A whole load of nonsense

Enjoy!

Roll up roll up. Greetings one and all. Welcome to my hood.

Another day, another dollar, or in my case another week another shocker.

On the plus side, I didn’t start the week off with a churning belly and wondering what the hell life choice was making me so anxious - no - I’m currently on cruise control, smooth FM, and no crappy job holding me hostage. The anxiety hasn’t gripped me yet, Barbara (my brain) yelling what a loser I am. Instead, I am languishing in my unemployed state, feeling like the Queen that I am. And that’s the line I’m sticking to (for now).

Tuesday

I decide to book a free class of SPENGA - a 1hr class consisting of a 30-minute spin class, 10 minutes of weight training and then Yoga to finish. As per usual, I arrive for the class a full 15 minutes before it’s due to start, which works for me because the receptionist is inquisitive and likes to ask questions - small talk makes me so happy, and exchanging information with strangers is glorious. She now knows more about me than likely some of my friends. The class - I love Spin, I do, but why can’t we all just get on the bike and be silent? All I want to hear is the dirtiest grime or Drum and Bass and the odd ‘You can do this’! That would do me, instead, the instructor is barking orders and talking incessantly that I can’t understand a word - I mean I know I’m back of the class but she’s still only 10 feet away. I spy myself in the mirror and look like some 80s powerhouse, leopard print leggings, red socks pulled up, a white T-shirt with Red Cherries on with IBIZA blazing across it and a bouncy platinum ponytail. An eclectic, street version of Jane Fonda. 30 minutes later I’m a sweaty wreck, I slide off the bike and head to the torture room, it’s weights time!

Now, this part of the workout is more kin to an Army drill, after 10 reps of throwing a ball up and down, and with other exercises to do, I am broken and laughing to myself, I VOLUNTEERED TO DO THIS. What was I thinking? I can do this. I imagine my 90s idol, Demi Moore in GI Jane and think come on girl, keep going. Lastly, Yoga, my loins are now quivering like a Harry Styles groupie, rising each time I do my mountain pose I feel dizzy but oh so smug. Here I am on a Tuesday lunchtime, I’ve even got time to take a shower whilst all the employed people have to run. I bounce home in the drizzly rain and make a toast to my newfound fitness, which will last 1 day (today).

Az and I go to ‘the Mall’. He wants tracksuit bottoms that don’t make him look like a member of 00’s band ‘Blazin Squad’

I am wearing a bright green puffa jacket and a red hat - I look like a Skittle. I receive 4 compliments - this is what I love about Americans, all out there, you like something, you tell someone. Brits wouldn’t dream of it, even if you walked through London in a wedding dress, you wouldn’t hear any legitimate Brit shouting ‘You look amazing’! or ‘Congratulations!’ ‘Oh we couldn’t possibly’ or ‘No, it’s okay, let’s get going’. I would though and I do since I’m a gobshite.

We go for dinner at a Southern restaurant 5 minutes from the Mall, it’s ambient and so cosy, and since Az isn’t drinking, neither am I, we are all too aware that socialising is defined by going out to the pub, now we have a car, we can go dine somewhere and have an evening off but still satiate our need of having done something. Az stands up and announces he’s going to the ‘Restroom’ I tell him to behave himself, it’s the LOO. Always was, and always will be. We drive home and marvel at how appalling some of the drivers here are; in case you move here - red lights are for running through. Lanes? What lanes? You don’t need to pick one, you can hustle both sides. Cutting people up at your leisure. It’s the wild west. Knock yourselves out. In Australia, you can’t drive for 2 minutes without being pulled over to be breathalysed or getting a speeding fine for looking at your phone for a split second. Sydney is not called a Nanny state for nothing but I’d prefer it to this. It felt safer at least. The smell of weed emanating from people’s cars is frankly terrifying. I’m sure plants are growing on the dashboard.

Friday

While finishing my last job, I spoke to the Security guard who patrolled the lobby of our building. She told me they were always looking for people and you could essentially choose your hours. Nice I thought, can’t be bad. I applied last week and today is my interview!

Dearest reader, I can’t figure out if this is a horrifyingly new low or a genius move on my part - a Security guard? I mean, think of the conversations, the scenarios, it could produce a Tsunami of content.

The interview is 20 minutes away and my Lyft driver is a delightful woman who talks to me about her blended family as I get out of the car she says ‘Go get that job, honey, it’s yours’. I squeal inside. A little bit of positivity does wonders.

The ‘interview’ consists of me, my old work friend J (also applying), and two others, we have to do a drug test. Me being me, I asked if it was a urine test to which the group fell about laughing, no Miss, it’s a saliva one. We all have to put a lolly-shaped object in our mouths for 10 minutes whilst completing the endless paperwork. Note to self: Do not drool. I think how the hell have I ended up here? Another story for the grandkids (that I won’t have).

Naturally, I pass the test as I’m not off my tits but if you’d asked me 20 years ago well things might have been different. I would have shown up in the previous night’s clothes with 20 Marlborough Lights hanging out my mouth. God, I was fabulous.

The two supervisors holding the interviews are women, women you wouldn’t like to mess with or as mum says ‘meet down a dark alley’ - essentially don’t take the piss and all will be well, with a smile on their face. My kinda women. Now let’s get to the Uniform - I have to go and try on a shirt and trousers ‘trousers’! they all exclaim, sorry I say ‘PANTS’! They are crazy about me already. I have a black shirt with an American Flag on the side and a badge on the other saying ‘Protect, Honour and Integrity’ literally getting a boner thinking about it. A Uniform! I feel some role play coming on at home ‘WHO DO YOU WORK FOR’ Az doesn’t know what’s coming. I can only imagine how officious I’ll become. ‘Excuse me, Sir, do you have permission to be standing by that Kettle’ GET IN!

This will be me, perving on others.

My training starts this week - Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. I asked if we’ll be paid for this, and they say it's only for ‘some.’ Sorry, what? I’ve seen this a lot - companies listing as a ‘perk’ that they PAY you for training. WHAT IN GODS NAME. America - this isn’t normal. If you are hiring someone, then PAY to train them. Ya think? It’s so wrong. America - 0.

More from me next week gang. Enjoy your week and if you’re in a slump, wondering what the hell you’re doing, where your life is going, you’re not alone. What a shit show!

SMOOCHES.

PS Thanks for being here :)