The best birthday sms I received last night:

Jamiekins! Happy birthday! You're officially as old as I am.. Sob sob sob.. Oh well, I never liked being a teen anyways.. Hmph *bursts out crying*
VR

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Moving away from home was supposed to change everything. No longer would I be a kid living with her parents, whose credit card bills and shopping trips were paid for by her dad, who never had to worry over trivial things like meals or laundry. Once I left home, I would become a self-sufficient, responsible adult (SRA), who would hang out with other SRAs. And of course, we’d do SRA-ey things.

And has that happened? Of course I’ve become a SRA! Granted, I still live off money my parents send me monthly. And yes, I did go the first 3 weeks without doing laundry because I didn’t know how to use the washing machine. But all that doesn’t count. Just like the fact that I still can’t cook doesn’t count because there are restaurants which cater to the tastes of a SRA just across the road (e.g. KFC, and the chicken rice store). Because by god, if there’s anything that transforms a kid into a SRA, it’s cleaning the toilet! I’ve had to do that twice now (cursed duty roster), so I’ve obviously crossed that line.

But I've found that while it’s one thing to think of yourself as a SRA, it’s quite another to get other people to think the same. Ever since the flaming pan incident, my housemate cannot watch me ‘cooking’ (I use this term very loosely) without smirking and making snide comments. My neighbour teases me mercilessly every time I ask for help with fitting the duvet cover (this still beats struggling and flailing with it for hours though). The same neighbour won’t let me dance with guys he considers to be “cunts”. I’ve been tossed into sand pits, and had a couple of close calls with dustbins. I’ve been tossed over shoulders too many times to count and had to beg to be let down. And I’ve been asked for ID.

Yes, people still think that I’m a kid! Sometimes this gets me so mad, I throw a tantrum right there and then.

But I think I know why now. It’s my duvet covers. I brought them from home because I didn’t want the bother of shopping for bedlinen. But I’m beginning to regret that now as they’re not exactly the sort one would typically find in the bedroom of a SRA.



It’s lucky my dad just sent me money. I need SRA covers.

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So I was having toad-in-the-hole at the Bulldog today. Enjoying my food, admiring the keg tables and beer mats, when it suddenly hit me - holy cannoli, Batman! I want to work in a pub!

It's all the books I've been reading lately, I think. In the first few pages, there's usually a bit about the author which you can read to find out exactly how one gets to be a mad bastard/bitch. And the authors I read always seem to have gone through some dead interesting jobs. Which got me thinking - what sort of jobs will I get to brag about in the book I might write someday?

Well, I want one of them in a pub. So I asked a Bulldoggee if there were any job vacancies. There weren't, not for part-timers anyway. My heart was broken...for the two whole minutes it took to walk around the back to the next pub where coincidentally, one of the lads I was with knows the Owner. And there, surrounded by bar stools and pool tables, I had my first pub job interview.

So the Owner and I chatted a bit about the bloody long drive to where I live, how we both hate golf...y'know, matters of consequence. Anyways, to cut a long story short, he was undoubtedly overcome by my integrity and responsible nature as one can only quite naturally be cuz I got the job. I think. Which needless to say, is quite nice. Thanks of course must be given to CONDESCENDme for setting me up with the interview in the first place.

Now the only worm in my lettuce is how do I go about convincing my parents that working in a pub really is the best career move for me?

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I have just been invited to a party.

With promises of free booze, good music, and studmuffins galore.

But mature, responsible person that I am, I declined as I have a 9.30am lecture tomorrow. And I could never forgive myself if I fell asleep in cla...

No, I cannot lie to you.

The truth is, I have nothing to wear. Nothing clean, that is. I haven't done any laundry since I arrived because quite simply, I've absolutely no idea how to use a washing machine. It's very sobering to learn that clothes do not magically appear fresh, clean, and ironed in the wardrobe after spending a night in the clothes hamper.

This is clearly becoming an issue. Evidently, I need to stop procrastinating and do something now.

*Advertises for a Washing Lady to move in*

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A gift!

Approaching my 21st birthday, I thought that I was too old to play with dolls. But that was before I got my very own Capt. Jack Sparrow to play with! He says things so naughty that even my dog blushed when she accidentally nudged the button. And he's amazingly detailed, right down to the dirty fingernails. I only wish that the same attention to detail was given to his, err, anatomy (you depraved lot, there are THREE hands!).



So thanks to you, I can now molest Johnny to my heart's content. And if that's not a great gift, I don't know what is.

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Life is bleak. The sun gives me no warmth, meat turns to dust in my mouth, and a fry-up breakfast (with OJ) holds no appeal for me any longer.

And all it took was a late-night phone call.

Once upon a time, a phone call from my dad at that hour would have meant that he was missing me. Once upon a time, it would be to say goodnight to me. But now...now it's just to say things like, "I'm still not too keen on you working in a pub."

Now he calls to crush my dreams to pieces (or to remind me to buy more dog food in the morning).

Because of that one sentence, I'll never know the joy of mixing flash drinks at the bar. I'll never be able to control a pool table for a whole night. I'll never be able to remark offhandedly, yet undoubtedly impressively, that yes, I actually do work in a pub.

Was it the bar peanuts? Did my dad not like the Kilkenny he was served? Were the bar stools too tall? Why why why?!

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WORDS!!!

Scrawled in bold ink, all over my arms, legs, shoulders and stomach! Where did they come from?! Someone must have broken into my room last night. And tried to steal my stuff, only to be foiled by my genious anti-robbery strategy - I hoard my valuables on the bed and sleep on top of them. Not very comfortable, but by god, I'm not letting anyone get away with my booze and chocolate!

The messages on my body were probably that same someone expressing his/her frustration in great detail. I looked closer. Hmmm..."Kiwis have gonorrhea". Right, a Wallabies supporter there. Some smiley faces, and various "Happy Birthday"'s in bad handwriting.

Oh.



It had started off as a quiet birthday dinner. Friends, food, prezzies, cake, and an intimidating amount of balloons. All good. I was happy.



And then someone suggested moving on to the pub. I protested of course, but they dragged me along. Bloody alcoholics.



Things started to get a little hazy from there. I recall karaoke, pool and tequila. Actually no, I don't recall any of that. But those are the ingredients of every Wednesday night at Curtin. And if my non-recollecion is anything to go by, my birthday was no different.



Somewhere along the way, someone must have rustled up a marker and tried to make up for not buying me a card. Soon enough, random strangers were scribbling on me. Not that I was complaining, it gave me a chance to reciprocate on the hot ones. Remarked one as I worked in fierce concentration on his perfect abs, "How long does it take to draw a smiley face?"





But the highlight of the night was not the free drinks or dancing or birthday shout outs. It was the birthday present from some random guy.



One more to add to the hoard.

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Bar work!

I'll be working at the uni's bar next week. I can't wait - free drinks, flirting with the hot bartender whose name I don't know yet but will soon (ho ho ho), having uber cool BARTENDER status (let's not ALL rush in for a shag), and more free drinks!

Perfik!

Or it would be if I was getting paid as well. Somehow, I find myself paying $40 to put in two hours of slave labour instead. Surely, something went wrong somewhere...

But no. It's not a con. The $40 I forked out was actually for a 2-night bar course involving lessons on the do's and don't's behind a bar, how to pour a beer (and they forced us to drink our attempts! *Hic* "That was a crap pour. Can I *hic* have another go?"), a bit of wine -- *hic hic* -- tasting, and how to mix a number of cocktails (and dispose of them accordingly too. "Ooo, I think I mucked this one up. Can I -- *falls off bar stool* -- whoops there, can I try it again?").

Still, it's not too bad a deal. I'm pretty sure I drank my money's worth. Plus, there was an after-party with a free flow of drinks...although I only realised that the drinks weren't free at all when I was mocked by a very light wallet the next morning.

Come to think about it, the two hours of unpaid, or rather self-paid, work could come in handy. This way, I'll be able to say that I have work experience when applying for a proper bar job in the future:

"So, how long did you work at the Tav?"
"Oh, about 2-"
"Months?"
"Uh, -ish... Almost..."

All in all, a pretty good deal I would say. *Hic* Yep.

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