I can't offend you more than I offend myself..

I’m feeling a lot of doubt, in myself as a person, as an actor, as a woman/girl/female (it doesn’t feel right referring to myself as a woman but that’s an issue I’ll have to leave for another day).
I wonder, all the time, so much so that it’s almost not worth mentioning, whether I’m deluding myself with this whole acting malarkey. But that inevitably leads to thoughts of whether I’m deluding myself with this whole life business.
Sometime in my past, somehow, I latched onto the idea of acting to give myself a purpose. And now, at 28 years old, I’m returning to the moment when that decision was made and once again asking, “what now?”
And so indeed, what now? If not an actor then what? A director? Well, that’s just as delusional as the so-called career I’ve already got. An Olympic equestrienne? Hah! A teacher? Where’s the bottle of cheap wine and sleeping pills please. A writer? Well we’re back to the impossibleness of the realm of the actor and director. So….
A prostitute? Financially lucrative but I’ve never been much good with men. And I have tiny breasts. A dog trainer? Wonderful fun but pays just enough to keep a small poodle in kibble for a couple of days with owner living in cardboard box. Hmm…. I’m drawing a blank. What else interests me? Retail sales manager? I can see my future now. Forty-five and dressed like a girl, telling some insecure brat that she looks ‘hot’.
What else? What else? Fucking God please tell me what else?!
I. Can. Not. Think. Of. Any. Other. Profession. That. I. Would. Be. Good. At.
What do I do? Starve myself to death to avoid my inevitable descent into middle-aged mediocrity? But I’ve already tried that and I’m bored with the self-indulgent narcissism it demands.
What would I be great at? I could watch DVDs for a living. Read books. Look up celebrities on the internet. Browse for weight-loss tips. Tan once a year. Do cryptic crosswords. Eat breakfast at a cafe everyday. Forget to call my parents. Stay up late. Download TV shows. Park illegally. Take mediocre photos and post them on my blog. Buy clothes. Buy cosmetics. Try to find the cure for acne. Eat my own weight in popcorn. Pick up other peoples rubbish while tsking audibly. Write down ideas for outfits I will never wear. Read Amazon book reviews for book I will never buy. Look up IMDb profiles for actors I have never heard of. Doubt myself. Doubt myself. Doubt myself.
I’m so exhausted with the thought of the meaning of the pursuit of fulfilment in life that I cannot even bring myself to think of a way to end this bitter diatri…

On a Perfect Day in Retail: Afterword

It would seem that one of my previous, somewhat politically incorrect entries has been the cause of displeasure in a number of readers. To illustrate:

Anonymous said...
To the retail bitch who whinges about her potential customers... I say... hey without us annoying shoppers you wouldn't have a job lady! Thanks for being so helpful, you'll get no commission from me...< Love "one size does not fit all". At least my food stays down...

Well.
I feel the need to make a few things clear.

Unfortunately for me, when I write I'll willingly forgo self-preservation for the sake of honesty. I'm not afraid to express a particular sentiment where others may decide it best not to.
So writing about the thoughts that occasionally go through my head during my 9-hour days of standing in a tiny space, giving all my care and attention to the complete strangers who walk into my shop, does not mean that these are thoughts I would ever voice, or in fact would have any desire to. Nor are they any different to the private, negative little thoughts that everybody has on a daily basis.
The difference is, I decided to reveal mine for your reading pleasure (or displeasure, it would seem).

But as an addendum to that entry I'd like to say this:
I love my job. Because making women of any age and shape feel good about themselves is a wonderful experience. It's also a service that is largely under-appreciated, due in part to the general perception of sales girls as commission-chasing Barbies. And they do exist, but paradoxically they are the sales assistants who earn their bosses the least amount of money. I, however, earn my bosses a good deal of money because I don't actually care about making money (and for the record, I earn no commissions or bonuses, just a flat, hourly rate). I think all women are stunning, and it breaks my heart when I hear a woman say she'll buy that beautiful dress after she's lost a few pounds, or a teenage girl admit her mother thinks she's fat.
Incidentally, the final, particularly nasty thought expressed in that entry did not materialise in response to the customers weight, but rather to what she was doing to the unpurchased clothes she was trying on; specifically stretching them beyond all recognition with her hands and aggressively pulling at them with no concern for their mass-produced welfare.

So, if I have offended, think but this and all is mended;
I didn't really mean it.

On a Perfect Day in Retail

To the customer who looks at EVERY item on EVERY rack, spending 25 minutes in my 10-square-metres of store space without choosing a single item while I'm stuck looking attentive behind the counter waiting for her to leave, I say:
"This isn't a library!"

To the chinese girl who brings a pair of earrings to the counter and says, "I take the earring", I say:
"You don't want the other one?"

To the woman who knocks on my CLOSED door at 5 past 6 and waves me over after I've mouthed quite clearly that we're closed, I say:
"Do you want to buy something? Do you want to give me some money? No? Then why are we having this conversation?"

To the customer who comes out of the changeroom and dumps a giant ball of inside-out, scrunched up clothing on my counter before leaving I say:
"What am I, your maid?"

To the business woman who can't be bothered bending over to try on a pair of shoes but rather prefers to mash her heel against the leather, I say:
"WOMAN. For GOD'S SAKE. BEND OVER and use your finger."

To the middle aged woman who responds to my "How are you today?" with a "Just looking", I say:
"Hmm, maybe you should get that checked out. I don't know what juslooking is but it sounds nasty."

To the overweight teenager who comes out of the changeroom stretching and pulling at a top that's too small and complaining "It doesn't fit right. My boobs are too big for it", I say:
"Honey, it's not your BOOBS, it's your whole BODY that's too big".

Afterword

Things She Said

She's only 21, bless her, but acts like she's 27 and the world ambassador of everything that is 'cool'. Attractive, granted, but with enough ego and arrogance, were it meted out, to reintroduce 1000 social phobics back into the world.
From the day I met her she's been condescending and unbearable. Wednesday was the first time we'd actually worked in the same store together and although she barely knows me, she felt the need to criticize me for anything that didn't fit into her little view of what is socially acceptable.

1. "Do you ever stop playing with your hair?"
No. I don't want it to feel unloved.

2. "Oh my God, you cover your books?"
Yes. And I read them too.

3. "Is this Rihanna?! Oh my God you listen to such commercial shit."
Well actually I don't listen to the music I really like at work (Apparat, Telefon Tel Aviv, Victor Bermon, Vladislav Delay, Dictaphone, Arovane) because it's inappropriate.
Now let me explain 'irony' to you.
(I explain)
She doesn't get it.

4. "My God, how often do you put on make-up?"
Well I guess if I caked on foundation in the morning I too could leave my skin untouched all day. But seeing as my pores can actually breathe, they sometimes need a powder touch-up to stop me looking like I've been buffed to a high sheen.

(On hearing that I take my dog to dog school)
5. "You go to Dog School?!!"

(On hearing that I didn't want to work Saturdays so that I could do Agility training with the afore-mentioned pooch..)
6. "Agility?! Have you ever heard of lobbing a ball to it in the park?"
No. I hadn't. I thought paying $120 to make my dog jump through hoops was the only way to exercise him. Or, perhaps he's just kinda smart and I like giving him the opportunity to use his brain. But I don't suppose you'd understand that as a concept.

I let her go home an hour early to be rid of her.
I've also requested never to work with her again. I can't be responsible for what I might say if I do.
My reserves of patience have never been particularly ample.

Missing Art Results in Sales Assistant's Laughter

I was on my way to work today, walking past the glass art installation cabinets in the Flinders Street subway, when something caught my eye. Each of the cabinets along both sides of the walkway was filled with the work of young Australian writers - zines, photos, reprints of published work, letters, journal entries etc.. all apart from the last cabinet on the left-hand side. This cabinet was completely bare except for the sticker identifying the name of the writer - in this case Ianto Ware from Adelaide, whom I know from my own zine-writing past - and a hastily scribbled on sheet of A4 paper taped to the back wall.

Here is a photo of the cabinet:


To give you an idea of why I noticed it, here are photos of some of the other artists' cabinets:




So I walked over to the bare cabinet to see what was written on that single sheet of paper and this is what I saw...


Wonderful!

On the Train (from my iMate)

I'm on the train to work, and not only am I running late by one train (therefore 15 minutes), but I've got no make-up on save for my shiny sunscreen, and am wearing the old, square-framed sunnies I keep in the glovebox of my car because my good, round-framed sunnies are still lying somewhere at home. I also left my camera at home. Again. And my hair is half damp and therefore fuzzy from the shower. Not to mention the fact that I have foot powder on my leggings because I was in too much of a hurry to wipe it off, and my teeth are unbrushed. And in my mad rush from the car I left my jacket behind which, despite it being a sunny 25C day, I will miss later as I'm always unnecessarily cold.
And I didn't eat breakfast.

At least it's a public holiday so work will be quiet. And it's only a 5 hour shift. And I'm going to see Lucio Fulci's Zombie with Joe Dante's Piranha tonight at the Astor. So life isn't really all that bad.

UPDATE: Zombie was a little boresville* and doesn't seem to have aged very well as far as 70's horror films go. Piranha on the other hand was entertaining, full of blood, and quite funny, in an intentional, not 'this is so ridiculous' way (although it had plenty of that too). It was also a good source of unexpected fashion inspiration in the form of svelte young women sporting various combinations of high-waisted short shorts, wide leg dark denim jeans, plaited leather belts, knitted waistcoats, coloured bikinis and tight t-shirts. I'm now considering hiring out a bunch of old 70's movies and taking notes.

*boresville = snoretastic, dullsville, snooze-worthy.