morning: underwear, stockings and a skirt. I undid the 7 straps holding the splint into position and because the only way to keep my leg dead straight without experiencing complete agony is to relax it in that position, I had to hop and drag my foot across the floor into the shower.
I gave up trying to shave my left leg, even doing my right one brought tears to my eyes. I dropped my hairbrush on the shower floor and couldn't retrieve it. After dragging my leg back out of the shower, I propped myself on the edge of the bath and tried to get dressed. It took me 20 minutes just to get a pair of stockings on, the only way I could manage it was to hook the left foot of my stockings over my right foot and slide my right foot over my left, guiding the stocking onto my foot. I wish I could touch my toes, that would have made this process so much easier. After artfully kicking on my skirt with my good leg I re-attached the leg brace and downed some panadol forte for my troubles.
I know I haven't posted in a million billion years, and I am kind of ashamed that *this*, and not all the other exciting and wonderful/torturous things going on in my life, has become reason to put a post out there. Basically, I'm vain and narcissistic and have grown up with the most unruly skin and the lithe figure of a praying mantis, so the idea that this could possibly happen to me has sort of blown my mind a little.
First of all, I'll try not to be completely absorbed in my own self-image and start off by saying:
Hey! I'm doing well. Stressed out about uni, but who isn't? I'm seeing someone whom I like very, very much, despite the fact that he lives very, very far away. The weather is warming up and my hair extensions are still firmly attached to my head, which means I'm getting value for money, if anything. I'm trying not to eat as much junk food as I usually do, saving my junk food fix for those days when it's 4am and I smell like a wino. I really want to go dancing, but everyone has scampered for the pre-exam season, and I'm not brave or stupid enough to go by myself.
You understand why I haven't posted yet- none of these things are really wacky and out there. Well, the seeing-someone-I-like thing is up there...
Anyway.
With my hard drive assisting someone else in their video-related toils, I had nothing to do in my editing class so decided to take a walk through the city, as you do. I texted people and wandered around the city, through to Melbourne central so I could get the train home. Then this guy tapped my shoulder.
Ok, so I should probably alert you to the fact that since I have had my hair done, I have been grabbed, pinched, called out to and 'gawped' at by various crazy hobos, construction workers and drunk people. It's like since I went from short hair to long hair, all doubt about my sexuality or feminist tendencies that apparently are paired with having short hair are gone.
So this guy tapped my shoulder and I prepare my best "Fuck off" face, only to turn and find this well-dressed businessman shoving a card into my hand. He's a model agent. He's this model agent. He gives me a bone-crushing handshake and tells me I look great and jogs across the road whilst my brain explodes. I couldn't stop laughing, it just seemed really silly. But then here's the card, and there's the website, and I'm trying to think how on earth I could possibly be a model.
Tha's just crazy-talk, ma.
So I get home, and because of this unexpected occurrence, my ego and sense of narcissism is swelling massively, and I pull out the camera to try and figure out exactly how one 'models' stuff.
Dooba had their album launch the other night, at which I got quite surprisingly drunk around my work colleagues. We had the 'premiere' of the two video clips, Stu's and mine for Dooba Party and Broccoli Babies respectively. You can visit the Dooba site here! The album is titled "The Rise And Fall Of Alan Glen Stovwal And His Trusty French Backpack, Alfred The Backpack, In Six Parts (And A Free Blood Orange)".
The album, which also features the two video clips, is all pretty and professional and totally has my name on it somewhere! Wheee!
I've been a bit lazy in my Laneway research recently, probably due to my inherent need to save money and spend it at the same time. I've had heaps of time off work this week and due to the entire $75 I have in my everyday account, I've been reluctant to leave the house.
However, you need not fret! I get paid next Wednesday. Meanwhile I shall review a tiny laneway bar that I have visited before, a place where I intended to have my 20th birthday bash until I got the quote.
The Croft Institute
Now for those of you who haven't been to this bar, getting there is as scary as shit. It's down one of the darkest, longest, narrowest alleyways in the city, and the directions actually include "Turn left at wheelie bin". Just off little Bourke, between Russel st and Exhibition st, right at the very end of Croft Alley, with a tiny glowing sign above the door to light your way.
The bar itself is chemistry-themed, sporting a number of bunsen burners, test tubes and giant light bulbs (I'm not sure what kind of scientific research requires these, but man, they're awesome. And HUGE!) with the front bar looking much like a pharmacy counter. It's a fairly tiny bar, but thanks to its obscurity it doesn't seem to get overly rowdy and most of the patrons are of the trendy artiste variety (no collar poppers, I think). Don't forget to check out the upstairs of this place- the toilets haven't been spared the chemistry theme and are complete with oddly-shaped sinks and a hospital bed. There is also a gym-themed section upstairs, which isn't always open, but is complete with trampoline (artistically nailed to the wall, unfortunately) and a bar top made of actual grass.
I can't quite recall the price range for the drinks here, but I do remember there being a selection of tasty cocktails and wines that are listed in a quirky medical-themed pamphlet, and I also remember, though not quite so well, getting tipsy on both.
Highly recommended if ever you're wanting to impress people with your intimate knowledge of the city. Just don't ask to meet them there, as it's like the Leaky Cauldron of Melbourne CBD.
I've been out on the town more times in the past few weeks than I have been all year, and I have made it my goal to seek out all the tiny hidden bars and cafes in Melbourne's laneways. I do this by opening up a huge map of Melbourne CBD on Google Maps and researching each of the alleys block by block until I have located the most obscure places hidden in a basement underneath a wheelie bin behind the door the size of a toaster.
Waffle On Ok, this isn't anything new for those of you who know my French waffle-eating tendencies. I used to go to this place whenever I had a French exam, just to get into the Parisian mood. This tiny Waffle cafe is hidden at the top of the stairs leading out of the Flinders St Subway that opens onto Degraves Lane. The owner is a manic French man who will always talk to you in French even if you don't have a clue what he's on about, and there are always a multitude of Francophones who hang about sipping latte and munching on perfect Belgian waffles. The cafe itself is insanely small and seats about 5 people, although somewhat uncomfortably as the seats are tall wooden stools underneath benches that are only just wide enough to hold a saucer. If ever you're alone in the city, this is a great place to pull up a giant stool and scribble in a tiny diary if you are so inclined.
Rooftop Bar This one is a new one to me, and I almost piked out after trudging up 6 flights of stairs to get there. The location of the Rooftop Cinema during the months of summer, this tiny bar is 7 or so stories high, and can be found by continuing all the way up the flight of stairs that lead to Cookie. Getting the lift up is a recommendation, as once you reach the Karate joint on level 5 you start to wonder where the hell you are going. A bouncer will point you up another flight of stairs made of metal grate (NB: Thin high heels a BAD IDEA) that gives you a direct view of the 7 storey drop beneath you (Vertigo also a bad idea).
Despite the disconcerting trek to the roof, the bar is well and truly worth it, even in the cold, wet grip of winter. The bar staff are friendly and will knock you up a cappucino or a mulled wine whilst you defrost underneath the 4 roaring outdoor heaters and take in the amazing view. From here you can see Melb central, the edge of St. Patrick's cathedral, and everything in between. A lot cheaper than going to the Rialto Observation deck, and with, I believe, a more interesting crowd.
Despite the chill the bar does get really busy, so the best time to go is around 7pm if you're feeling like a coffee and a light meal. Only German beers on tap, though Bitburger is highly recommended. Good to impress friends from out of town or to get an awesome view of Melbourne city (Rich, this means you. Go there. Take photos. Hurr)
Toff in Town Eeeeeeeveryone is raving about the Toff in Town. This one is located between Cookie and The Rooftop Bar, and is hellishly busy even at 6pm due to recent media attention and involvement with the Melbourne Film Festival. The set up for this place is awesome, with one bar at the front and then a series of train carriage-like booths with sliding doors and rolling curtains. This is a great place to go with one or two mates or a significant other, but not if you're a huge crowd, as the booths fit only around 5 or 6 people at a major squeeze.
You can order a meal, choose from a selection of fancy German beers or French wines ("Feel like a $3000 bottle of champagne, my dear?"), but don't expect to hang around for too long without ordering anything. With only 8 or so booths, staff are keen to keep you moving, though still accommodating as long as you're finishing your meal or your drinks. Be prepared to surrender your credit card to the bar staff until you are ready to leave- a measurement put in place, I think, to weed out the younger credit-card-less generation without deep pockets for the expensive menu. Luckily I had my Debit Mastercard on hand.
Hanky-panky not reccommended due to CCTV above booths.
[I know you're suffering, but trust me, I'm gonna take away your pain.] [Translation attempted by Caithlin... eek]
Lève toi c'est décidé laisse moi te remplacer je vais prendre ta douleur Get up it's decided Let me replace you I'm going to take your pain
Doucement sans faire de bruit comme on réveille la pluie je vais prendre ta douleur Softly, without making noise, Like the beginning of the rain I'm going to take your pain
Elle lutte elle se débat mais ne résistera pas je vais bloquer l'ascenseur... saboter l'interrupteur It fights and it struggles But it will not resist I will stop it rising... Sabotage the switch (Or: pain is no more than electric signals running through your nerves up to your brain)
Mais c'est qui cette incrustée cet orage avant l'été sale chipie de petite soeur ? But who is this thing that takes root, This storm before summer, Dirty bitch of a little sister?
Je vais tout lui confisquer ses fléchettes et son sifflet j'vais lui donner la fessée... la virer de la récré I will take everything off him His darts and his whistle I will smack him To change the fun
Mais c'est qui cette héritière qui se baigne qui se terre dans l'eau tiède de tes reins ? But who is this heiress Who bathes and hides away In the tepid water of your kidneys?
J'vais la priver de dessert lui faire mordre la poussière de tous ceux qui n'ont plus rien... de tous ceux qui n'ont plus faim I will deprive him of dessert To make him bite the dust Of those who don't have anything anymore Of those who aren't hungry anymore
Dites moi que fout la science à quand ce pont entre nos panses? si tu as mal là où t'as peur tu n'as pas mal là où je pense! Tell me what the scientists are doing With this link between our bellies If you feel bad where you are scared You won't feel bad in the place where I think
Qu'est-ce-qu?elle veut cette conasse le beurre ou l'argent du beurre que tu vives ou que tu meurs ? But who is it? This silly bitch wants To have her cake and eat it too [literal translation: "The butter and the money for the butter"] That you live or that you die
Faut qu'elle crève de bonheur ou qu'elle change de godasses faut qu'elle croule sous les fleurs change de couleur... je vais jouer au docteur Is it really necessary that it bursts with happiness Or that it changes shoes (??? Not sure on this one) Is it necessary that is falls under flowers And changes colour... I'm playing with the doctor.
Dites moi que fout la science à quand ce pont entre nos panses ? si tu as mal là où t'as peur tu n'as pas mal là où je chante ! Tell me what the scientists are doing With this link between our bellies If you feel bad where you are scared You won't feel bad in the place where I sing.
My mum bought a perfume that smells like my first ex
I stood on a shard of glass in socks and bled on the carpet
I got hideously drunk on red wine
And turned into a public sadsack
And passed out at the station in the underpass
Which meant I got gravel in my eyes and mouth
And vomited everywhere, ruining a lovely dress I just bought
Lost my favourite blue-green beret
Spent $100 phone credit in 5 hours
I had the worst hangover imaginable
Somehow resulting in my eyelids puffing up impressively
Looked like this:
For those of you who don't know I have permanent smile lines under my eyes, which have completely vanished with eye puffiness. This was as wide as I could open my eyes.
Went to work despite hangover, equipped with plastic bag
Almost vomited on colleague
Went out to Mum's birthday dinner despite hangover
Endured massive headache as a result of screaming children on neighbouring table
I'm trying out this new thing, which I have dubbed 'Soloventuring'- just the right mixture of loneliness, spontaneity, dangerous lone frolicking and a unperturbed willingness to leave the house. This whole thing pretty much consists of being bored and lonely enough to pick some gig or occasion at random on the internet, and go there. Being that most of my friends are suffering winter terms or exams at the moment, my first Soloventure was not by choice (GT gig... where the fuck are all my friends?), but I ended up having an oddly good time.
Last night was my first proper Soloventure. Having gone to the Darren Hanlon gig in Belgrave on Wednesday night, I decided at random to go to the second gig in East Brunswick, and reinforced my plans by buying a ticket for myself on the net using my shiny new Westpac Debit Mastercard. The gig ended up being sold out so I couldn't have asked anyone else to come along even if I wanted to... but the thing about bringing people along means that my resolve to get the fuck out there is deterred slightly by having a group to cling to.
I got to the East Brunswick Club and immediately spotted Hanlon sipping a beer with the rest of the band. I took time out to order myself a meal and neatly fold a paper crane in between bites, before buying myself some teeth-rottingly sweet beverage and walking over to say hello. I handed him the paper crane and he laughed, but was oddly puzzled when I told him I had come alone (Cue stalker-like thoughts).
The venue was pitch dark and freezing. I'm wondering if this is just some weird trait of all Darren Hanlon's gigs now. It warmed up well enough by the time a million and one people crammed into the joint, but up until then everyone was shivering and nuzzling huge scarves. I stood against the wall twiddling my thumbs until a teenage couple decided to use my kine sphere to tongue wrestle, so I moved further back to where the sound tech guys were sipping beer and adjusting dials and such.
Cue about an hour and a half of quiet humming and rocking on my heels waiting for the gig to start, trying to swallow away the niggling voice in my head telling me to leave and that feeling and looking this alone was reason enough to ditch the $20 spent on my ticket. I couldn't see anyone I wanted to talk to despite the whole 'shared music interest' thing, most people occurred to me as Emos trying not to be Emos by introducing a violent colour scheme to their wardrobe.
Two guys were chatting away in front of me, beers in hand, and as Laura Jean played her intro I kept thinking 'After this song, I will say hello... Ok, maybe after this song.... I like this song, I'll wait till she's finished this one... okay, maybe the next song...'. Sure enough every single song Laura Jean had to sing came and went, and when she slipped off stage the crowd started murmuring and shuffling towards the bar, and that little niggling voice of mine had grown into a scream.
Then I thought of the worst possible introductory line, and used it.
"Uhh... you look really familiar."
It was true enough in that this guy did look familiar, but only in the way that someone down the street has the same hair colour as your Mum or something. As it turned out this guy has the exact same voice as my Australian ICT teacher in Britain, a connection so tenuous it wasn't worth telling him when I realised it.
As it turned out, this guy worked at Syn Fm and was recording the gig for a radio broadcast. We got chatting and he gave me a card for Syn Fm saying that they did TV stuff that would look good on my resume, and said he'd let me know when any TV opportunities came up.
Sauceome!
The gig itself was much like the night before (Darren promised me they would play something different for me), only with awesome heckling. The very last song, Darren played a song where he asks the audience to join in at a certain point, and joked "It's a very Bono thing to ask you to do..." and someone sang out drunkenly "IN THE NAME OF LOVE!", and Darren succumbed to a short fit of giggles on stage. He also regaled stories of the Belgrave gig (I'm thinking: Hey, it's true, I was totally there!) where Ruby's owner, in an effort to drum up business, chalked under Darren's name 'Rolling Stone Songwriter of the Year', not knowing that the Bassist was in fact the editor of Rolling Stone since 2002, and that it wasn't true. When Darren questioned him, the owner shrugged, grinning, and said 'Yeah, I made it up'.
After the gig, I waited out the fans and gave Darren Hanlon a goodbye paper crane I had folded and kept in my car-shaped handbag. He laughed and said "I have a proper collection now" and then compared my bag to the weird-looking car outside Ruby's at the Belgrave gig. As I turned to leave he said "Cait, right? Myspace me!"
I was grinning as I ran to the car, my hands turning blue.
Reading Bill Bryson's 'Neither Here Nor There' about backpacking around Europe, and knowing that I will be visiting my dad in London at the end of the year, I've decided to take my entire 'saving for a car' funds and backpack around Europe for a month or so in December, back to chilly England in time for a (hopefully) white Christmas. Planned out the general route and joined a few Backpackers information sites... route is thus, travelling mostly by train:
I'm shooting a 16mm short film and my group is desperately looking for actors to participate. There are only two roles in the short film, so please have a look and see if you are or anyone you know is interested.
The theme of the story is loneliness, the premise being It's easier to ask for help than ask for a friend. The film runs for around 8 minutes with very minimal dialogue, so we're heavily relying on naturalistic acting! Work is unpaid but actors will receive a copy of the 16mm film for their show reel.
We're looking for two female actors to play the roles of: An Asian Exchange Student aged between 18 and 25
A Punk Girl aged between 18 and 25
The shoot is between April 20th and 25th in Melbourne around the Box Hill area.
Please comment or email me at returnoftheevilspatula@hotmail.com
All applications are seriously considered! We're getting close to filming date and we're having trouble organising because of Easter break.
Been a little while- but hey, I start every LJ off like that.
Uni goes back in another week, the day before my birthday! Gahh. Today is settlement day for the house, so we kissed and hugged it goodbye and left roses and a card for the new owners. Sad to farewell the house I've lived in for 19 years, but being that it was already completely empty and scrubbed clean, it didn't feel so much like home anymore apart from the same earthy smell of the garden outside and the bready smells of the kitchen.
I wish I could take the smell with me.
But now we're all settled in Mont Albert- save for the cubbyhouse-sized cardboard boxes lining the unit walls. and how all our furniture are familiarising themselves with all the other furniture that were located in different rooms of the house. The piano has met the couch, the dining table now gets to watch tv whilst mingling with the kitchen stools, and the wonky ikea single bed is now familiarising itself with the local rubbish tip, accompanied by ye old poky-springed mattress that was like sleeping on a haybale.
I'm enjoying my job, but mostly enjoying the fact that I have money to spend. I now can use my ATM card without holding my breath for the 'Approved' signal on the EFTPOS points at different stores, and I've signed up for new savings accounts, online statements and a brand-spanking new paypal account with which to purchase Ebay items in my own name. My first purchase after getting said account was to buy a whole bunch of colourful, thick thigh-high socks from Sock Dreams to wear over the winter with shorts and skirts instead of having to wash my jeans daily as I normally do in winter.
Tommorrow I'm also ordering my own iMac computer from Apple with video-editing software! I'm so excited, I've been skimping on my usual clothes-related expenditure to save up the $900 to pay for half of this computer, which is the OS that MS Vista has obviously mimicked. Anyone who has 'wowed' Vista (Ref. Stupid MS Vista ad) obviously hasn't glanced at the aesthetics of the last Mac OS, which is exactly the same save for the irritating bugs built into Windows core programming.
Aaaaanyway.
Happy belated V Day, in Jackie's words. The morning of Feb 14th, Rich had to go into town for a work briefing, and Josh and I spent the morning breaking into Rich's bedroom and blowing up 120 red balloons using an oxygen tank, some tubing and a large gob of bluetack which partially froze against the metal nozzle of the tank. After the balloons were deposited around the room (and we were nursing our skinned balloon-tying fingers), Josh departed and I hung around arranging and re-arranging the balloons, trying to chase them out from under the bed and away from pointy items. Rich arrived and we danced around and buried eachother in them to the tune of 99 Red Luft Balloons.
The inspiration?
Ooop, late. Time for bed, methinks. And just because I love Scrubs:
I've quit Cafe d'Sub (WAHOOO!!!!) and I started my new job on Monday- working as a Relay Officer for Australian Telecommunications Exchange, or the National Relay Service. Basically we relay calls between the deaf, hearing or speech impaired and speaking/hearing people (trying to deter from saying 'normal' people), so that those who are unable to use a normal telephone line can call emergency services, their family, eachother, businesses, etc, etc. Tomorrow is my fourth and last day of intensive training (30 hours of training plus another 16 hours of supervised call relaying, guhh), and I'm so excited, I can't wait to start!
The training is so confusing though, as there are so many different types of calls that can by made: there are Telephone Type Writers (TTY, who type all their responses) or Voice Carry Over (VCO- the user can speak for themselves but needs responses typed as they are hearing impaired), Hearing Carry Over (HCO where the caller is speech impaired and needs their responses read out to the person they are talking to, but can hear what is being said to them), VCO to VCO, where both callers are hearing impaired but can speak for themselves (So you have to type both sides of the conversation), and Speech to Speech (SSR) where you just hang about on a call if a user is having difficulty understanding something like a speech impediment...
The turnover is so minimal that the last recruitment was 2 years ago, everyone loves working there, and the pay and ability to swap or give away as many shifts as you like is fantastic. The service is open 24 hours and has bump-up wages for certain times (weekends, holidays, night shifts, etc), so when my near-$18ph wage is bumped up, maaan, wheeee! For example, I applied to work a few hours on Aust. day, which is double time and a half, meaning I get nearly $45ph!
This is all very novel for a once-upon-a-time $10.50ph waitress.
Emergency calls are going to be a little disconcerting, as I'm sure certain late-night calls will be (We've been warned of phone sex calls... nice and awkward... "You caller is saying: Yes, I would like to touch your... uh... glistening... ahem...")
I also have to get an alias as my real name is private. I texted a few people for suggestions, but I think Cheese, Bob, Vesper Lynd, Katinka and Hooty Mc. Boob were kind of unconvincing as phone aliases. You can see my alias on my MSN quote- I can't really put it up here, because it kind of ruins the point of having an alias. :S
Anyway, more training tomorrow (0900 - 1700, guhh)... gotta scoot to bed. Hope everyone's keeping up with their christmas shopping!
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