Dear Mars,

Shall I great you with a hug or a warm handshake?

Luv Dot

My Life as a Jerk (Phase 47.8.8): Voluntary Unemployment
Day three

Last Friday, i got to do something all of us dream of, but very few of us are ever actually in a position to go through with; i walked out on my job. I took umbrage to something someone said to me, i carefully considered my options and decided with a certain level of glee that the job was more hassle than it was worth.

I'd handed my notice in and had two weeks left to work - no problem i thought, i'll change my flights and just leave Manchester a little earlier. But, as most would recognise by now, my life is nothing if not an absolute comedy of errors, and after i left work for the last time on Friday a smile so large across my stupid gob, i thought i was unstoppable. Till i got to Flight Centre and was duely informed that there was no availability to change my flights to any sooner than the date i had booked.

MASSIVE BACKFIRE.

So now i'm left in this stinking city, with absolutely nothing to do, no inclination to be here, killing time and wasting money for another two whole weeks. Good one, asshole.

So today is Day Three of official unemployment, and i notice things are on the rapid decline. Monday started off pretty well, i went out for the whole day and met a friend for lunch, went on a massive walk and then went for pints in the evening. Yesterday, i went and met a friend in town for a coffee in the afternoon and picked up some supermarket shopping. Today, however, ambitious plans of climbing Snowdon were dashed early on, it's now 9.16pm and i've not even made it out of bed.

In an hour it's acceptable to go to sleep again.

Desperate for something to do (before i began this blog post), i googled the time in NYC to see if it was an appropriate time to harass Dot (god knows, my correspondence with everyone else on the internet today has been... thorough) - it wasn't an appropriate time, however i notice a link to a live webcam in Times Square.

As i realised i'd just lost 20 minutes of my life, eyes glazed over, watching the traffic in Time Square subconsciously wishing for a car crash with a couple of taxis, or better yet, a plane to fly in that building just as i was watching it - i realised that it had gone too far. Already, after only three days.

Tomorrow i must leave the house. At the very least, i must leave the bed.

The bed's not even that good any more, in fact. Never have i felt more like a squatter than i did after coming home on monday evening to find the stilts of my make shift bed; vanished. The stilts, giant vat-like barrels which used to contain Kashmir's best Mango Chutney. I'm not even joking. So I now appear to be left with a mattress on the floor, and after watching the BBC's three part documentary this week on the life of Gandhi, i feel more akin to him than ever before. A mattress on the ground; i am either a squatter, or a martyr for the cause of the impoverished.

My neighbour is a weird guy called Guy*

When Blane and I moved into our new apartment we noticed that the guy who lives in the apartment with a his front door opposite our front door had a sign up saying, "Under Surveillance".

I asked our landlord what this was about and he said, "That's Guy. He's a little bit odd. Don't worry about him. He won't give you any trouble. He doesn't have any surveillance equipment. He is not spying. Although, make sure you get some curtains up. Do you have curtains? I can lend you some sheets. Get curtains. But don't worry about him."

Our kitchen window is directly opposite Guy's kitchen window (it's looking into one of those narrow lightless air shafts you find in New York and Hong Kong and other busted cities). We took our landlord's advice and put curtains up very quickly.

We've been living here a month now and I DO get the feeling whenever I go out the front door that I'm being surveillanced.

On Monday there was a new sign in the hallway. Not on Guy's door, but on the wall between both our doors. It read:

Hot water turned off on Friday at 6.15pm without 24 hours notice.

I knew instantly it was a Guy sign and, because it wasn't on his front door but in a communal area, I tore it down. It was a stupid sign and it annoyed me. If he has a problem with the hot water then he should see the landlord (who has his office downstairs) and not leave anonymous signs posted on the top floor where the landlord will never see.

Creepy Guy was probably peeping out his peep hole and saw it was me who took the sign down.

On Tuesday Guy had a new sign on his door, this one written in big red capital letters, "RENT STRIKE!"

Oh dear.

This morning when I went to work there was NO sign on Guy's door. Good sign...

But when I came home from work tonight I noticed something strange above my own front door...

What is that?!?!?!

So, now WHACK Guy is mad about the heat not being turned on** and he's putting signs on the ceiling above my front door... WHY WHY WHY?

I instantly took photos of the sign and then knocked it down with a broom. I'm sure that Guy watched the whole thing stationed behind his front door watching through the peep hole. I don't care. I hope that seeing me take photos makes HIM paranoid.

Just like he is making ME paranoid.

Damn, it's a paranoid off!

May the most delusional person win...

__________
*Name not changed
** It was 14C today! What kind of idiot wants the heat on when it's sunny and 14C?

Mars: Reigned in by the long arm of the law (at last)

I had an encounter with law enforcement official today. I'd had my lunch, had my sit in the sun, sent a few texts and chain smoked for a bit then heard the clock at the town hall strike two... so proceeded to make my way back to the office. Across the road.

'Er, 'scuse me' i hear this authoritarian say, as i turn around a sour look (my current permanent disposition) on my face. I give him the look of 'WOT?', not needing real words...
'You shouldn't be crossing the road here'... he begins... 'you should be crossing at the lights'.
Too stupid to get immediately indignant, i casually spat 'sorry' and continued on my way.

It's only now that i'm annoyed. Not annoyed at him having a go at me really, more annoyed at myself for apologising. To him. It's like i said sorry to him, personally. As though i may have offended him.

Cant believe i let that one slip, to be honest...

Sometimes, good stuff happens. And this week, i got back a roll of film with a photo i had taken weeks earlier, and i'm thoroughly impressed with one picture, especially.

Last year i did a few posts mentioning Manchester Town Hall and how i love it. Every lunch time, i sit in Albert Square and watch the world go by, listening to the clock gong on the quarter to and quarter past hours. One day i'll get around to actually going in there... but for the time being, i'll just continue to enjoy the outside.


You just dont get stuff like that in Melbourne, and every day i am reminded of why i love Manchester and England.

What this receptionist reads online inbetween greeting clients and screening calls...

Weird: The kilogram is in danger
No, this doesn't mean we are converting back to the imperial system. It means that original metal cylinder that was used to determine an exact kilogram has changed weight:

...the official kilogram is kept locked inside a secured vault at the International Bureau of Weights and Measures near Paris. Scientists are so paranoid that they've only taken it out on three occasions: in 1889, 1946 and 1989. Each time, they've compared it to a set of copies. In 1889, the copies and the kilogram weighed the same, but by 1989, they had drifted apart. Based on the data, the kilogram appears to weigh slightly less than the copies.

What this means is the kilogram must be "redefined". How weird?


Wrong: Murder victim is identified by the serial number in her breast implants

Reality teevee slime, Ryan Jenkins, murdered his bikini model wife, Jasmine Fiore (I'm not even going to bother with the 'allegedly' here). Jenkins then escaped to Canada via a black SUV and a speedboat called 'Night Ride Her'. Royal Canadian Mounted Police tracked him to the 'Thunder Bird Motel' in a town called 'Hope' where they found his dead body hanging from a clothing rack on Sunday.

Pretty sensational stuff. However, the really disturbing part is:

Authorities say Jenkins killed Fiore, 28, and removed her fingers and teeth, evidently to conceal her identity. Police allege that he then stuffed the swimsuit model's body in a suitcase and dumped it in a Buena Park trash bin. It was found by a man combing the trash for recyclables.

Authorities were able to identify Fiore, who sometimes used the last name Kinkade, based only on a serial number found on a breast implant, according to the Orange County district attorney's office.

Murder and mutilation. It seems fair to say Fiore's body is what attracted Jenkin's to her (they got married after knowing each other for two days). Jenkin's then took Fiore's body and destroyed it.

At the end of her life, this poor woman's identity is located in her breast implant. So sad and dehumanizing.

Mission to Mars - Part One

In an attempt to occupy some of my time, and try to make myself feel a bit better after Bust Up 2009 - i did the most predictable thing ever and started doing what can only be described as exercise.

Previously unchartered territory for little Mars... i never really knew what this exercise thing actually entailed, but was accutely aware that i didnt like it one little bit. Initially i started going for really long walks to try and clear my head... mostly at night. I'm not sure why, but surprisingly, i started to enjoy it. Maybe it was a sense of recklessness, wandering around the dodgey area i live in, late at night and on my own... maybe it was the fresh air or maybe it was the fact that i'd managed to haul myself out of bed that day and considered it Achievement 101. I dont know - but after a couple of weeks, i cant say i started to look or feel like Jane Fonda, but i did start to feel slightly fitter (i think - cant be sure as i'd never know 'fit' before).

With this new found confidence and highly unexpected motivation, i decided to take this latest 5-minutes-on-the-brain crack pot idea (yes, fitness) to the next level... though rather than join a gym like a normal person, start walking to and from work or go swimming once a week in the local pool - i decided to join British Military Fitness.

I know, i am a moron...

List of things I hope to achieve by next year*

Get job
Get job I like
Get job I like that lasts more than six months
To be honest, lose five kilos off bum and hips
Write more about art
Write novel about a vampire
Get something published about anything
Be more confrontational with people who are horrible (racist, sexist, etc)
Go swimming regularly
Get haircut
Buy a computer (and give Blane back his ruined one!)
Buy an Ipod (and start listening to music again!)
Buy decent camera (and document this cool period of life... I live in New York!)
Read more brain books (and less trash!)
Communicate more with Dad and Brother (The women in my family are easy! The men not so much...)
Take drawing classes
Visit the Kluge Ruhe museum
Go camping
See more opera
See Shakespeare in the Park
Travel with Mars somewhere in the world...

_________________

* Dear Mars, maybe you should make a 'what I'd like list' and forget the 'what I ain't got list'?

List of things i wish i'd done by now

had baby
lost 25kg
had v romantic and torrid love affair first marriage
been to africa
seen more of my grandparents
never fallen out with my brother for 18 months
finished uni
forged a career
come up with a plan and stuck to it
found the love of my life

I wrote that list on 15th October 2008.

Good to see some things never change...

Potty Talk

1.

On the weekend my neighbour, Enin, got himself drunk and locked out of his apartment. This has happened before. I came home around 10pm and found Enin lurking in the corridor. He asked sheepishly/slurrishly if he could climb through my kitchen window (and into his courtyard and into his backdoor). I said fine.

Enin got through the window reasonable gracefully considering he had to climb over a stove having drunk two thirds of a bottle of French potato vodka.

From his backyard he yelled "Thank-you!" to me. He then added, "Come over for a drink! I've got French potato vodka and will invite the girls from upstairs!"

How could I refuse?

I went next door to meet Melissa and Rorie, 'the girls from upstairs'. Apparently they had helped Enin by buzzing him into the building. We were all a little excited to be having an impromptu party and instantly got to gossiping about the building and neighourhood. Enin made us vodka and coconut water cocktails, which helped us getting to know each other even more.

Eventually the gossip turned personal with Enin proposing the question to the group, "What do you want out of life? What does it all boil down to? What is most meaningful to you?"

Melissa answered with drunken poetry, "To love and be loved."

Rorie agreed and added, "To laugh as much as possible."

I agreed.

Enin was not happy with our answers, "No, I mean what experience is most meaningful. Not something general. Something specific, something that sums up your purpose in life..."

"Well, what is your answer then?" I asked. It was obvious he wanted to tell us.

"All I want," He said, "The one thing I want... is to cum really hard."

Silence.

Enin mistook our silence for not understanding. So he repeated, "Cum. Really. Hard. That is all I want from life. I mean, isn't it the greatest? When I'm fucking a girl my mind is so focused-"

"Gotta go!" Melissa suddenly remembered she had to get up early the next day. Rorie and I suddenly remember this too. We thanked Enin for the drinks, wished him goodnight and hurried back to our apartments.



2.

Today, just as I was leaving the office, Brad from upstairs buzzed reception asking me if I'd seen Bradina.

I said, "I'll take a quick look around the office on my way out."

I found Bradina easily, sitting at a table in the kitchen chatting to two other staff members. I said to Bradina, "Sorry to interrupt, but Brad is looking for you upstairs."

Before Bradina could reply, the staff member sitting at the table with his back to me turned around. It was Mr. Poobar!

Mr. Poobar said, "Tell Brad to suck cock. Bradina will call him when I'm finished with her."

Everyone sitting at the table laughed. I laughed also, but it was a nervous laugh.

I went back to reception and called Brad, "Bradina is talking to Mr. Poobar. Mr. Poobar said something I won't repeat. Bradina will call you when they're finished."

***

Neither Enin or Mr. Poobar's comments were massively offensive. However, the context was so completely wrong that I felt confronted by them.

It is not appropriate to talk about 'cumming really hard' with three girls you've met for the first time in your house.
It is not appropriate to talk about 'sucking cock' with junior member of your staff you are meeting for the first time. And, BONUS, it is demeaning to them to ask them to repeat your comments.

I'm not the appropriate police. Actually, I am the appropriate police. That's exactly what I am. And I am on patrol. These are not comments that fail because I don't have a sense of humour. They are comments that are simply offensive... and their perpetrators need to be brought to justice!

I have more to discuss on this topic (Is it sexual harassment? Why do I often feel like I'm being shamed for refusing to use porn type language, 'cum' 'cock' 'fuck' etc.? Isn't there something wrong with an Apatowian 'so wrong it's right' sense of humour that is legitizmising crude sexual language?). However, I'll stop now because I already feel like I'm going to be labeled as some prude spinster who is too fragile for this harsh world...

And golly gosh, maybe I am.