When in doubt, whinge

Ah, whingeing. It makes people so eager to see you or call up for a chat. Practice the gentle art of the whine and you'll find it works a treat in getting rid of the bastards. Hey, presto: more time for reading.

I may have little to write about at the moment, but there are always things that are pissing me off. So here's the honour roll for this week:

Cirque du Soleil
I love circuses, especially the trapezy-acrobatty sort where eighteen people with inherently-amusing facial hair all pile onto a bicycle and then wobble around the ring looking pleased with themselves. What if one sneezed? Or farted? They'd all break up laughing and fall off. It would be nothing short of comedy gold. I'm a little ambiguous about clowns because of The Pilo Family Circus and the fact that some of them look more than a little like Mr Pervy, but I'm able to look past that for a good circus. Just not for those guys who tie balloon animals in the Mall.

(As an aside, can you imagine doing that for a living? Or wearing a soiled and mangy elephant suit like the guy who hands out balloons in the Central Market on Saturday mornings? Wouldn't you look at yourself in the mirror as you zipped the great big smiley head over your own somewhat less smiley head and wonder, "How has my life come to this? Where did it all go wrong? Should I have tried harder in trigonometry?" But one digresses.)

But I cannot and will not tolerate Cirque du Bollocks. Sure, the acrobatics are great and dang those six-year-olds they kidnapped from China and forced into cirque-du-slavery can spin a good plate, but they ruin the whole effect by being so arty-bloody-farty. The costumes look like something Auntie Jean made in her painting on nylon class when the cat knocked over all the paint pots on the Crows flag she was trying to paint to take to Showdown 816.

And don't get me started on the music. I have a suspicion Enya writes it under a nom de plume. Even she would be ashamed to put her real name to that goat-herding twaddle.

When I first saw Cirque du Merde on TV years ago, I oohed and aahed with everone else because it was different and new. But the next time I saw it, I couldn't help thinking, "What a load of old crap." Something that makes me hate Cirque du Shite even more is the fact that everyone else loves it. Its performances sell out. People are willing to pay ridiculous amounts for tickets. And why? Because they think they should. They think it's erudite and cool and fun. No-one admits to going to sleep during the performance because it's so perilously close to modern dance.

Cirque du Pants has been planted in the Parklands for about five or six weeks now, but I think they're due to roll up their over-engineered tents and push off in the next day or two. Bugger off and don't come back.

"Gift" shops
I just realised the other day that "gift" shops are packed with the most unmitigated load of crap known to Ford. There's one I walk past a few times a week and I'm so blinded by the riot of primary colour and shiny useless things inside that I'm never really sure what they sell. I have an impression of a crowd of malevolent glass elephants and papier mache cats and fake Carnevale masks that haven't ever seen Venice unless there's a town in Taiwan that was renamed for marketing purposes.

There's another particularly scary shop that has a rack of little-girl scarves out the front in various pastel shades of fake fur. At the bottom of each scarf is a mournful-looking teddy bear that seems to melt into the fabric. It's as though someone caught a teddy in the wild, skun it and spread it flat before turning it into a scarf.

They remind me of a fur stole my grandmother used to have. You know the sort - it had a head and paws and a little chain to link the front paws to the back paws so the poor dead little thing looked as though it had just jumped onto your neck and curled there out of love. Just in case you were ever tempted to think that just a teeny, weeny little fur coat might be OK, there was Stinky the Stone Marten peering back at you with his beady, glassy eyes, his nosehair-curling aroma of camphor and his little dead paws ~shudder~ Fur is never OK.

More digression. The point is, I don't really care if people want to have shops full of rubbish. I also don't care if other people want to buy said rubbish. It's no skin off my nose, after all. I also have a horrible feeling that my outlaws have a more than passing acquaintance with "gift" shops, given their past form.

What I really want to know is how such shops have come to be known as "gift" shops. Is it an acknowledgment that gift-giving is essentially useless? Or that no-one but my friend Stephanie puts in the effort to choose a really good present that's suited to its recipient? Call me picky and ungrateful, but my idea of a good present is not a pink rabbit-shaped letter rack. Nor is it a set of see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil walruses.

Anti-nose blowers
There are no two ways about it. My sinuses are a burden. They always have been and they always will be. Plus, no-one would call my nose small, so when I start unpacking my trunk (as a friend's husband used to say with unnecessarily malicious glee), it can be reasonably loud. When one of my nephews was small, he would actually burst into tears every time I blew my nose.

Today, I blew my nose in public. I had no choice: the Snot Fairy has come back for another visit, her fourth this year. Anyway, a woman who was standing about six feet away turned around and give me the most disgusted look, for all the world as though I'd just walked up and spat chewing tobacco on her shoes. And because I was so surprised, instead of saying, "Bugger off, you old trout! Would you prefer I snorted?" I actually apologised. For blowing my nose.

And no, I did not spray her.

Too-long trousers
Why are people walking around town with their trouser-hems in tatters? It's an epidemic, I tell you, mostly among the young. It doesn't seem to matter whether the wearers are male or female or whether they're wearing jeans, trackies, cargoes or suit pants. Some of these trousers look like the wearers have dangled their feet in a pond full of the little-known but ravenous polyester piranha.

The dark magic that is hemming has been lost. I think it's a sign of the impending fall of civilisation. Come on, loves! When you buy the pants, all you have to do is pay another $10 and someone will take them up for you. Go that extra yard and say no to looking like a dero.

Clothes shops putting out summer clothes in winter
Hello, retailer people? Listen to me for a minute. It's still cold. I don't want to try on little strappy dresses right now because I'll have to take off all six layers. I don't want to try on sandals because that would involve getting frost-bitten toes. Plus, I'm fat from too many winter stews and yummy, warming pasta dishes. Now I know this is a bit radical, but do you think you could bring out summer clothes just a little closer to summer?

On the bright side, though, sooner or later they'll lap themselves and we'll be able to buy winter 2010 clothes in winter 2009. We'll be able to be ahead of the fashion pack AND appropriately dressed for the season.

Mobile phone ring tones
I understand that these days, very few mobiles come with a ring tone that goes "bring bring". The last phone I had could tweet, neigh, miaow, play Peer Gynt, do a polka and let rip with atrocious thing called The Bells of Spring that made me want to stuff my ears with hamsters to block out the noise. But there was no "bring bring". So I understand why people download ring tones. In fact, I'm coveting my brother's Doctor Who ring tone even as we speak. Mmm, Christopher Eccleston and his great big bony nose...

But listen to me when I say that if you happen to be the person who sits a few cells away from me in the cube farm and who has the Adelaide Crows theme song for a ring tone, I am going to eviscerate you with a plastic teaspoon if you don't turn that thing down.

Whingers
Oh God, I hate whingers.

It's hell with fluorescent lighting

Perhaps I’m not a team player. Maybe I’m one of those people who just likes to be alone. After all, a former boss did say that she thought I would make a good sniper. I was never sure whether that was a compliment or not. Whatever the case, I can't deny having an extremely low twit threshold. But I don’t think I'm being entirely unreasonable when I say that there are certain conversations that I do not wish to be forced to overhear in the office. Inane and banal conversations are everywhere and I’m sorry to say that most of them are conducted by women. I know I’m going against the sisterhood, but it makes me realise why men have cultivated the ability to switch their ears off.

I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but when there’s a conversation taking place at the desk next to mine, I can’t not hear. I can sit there, silently singing “la la la!” or reciting Jabberwocky in my head to try to run interference, but it doesn’t work.

And it's not that I'm the fun police - I just hate being subjected to pointless crap. Remember, I'm trapped at my desk and there are only so many times in a day that I can get a glass of water, a Diet Coke from the machine or go to the loo.

So, on my planet, people who banged on about any of the following topics at work would have safes dropped on them.

Birth
Save it for your mums and bubs group. If you don’t belong to such a group, please find one. Quickly. I have sat at my desk, doing an internal impression of Jack Nicholson in The Shining while several mothers have discussed their birth experiences for upwards of 45 minutes. The words “and then my water broke” can send me screaming from a room. The same goes if you're pregnant. I don't want to touch your belly, see your ultrasound photo or hear about what's happening to your boobs.

Your kids
When your child has done or said something that really is funny or wise beyond their years, then that’s fine. Please do share it. But be aware that the majority of kid talk, including stories about dirty nappies (this includes colour, texture and frequency), toilet training (ditto), sporting participation, etc., is seriously lacking in entertainment value for everyone but the child’s parents.

And don’t get me started on baby photos being sent out on an all-staff email. It’s a baby. Some are cuter than others and they come in half a dozen different shades of duco, but they pretty much all look the same. It’s really only the accessories that change and who wants to look at a never-ending parade of little jumpsuits or half-sucked teddy bears?

Clothes or accessories in any detail
Nothing more is required than, “Oh, I like your boots/jacket/earrings,” with the possible addition of, “Where did you get them?” if you wish to sneakily buy some yourself. If you’re snarking a la the Fug Girls, then of course that’s a different matter, but rapturous and extended discussions of fashion make me want to do you an injury. I don’t care whether you are agonising over spending $500 on a handbag, either. Buy it or don’t buy it, but for Ford’s sake, shut up about it!

Appearance
Tooth whitening, hair extensions, shades of eye shadow and Paris Hilton are all pretty much pointless. None of them is worth an extended discussion. Really. The world will not stop turning and it’s 15 minutes of our lives that none of us will get back.

Arguments
It is never appropriate to have a phone argument in the office with your partner, your mother, one of your kids or even John Howard. Oh, all right, if you’ve got Little Johnny’s phone number and a gutful of angry to share around, you go your hardest. I’ll probably even cheer when you score points. But a truly banal row that goes from low but intense to loud and intense and continues for more than three seconds is putting your life in danger. And if you finish the row and then come over to recount the whole thing to someone sitting near me, you’re just asking me to crack open my barrel of Psycho Bitch.

In fact, any long personal phone conversation is pretty much guaranteed to piss me off. I don't want to listen to you have a big long "he said, she said" with your bestie. I don't care whether your brother's friend's girlfriend is being, like, a total bitch to, like, everyone. And if you ring three different people in one morning and tell them all the same thing, we're back at that barrel of Psycho Bitch again with the crow bar.

Hot beverages
Making or purchasing a cup of coffee or tea is quite a simple process. I don’t care whether you choose a skinny soy decaf latte with a twist or a spiced chai soy latte. They are both equally pretentious and deciding between them does not require a United Nations vote. JUST PICK ONE! Wistful sighing of, “Oh, I’d just kill for a (insert wanky beverage name here),” in the hope that someone will get one for you should be punishable by death.

Bread and circuses
There’s a reason I don’t watch Big Brother. It bores me. The same goes for Neighbours, Dancing with the Stars, The Biggest Loser, Desperate Housewives, Ugly Whatshername and most of the other crap the TV stations dish up. If I wanted to know what was happening on any given TV show, I would simply watch it myself. Radical, I know.

And boys, you can quit your snickering. You’re not off the bloody hook either.

Footbrawl
I don’t care about Aussie rules, rugby (league or union) or soccer. My response to, “How about those Crows, then?” will always be, “Are they some sort of sporting team?” Talk about it while you’re having a slash or something. I don’t care who’s winning the office tipping comp, I don’t want to hear who you think will win the games on the weekend and I most certainly don’t want a ball-by-ball discussion on Monday morning.

Cars
They have four wheels, a variable number of doors and, if they’re working properly, go “broooom”. Like babies, they come in a number of colours. We’re done now.

Power tools
Come on, mostly they're just boy toys. I think we can safely say that most powertools are purchased, used three times and then shoved in the shed.

Fishing
You went fishing. You caught fish. What, you didn't bring me any? Bugger off then.

Golf
Possibly the most boring game ever invented. You don't need to tell me what your handicap is. I already know.

Yes, I’m a grouchy bitch who should just work alone in a shed in the middle of nowhere. But did you ever doubt it?

Why some people shouldn't be let out alone #893

(Bring, bring)

Red: Good morning, Cheese Shop.

Caller: Oh, hello. I'm looking for a phone number for Fred Nerk.

Red: I'll see if we have it.
(Looks in contacts list.)
No, sorry, I don't have his number.

Caller: Oh, I suppose I could just look in the phone book.

Red: Yes, he might be in the phone book.

(Hangs up very, very gently, so as not to startle the stupid bugs and make them jump down the phone.)

Why I love people #132

Some days, I just hate people. Here is the beginning of a phone conversation I had today. (Apologies to Audrey for doing one of these so soon after her hilarious telephonic encounter with Deaf Twat.)

I've changed the type of business to protect the innocent (that would be me, not the person on the other end of the phone - half-hearted I may be, but it's probably best that none of the people who employ me twig to that just yet).

(Ring, ring)

Cheese shop lady: Hello, cheese shop.
Me: Hello, this is redcap calling from Publication Name Deleted. I'm writing a story about cheese and I was just wondering whether there was someone there I could talk to.
Cheese shop lady: About what?
(silence)
Me: Um, cheese.
(silence)
Cheese Shop lady: Oh!

Sigh.