That was my initial view and response to coffee. I’m not sure what it was, the flavour of the caffeinated beverage drunk by basically everyone was not something which I enjoyed. And that was despite the fact I am an arts student and should actually be taking coffee into lectures and/or tutorials, gripping the cardboard cup and ingesting its goodness in an attempt to stay awake and actually learn.

I’ve never claimed to be a coffee connoisseur. One of my cousins – they know who they are – is one such coffee snob. When I visited her a few years ago she promptly decided to lecture me in my coffee-drinking ways, and pointed out that there was, and is, only one coffee brand she likes to drink, therefore going out of her way to drive to places that supply her precious drop. Picky much?

Maybe because I was late onto the coffee scene I am therefore significantly more low-brow and laissez-faire about it all. After weaning myself onto coffee via the chocolate route – the mocha (mainly due to the fact that drinking red bulls in winter was way too cold), I have since become rather hard core switching to long blacks (with a tiny bit of skinny milk). My preferred coffee brand? (Don’t laugh) Gloria Jeans.

Commercialised, I know. Generic, I know. But hey, I know what I’m getting and baby I like it (the way you brew my long black (Enrique Iglesias style (and btw, he’s rather good looking these days, eh?))). Also, Gloria Jeans is easy to find. Success.

Ok so more to the point of this entry. After getting to uni early before class, I have become somewhat of a regular at the local Gloria’s. It became much of a routine –getting a coffee before class and enjoying the warmth and caffeine it provided.

‘Long black, with a tiny bit of skinny’, I would ask the trendy Asian barista, weekly. Then he surprised me.

Walking up to the counter and proffering my loyalty card (also, bonus points there, free coffee!), he smiles.

‘Do you want your usual?’

I have become a regular. Slightly embarrassed but also rather impressed I say yes and smile. How lovely.

A few weeks later though I am significantly more embarrassed. After ordering my regular, usual trendy Asian barista passes my order onto the other guy.

‘So I’m making a long white?’ he asks trendy Asian barista. He is given a yes.

A Long White? Wtf is that?

Stepping back and looking confused, I notice a huge sign behind the counter. The ‘Long White’ – an espresso with a little bit of milk.

Eh? That poster has so not always been adhered to that wall, I would have noticed! Is this something new? Is this a universal thing that all coffee houses do? How long has that poster been there making me look like a complete fool?! I would like some answers!

Deadpan. I thought it was easy to order a long black. I can’t distinguish between a cappuccino, frappucino, macchiato, or latte. I have absolutely no clue. They just have frothy stuff? I thought I had it right with the long black, but apparently I have it wrong! Oh the shame.

I feel like the somewhat regular customer I have at work and her embarrassing ‘wrong-coffee order’ moment.

The first time I serve her does not go well. Bending down to take out her groceries from the trolley is a struggle for her. As I start scanning her items, she’s up and down getting them on the conveyor belt rather haphazardly, her items rolling everywhere as the belt moves. One last reach into the trolley she grabs her chocolate and vigorously attempts to get it onto the belt. It becomes airborne and in her efforts, it hits me on the chin.

Stunned that I’ve become the victim of a chocolate attack, I step back to pick it up. As I stand up to scan it, I notice her face. She looks mortified; her face a nice shade of crimson (probably enhanced by her enthusiastic grocery-movement from trolley to belt)

‘Omg omg omg’ she rattles off, ‘I am so sorry I didn’t mean to throw my chocolate at you. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I’m so embarrassed I just don’t know my own strength sometimes!’

I tell her it’s ok – it’s only chocolate and I am glad it is not a tin can of tomatoes. I hope to instil in her a sense of okay-ness. She does not look relieved, her face still tomatoey-coloured and continuing to tell me about her embarrassment and shame. After paying, she quickly moves away.

The other day I serve her and the first thing she does is tell me she’s been avoiding me because of her shame about ‘the chocolate incident’.

‘I’m so embarrassed to be at your register because of that chocolate I threw at you before. I can’t believe I did and every time I see you, I try and hide. I’m so sorry; I won’t throw any chocolate at you today’.

As I scan her groceries, she again continues to tell me of her humiliation. I can’t believe she’s been avoiding me because she’s still embarrassed. But these things stick, don’t they?

To be honest, for the rest of semester I’ve been avoiding trendy Asian barista because all my I-know-what-coffee-I-am-ordering has come unstuck.

Maybe I should admit defeat – being the low-brow, commercialised coffee-drinker I am, it is only Gloria Jeans, right? And not everyone is like me and because of certain buying habits of customers gives them nicknames, right? Because, chocolate-throwing lady, there is no need to be embarrassed!

Firstly, I may possibly have been working at Coles for too long, and secondly, I must give off the illusion that I have lots of money and am either very generous and/or can be scared into giving people money/my time.

How so?

This afternoon, I am standing in a packed tram stop (it’s not even Flinders Street) because some tram has had some kind of breakdown. I stare blankly across the road, hands stuffed in pockets, the wind blowing my hair (and wrecking the fringe) about the place. Suddenly out of the corner of my eye I notice an approaching figure. Turning slightly, I am faced with an apparently poor lady wearing a beanie (I don’t know why I am mentioning the beanie – it wasn’t even one of those cute animal ones people are wearing on their heads). She is in my face. Really. Personal space!

Pulling out a headphone, and taking a step back she shoves her hand up to my eye level and shows me a few ten and five cent coins. ‘Can I have some change?’ she enquires.

Normal person first thought: ‘oh this woman is clearly poor and begging for money so she can buy something to eat/drink/smoke, I shall consider whether I can and will donate to her small change fund. Oh, decisions!’

Amanda thought: ‘change for what? I don’t have a 50cent coin to change your money for. I’m not at work, I can’t open the register’.

‘Eh, what?’ I ask back, clearly still entertaining above thought.

‘Change, to eat’ she states back, even motioning an eating gesture. ‘Oh, I’m sorry no’, I tell her.

Turning around she approaches a second person, without luck. And then she wanders away.

She approached two people at said packed tram stop – me, and a man eating a sausage roll.

Now comes my question – why me? (I don’t care about why the man was approached). I am not entirely sure of her logic.

I am going home from uni, in a giant jacket. I know I look tired and considering I failed to do my hair this morning I possibly do not give off the ‘with-it’ or immaculately groomed impression. I thought this look would mean I actually look like a poor uni student. Ok, maybe not as poor as her, but still, a poor uni student.

Maybe if she thought if she got in my face (she was kinda scary-looking) she could intimidate me into giving her money? Maybe when she realised I didn’t even understand what she meant, the eating gesturing would result in me feeling sorry for her and therefore give her some change? Maybe if she had been wearing one of those animal beanies on her head she would have had more luck?

I’m not sure. I also attract those people who hang around waiting to accost you outside Gloria Jeans or train stations wanting to chat about Oxfam or Fitness First, (or if I am with a white person, those Asian night clubs/phone deal things – not racist, strangely accurate) and feel rude when I walk away/end up taking their leaflet thingo.

Hmmm. Thinking about it though, my first thought could be perfectly plausible… and it comes on the back of half-asleep middle-of-the-night Amanda fumbling around and reaching out to grab a receipt and freaking out about not being able to reach it.

…and on that note, tomorrow morning I am going to work to greet the old people on pension day!

Meeting a friend for coffee at Southland gave me a chance to attempt to achieve my shopping missives – buy myself a new crunchy (as in the sound it makes when you sit or squish it between your hands) duvet (for brilliantly comfortable IKEA bed mentioned in previous post) and/or quilt cover set and doubly, purchase a gift (most likely slippers and/or chocolates) so my sister and I could spoil the mother figure on Sunday.

After thoroughly enjoying my catch up and long black (with a little bit of skinny) at Gloria Jeans (why yes, I am a low-brow commercialised coffee drinker), I set off to go shopping.

Locating the quilt, and deciding i would look rather uncoordinated lugging it everywhere else, i decide it is probably wise to get it last. In Target though, I meet my match. The initial slippers I had been advised to get (something boot-ish) are nowhere to be seen.

Sending a picture to my sister with the only options (pink fluffy things or old-lady slippers) proves less than fruitful as my phone battery starts to die due to the fact that Target in Southland, Cheltenham, is actually the high country (thank you, 3mobile, now I know why this ‘Vodafail’ video is oh-so-accurate (and hilarious)).

I get no reply. Calling her she tells me she doesn’t know what we should get as the slippers are ‘weird looking’. Hanging up, she tells me she’ll have another look at my grainy photo.

I continue to stress out over what to do and decide to walk to the sheets section to contemplate the quilt cover sets. The prices shock me – they are significantly more expensive than what I initially thought they were going to be. Argh!

‘Eh, do you think I should get a quilt cover set for $100?’, I message my mother, as roaming finally kicks in. ‘That expensive!’ she replies, apparently just as amazed as I am. ‘I know eh, maybe I’ll have to come back tomorrow for a proper look’

My sister’s reply to another of my frantic message comes in ‘they’re a bit ugly! But maybe we can wrap some of those Darrell Lea caramel snow bars or something in them or something’. Ok decision made.

I stand in the long line at Target along with lots of men and their bratty little kids and purchase the ‘bit ugly’ soft pink fluffy (but ‘Mum will love these stay-in slippers!’) slippers and continue my journey. There is a rather decent crowd there too and, straining to see behind more men and their offspring (and actually a few other females), I am unable to spot any caramel snow bars. Spanner in the works. Normal chocolate or black liquorice (gross) doesn’t really suffice as my mother is having her own coffee in the city with friends and will undoubtedly buy her own stash. Argh!

I quickly get out my phone and type a message: ‘there are no caramel snow bars! Should I get fancier chocolates than Darrell Lea?’, intending on making a stop at that Planet Chocolate place two levels up.

My arms are getting sore – despite not buying a quilt cover set, I am in possession of my brilliant new crunchy duvet and despite being unbelievably crunchy, it is also rather heavy.

Continually checking my phone (now properly connected to the 3network) for an answer and nothing appearing I am fed up. Damn her for not replying! Executive decision – Planet Chocolate it is.

I select a few of the fancier chocolates in weird shapes and flavours, make my way uncoordinatedly carrying all my purchases up the escalator, and head towards the car park.

Stepping outside into the cold air I feel my phone vibrate.

‘Was this meant for me or your sister?’

What the hell, I think – why on earth would I be messaging my sister about quilt cover sets?

The realisation hits me like a giant crunchy duvet in the face. Checking my sent box only confirms my messaging disaster.

Fml.

Oh Amanda, you are SUCH an idiot. Who knew you could be so smart?

Happy Mother’s Day.

The IKEA website tells me that ‘The name IKEA is formed from the founder’s initials (I.K.) plus the first letters of Elmtaryd (E) and Agunnaryd (A), the farm and village where he grew up’ (oh dear, research on a non-uni day).

However, smart Amanda thinks this possibly could be a lie.

Ingeniously Knocking Everyone Around? I’m Knowingly Entertaining Aristocrats? Innovative Kit; Evil Assembly? Interestingly Kitsch ‘Everyday’ Accessories?

Something is asunder!

They cleverly draw you in and then spit you out the other end, struggling to hold onto various items you definitely will find use for in the future. Definitely. I mean, that new gadget goes rather well in that new IKEA box that you specifically bought to hold ‘what’s-this-thing-do-again?/I’ll-use-this-at-least-once’ items.

What I have come to realise, is that they have turned what are traditionally negative things, into positive ones! Flicking through my (much-read) IKEA brochure, a key concept is ‘we have prepared the IKEA store for you to shop on your own’. YOU choose and compare items, YOU attempt to find helpful staff member, YOU find said item in warehouse, YOU pick it up and lug it to checkout, YOU attempt to get large products into small cars, YOU then assemble said product.

‘Customer service?!’ old Coles lady crows at me as I ask her to take her crap out of her basket. I bet she never shops at IKEA. (and I doubt my golf would love to have a flat-packed shelf/set of drawers perched precariously on top of her roof)

that's right, TOO EASY!

Anyway, recently I ventured into IKEA to purchase my lovely new bed. There is something magical about the prospects of shopping at IKEA for me. I love wandering through all (because it’s one long route you must take unless you find the sneaky shortcuts to exit (or for some, escape)) the display sections looking at everything and picking up random gadgets/kids toys/cool kitchenware on the way. There are also those people who, like in that movie ‘500 days of summer’, are pretending they live in beautiful IKEA-furnished house, turning on the taps and making comments like ‘I don’t know how to tell you this…but there’s a Chinese family in our bathroom’(har har!) etc

Upon reaching bed destination, I already had some idea about what I was looking for. Seeing all the beds made-up so neatly gave me hope as I sat, and then lay down on a few of them. Suddenly, I had turned into Goldilocks. ‘What about this mattress?’ my mother enquires, pointing to a much cheaper one than the one the website suggest I was suited to in their ‘mattress-test’. ‘Too hard’, I protest blatantly ignoring the significantly lower price. ‘This?’ ‘Too soft’.

And there it was. Pushing others out of the way, I made my way to lay down on the mattress the website suggested – the Sultan Herand! (Why would I ignore such sage-advice?). Win.

Noting down the location of all the separate pieces to make the bed as well as where to find the mattress, we tried our hardest to make it past all the other cool stuff we thought we could use to spruce up the house (including another blue glass orb (because who doesn’t need two of them?)), and made it to the ‘yes, (unfortunately) we need delivery’ desk.

The bed arrived promptly a little after 10am the following day. Realising that I had severely overestimated the size of the bed in relation to my bedroom (read: study), this required more re-organizing of my current IKEA furniture (and one drawer still can’t open the entire way, lol), to create the space to build the masterpiece.

Matching all the little screws and pieces to what was shown in the work, getting out the screwdrivers and laying down the pieces of wood, we got to work. A couple hours down (and trying to push the fact that I was bed-building instead of starting my essay), we reached step 9.

‘What’s this?’ my mother asks, pointing at a picture in the instructions. ‘The mid-bar thingo?’ I reply, sitting in the middle of an unfinished bedframe. ‘Where is it?’

Mega fail. Oh IKEA, you have misled us!

Frantically searching through obviously empty boxes we come to the realisation that it was an EXTRA piece we just didn’t pick up at the warehouse. When I had asked the packing guy if we needed the three bed frame pieces, plus the slats he said yes.

Clearly he meant to say: ‘Why yes, you need this bed-head thing here, and these are the sides, and this is the foot-end. Oh, you’ll need these slats here, plus this mid-bar thingo which is actually a little way over here, hiding amongst other furniture. Here! I’ll help you get it on your trolley, because, despite noting that you are in possession of a rather powerfully-built physique, chivalry is NOT DEAD (smiley face)’.

Anyway, to cut a long story somewhat shorter, a mad rush back to IKEA to attain said ‘mid-bar thingo’, a few more hours and some bruises later, the bed was finished.

Aaaaand, Amanda is one step closer to achieving an IKEA showcase room despite that issue of the drawer… The bed is rather lovely – only enhanced further by the two blue glass orbs and the blue dog toy.

After consoling myself over the mess which now sits atop my fat head with a few drinks last night, I have finally come to the resolution that there is nothing more that I can do.

(Yes, it took me awhile to come to this conclusion, but I never denied I was slow)

I don’t think I’m the only one who does not like my haircut though. It’s only been a mere 24hours before my straggly locks were given the scissors treatment (what I should deem, ‘The Hacking’ (sounding like a M. Night Shyamalan movie title, hmm? And yes, possibly an exaggeration on my part), but I think I’ll need more time for this to sink in.

Moreover, I wonder what to make of the fact that waking up this morning, it appears that my left eye has taken this hair-cutting experience deeply. It is all puffy, swollen and disgusting and I can only deduce that some small part of me (even if it is only my left eye), is trying to protect myself.

My left eye is trying to either a) close itself up so I can only half-see what my hair looks like, b) is trying to make itself look worse in an attempt to take away the attention my haircut will receive or (and the smallest chance here, significantly less believable than the former possible answers), c) looks as it does only merely due to the fact that I got face scrub in that eye and it hurt.

I feel somewhat like Eddie McGuire here, although guessing the right answer will not win you a million dollars (you’ve not even reached the safety level, though I guess you cannot really have a safety level in a one-question quiz).

The obvious answers are really a toss-up between A and B though, right?

I guess I had said before that I wanted to do something drastic, like chopping all my hair off and feeling rather liberated! But then, I know I would feel great for the first few hours, and then spend every one after bawling my eyes out.

I know it is stupid to be entirely hung up on my hair, but washing it this morning I failed to adjust the shampoo/conditioner ratio and pretended to wash hair I no longer had. Sad. It was like those people who lose limbs and can feel it’s ghostly presence still there. (Clearly my hair is kinda somewhat possibly vaguely along the same lines?)

Maybe I should take solace in the fact that my mother said she liked my haircut. Though actually, maybe I should take that as a warning sign!

..and now to attempt to find a hat AND an eye-patch before I venture into the city later today. Fantastic!

So what has stupid Amanda done again, you may ask (and why oh why does she feel the need to blog about her stupidness and therefore embarrass herself on her blog?)

Let’s get some background information here.  A fair few months (yet significantly not blog posts) ago, I dyed my hair. Previous readers (you two know who you are, ha!) would remember that this dying of the hair was a horrendous disaster and resulted in some black hue which should clearly have been DARK BROWN (liars).

After living with the disaster, I finally went and sought professional help at an actually trendy hair salon where I spent 5 hours (no typo there) getting the colour stripped, highlights done, and a general colour makeover. Initially, after having the black mess colour stripped, I looked (their description), like a ranga. Personally, I thought I looked like Vanessa Amorosi in her ‘Holiday’ video clip. Ha! (sorry photos will not be added)

ANYWAY, (this is more back-story than I thought I would put, but oh well) the other day I went to get the colour retouched. It had been a good six months (apparently you’re meant to get your colour fixed every 6-8weeks? Oops (but not main oops).

After discussing how to colour my hair, the deadly question came.

‘So Amanda, how long has it been since you’ve had your hair cut?’

Oh, the shame. I knew I would never be able to hide for so long. After speed-talking my way through justifications of avoiding a proper haircut such as a) previous hair-cutting nightmares b) the fact that I have never walked away with a haircut I’ve actually liked c) split ends are so tre chic!, they just raised their eyebrows and, practically begged me to get my hair cut.

 How embarrassment. They begged me to get a haircut. I guess three-way split ends are not as trendy or manageable as I thought?

And so I relented and made a booking. I thought it would be better – this was a trendy-hair salon and not just a Just Cuts with a shiny sign.

Early in the morning I was met by my hairdresser. I felt rather fancy. I was referred to as a ‘client’ and not ‘next-waiting’. My split ends were tackled by a metro with a long blonde fringe and shaved undercut. Hot.

Fluffing around with my hair he seemed in shock. The look of disappointment clearly evident on his trendy-stubbled face growing with each second that passed as I sat in a somewhat shameful silence.

‘When was your last haircut, Amanda? Do you use any product in your hair?’

Trying to justify my hair disaster did not go well.

‘Product?’ I query. ‘As in stuff to help your hair look better and healthier’ he explains. ‘I use conditioner!’ I trumpet. I don’t necessarily think that’s what he meant. Maybe I should retreat to ‘next-waiting’ country.

I told him I needed a bit of length to counteract my fat head – it is just (and I mean, just) below my shoulders. I told him I like my fringe thick and demonstrated where my parting normally is – but he readjusted it.

Bits of my fringe falling into my hands as he wields his scissors make me feel sad and somewhat old. Like those old people who have had the same haircut for ages and ages and are finally making a change, or those people who have really long hair and getting a bob or something.

 ‘You won’t even recognise yourself after this!’, he says (somewhat excitedly, possibly more maniacally)

Result?

I hate my haircut. AGAIN.

It’s too short, and all my aims of being able to do one of those cool fish-tail plait things have gone down the drain.

I was told I break a fair few hair-dressing rules such as a) leaving it so long between colouring, b) my fringe has a life of it’s own and needs to be cut differently from normal fringes (great, even my fringe has issues), c) triple-split ends? (I don’t know who I’m fooling) and d) how my hair looks thick, but actually isn’t (I guess no conning proper hair dressers!)

I am aware I am no hairdresser, but this was more than a Just Cuts price, this was trendy-salon price, and therefore rather hefty.

Smiling at me in the mirror and marvelling over his finished product, I attempt to smile back.

‘And so do you like it?’ he smiles even bigger. The trainee girl comes over and backs him up on his sculpting skills. ‘I think it looks great, a LOT better. You have great hair now!’ she says.

Fantastic. Now I’ve got no way out. Thinking about what to say reminds me of my previous hair-cutting dilemmas, and advice from people who love their haircuts about being firm and truthful in what you think about what your hair looks like. I can’t do anything like that now. Lie time! Hmmm, why is this situation starting to sound vaguely familiar?

‘Ah yes, I love it! It’s amazing what you’ve done; I don’t know why I didn’t come here earlier. Thanks heaps!’, I enthuse (no really, I did enthuse), and smile back. Hmm?

And another significant chunk of money disappeared.

When I was asked whether I wanted to make another booking I skirted around the issue and said I would see how this went, hoping that my constant grinning would mask my non-committal response.

Why do I do this time and time again? Is there any way to escape this vicious cycle? Apparently not for me.

I guess now I’m caught like a little (scary) moth in a spider’s web, that when my split ends are tripled again.

I cannot wait.

Said dilemma is:

‘I buy my coffee from the same place every morning (at $4.50) but the baristas never acknowledge me. The least they could do is remember my order. TD.’

The forthcoming response from Mr. Wise Guy is: ‘Count yourself lucky, many suffer from the opposite (very first-world) problem – they can’t get their barista to shut up. Once you open the floodgates of familiarity – how was your weekend, is that a new shirt, what happened to your face – it is nigh on impossible to return to anonymous caffeination. If you’re stopping in before work, chances are you’re still waking up and should take this opportunity to vague out while you can. Remember, this is Melbourne; there are more coffee shops than traffic lights, so you could always go elsewhere. If you really want t make a point, you could be more forceful in your ordering approach. You could jokingly imply you are their best customer. Or perhaps sing your order, or write it on your forehead. If they continue to ignore you, you’re probably invisible. Maybe you should think about a new shirt, or a new face’.

Ok, there are two main questions which I see rise from this situation.

1. (a) Does this same situation apply to supermarket customers? Do they want to be remembered as the person who doesn’t have flybuys (because they don’t like to fly/don’t believe in them/are too old/hates terrorists/has nowhere to go/really, really don’t want a fancy-arsed toaster)/always buys the salad and can’t shut the lid/person who brings their own pen to sign their credit card slip? Which then leads to (b) should I pretend I don’t remember above-mentioned people despite their delightful idiosyncrasies?
2. Should I feel rather bad if I don’t recognise some of the more regular shoppers who may think they have an intimate grocery-shopping experience with me/admire my fantabulous bag-packing skills and knowledge of vegetable codes, as I have potentially hurt their feelings?

Hmmm.

It is always nice to see and be served by a friendly face, right? (The amount of people who tell me the self-serve checkouts are impersonal (more like, they can’t get the concept to place their groceries in the bagging area and hence get too frustrated) must count for something). (And yes, I am going to at least have conviction in thinking I have a friendly face ha)

And then, if so, it is nice to think that you’re a person who people like to serve (hello Mr. Guy who comes in every Sunday, stands at the end of the register after being given the receipt, blatantly takes extra bags (‘I’m-saving-the-environment-by-not-using-plastic-bags’ people, he is clearly undoing ALL your good work) and repacks all his groceries, no one likes you and that is clearly not a good thing to be remembered for), right?

I guess, with my brilliant (mostly) memory, in terms of ‘Point 1a’, I would assume people want to be remembered – at least a little. TD was sad because of all the time invested in going to the same place and ordering the same thing, they felt less than important. If people are constantly good customers, they will be remembered. But if they are a real pain in the arse, forgetting them could be a bit of an issue.  And it is nice to think that customers actually care about how your day has gone.

If you’re buying lots of cake ingredients and commence to tell me everything you are going to bake, surely it is common courtesy that next time you are in, I ask how your baking turned out? (Assuming I remember who you are). You told me you were baking for a reason, felt the need to justify all those little chocolate bits and lollies you were buying (why do people do that btw? I don’t judge (unless you’re buying boxes and boxes of condoms, strawberries, chocolate sauce and whipped cream, hmm…)), surely you were asking for some curiosity on my part.

I hope ‘Point 1b’ shouldn’t factor in, because if (again), (a) they dint want to be remembered, they would be a bland customer and not someone who was actually nice or really annoying, or (b) they would shop at other supermarkets.

At least this way (my conclusion), I won’t have to ask every person whether they have flybuys… and it should count for some kind of brilliant customer service. Right?

What do you reckon?

This argument is one that has been widely debated (unfairly I might add), mainly due to my ‘disadvantage’ of having some Asian genes. Stereotype here baby!

I would like to claim (with some substantial reports now) that I am actually a good driver.

(Why are you laughing?)

My first testament came via this article. It basically states that, due to some astrological greatness, Capricorns happen to be good drivers. I am a Capricorn (and apparently also motivated and determined). Success. :D It also says that people who happen to be under the sign of the Crab, are the worst drivers and likely to be in the most car accidents.

My second came in the form of a letter from Vicroads, advising me that I was soon to be off my P Plates, and they are thus going to reward me with a discounted upgrading-of-licence fee.

Hooray! (However, $35 does not appear to be that discounted, eh?)

I have long been asserting my good-driverness to doubters, but look, Vicroads says I am good, so take that.

The other day however, I was driving, two lanes merged into one and this guy totally cut me off. I honked my horn. Well at least I thought I did. I pushed the middle of my steering wheel with enough force that should have resulted in a noise that alerted the other driver to his obvious mistake, and made him rather apologetic towards my circumstances.

He didn’t even turn around. No acknowledgement. No nothing.

Is my horn broken?! I severely hope not!

In fact, I was rather worried to the point that I re-tested my horn-honking abilities in the privacy of my garage.

It works. However, I am concerned about the audibility of it.

(I am going to completely ignore the fact that my music was up rather loud to the point that my side mirrors were vibrating. That clearly has nothing to do with my horn’s muteness)

If my car horn were a person who was trying to cut or weave its way around other people, it would be saying ‘please sir, (Oliver style), may you shuffle over a little because I may have to manoeuvre my way over here/you are performing a driving move which is not to my liking, surely you are wrong, right?’.

Definitely not a powerful, pushy or shoving ‘I AM HERE! I AM GOING THERE! MOVE OVER!’. Even a bold, assertive ‘Excuse me!’ would be better than what I have.

Ok, to be completely honest, I drive a Volkswagen Golf.  It’s a small car which I can easily reverse parallel in one move (despite the fact one of my driving instructors back in the day said you were meant to reverse parallel in two moves – oops), and it is a rather cute car. Its nicknamed Cleo btw (long story, don’t ask).

I don’t know why I expect a small car to have a big horn. Clearly, we don’t need to be compensating for anything. I’m not a big horn user anyway (especially because I am motivated and determined to avoid unnecessary risk).

I guess other people using their horns may be seen as rude, and I admit, I was overly cautious when I first started out driving mainly because I was worried I was actually the one who was doing some inaccurate driving manoeuvre. (As if, right? Hah)

Though, with the horn I’ve got, it’s not like anyone will be taking any notice of what they’re doing wrong anyway.

Please sir, acknowledge the bad driving practises to which you are partaking in. Please? Beep beep!

This time, it involves the gel/cream-like substance I decided to coat my hair with in an attempt to change the colour. This is otherwise known as hair dye.

I had virgin hair until I was basically 16. I attempted one of those semi-permanent things back in highschool. It was some red/brown concoction and you couldn’t tell I had done anything until I stood in direct sun and you happened to be at the right angle to see the ‘highlights’ it apparently put in there.

The sole time I went to the hairdressers to get a colour was with my sister. It was spur of the moment as she was getting hers coloured. The hairdresser advised me to go darker and thus commenced to put some weird purply gunk on my head which initially, didn’t look too bad. For weeks after however, despite washing my hair a hell of a lot, it felt like it had glue in it. Gross.

More recently, after the hair cut incident, I figured I might as well attempt another change. Despite the fact that there was enthusiasm on facebook for a change of my naturally dark hair to Asian blonde, I didn’t think I could be that adventurous.

(Blonde Amanda? Don’t raise your eyebrows at me)

 That’s right. Blonde. One of my friends and myself have debated going blonde. We’re both naturally dark haired, and so blonde would be a rather significant change, but while she could probably pull off a decent blonde hue, maybe mine would be less successful.

I think my attempt at blonde (without the use of some extra strong (especially now) bleach which would probably kill my hair instead) would make it more orange (‘Asian blonde’), and possibly not even a decent orange at that.

Anyway, again I took the plunge. I had ventured out to the shopping centre to pick up a hair colour, and ended up completely overwhelmed at all the different shades on the shelves.  I decided I better do something a little safe, forgo the blonde ambition I had been harbouring – at least for now – and select a brown. Which brown though? Chestnut? Mahogany? Frosted brown? Praline? Dark chocolate? Iced chocolate? Dark brown? Teak? Holy shit!

Standing there looking at all the pictures I was rather confused. I went for dark brown. I figured that considering the girl on the box was black (ethnic wise), and her hair had gone a nice ‘brown brown’ which looked a few shades lighter than what my current hair colour actually was, I could probably achieve a similar result.

Looking at my hair now, this was obviously a lie (and whoever took those photos to go on the box clearly used Microsoft Paint to change the colour of her hair)

My hair is black.

So black it is darker than burnt. As in burnt charred remains of anything. If you cut it off, frayed the ends a little and stuck it on a log, it could probably pass off as the burnt remains. Or something.

I had a ‘mini’ (debatable) freak out. Did the L’Oreal Casting Crème Gloss people accidentally place the wrong colour in the box or what?

I wanted my hair a few shades lighter than what I had, and ended up with something even darker than my natural hair colour.

Before, I was told you couldn’t pick that I had any Asian background. The other day at work this random guy came to my register and loudly stated: NI HAO MA! (And the startled and confused look on my face then prompted him to explain that it was hello in Chinese and that he thought I was from China. True story. Really. Oh my)

Luckily, in my hair-dye-buying ignorance, I picked a 28 wash colour.

In the space of two weeks, I should at least be down to two remaining washes before all the colour is gone. Right?

Or else, clearly Rod Stewart’s ‘blondes have more fun’ should be overhauled.

I figure I should preface this post with that point first.

Yesterday when I was riding the train, I noticed this guy. I think I noticed him for mainly one feature. It was not his striking blue eyes, nor his trendy looking jacket. It wasn’t even the fact that he was reading a political magazine or that his hair had that ‘I-just-got-out-of-bed-I’m-so-sexy’ look. It was more what was on his face. It was not an item of food (thank god), or a lipstick mark (also, thank god), it was his facial hair. He was the owner of a very impressive beard. It was thick, it was bushy, and despite the fact I am not one usually going for facial hair, it looked good.

My initial thought was: man, the bottom of his face must be rather warm! I could use one of them.

Yes. Strange. (But really, I am the person who claimed to have originally got a thick fringe cut to keep my forehead warm in winter, clearly neglecting the fact that winter comes with strong winds and hence, the practicality of a fringe, and reasons for its existence change from ‘keeping forehead warm’ to, ‘pissing off Amanda because it won’t sit nicely and gets blown about the place clearly wrecking any potential of a ‘good hair day’’).

Anyway, though this sounds entirely random, it has a point. And this point happens to concern appropriate dressing. After I had my little ‘I-wish-I-had-a-beard’ moment, I then mused over my inappropriate layering habits. I wish I had put on a cardigan underneath my jacket, and overtop of my long sleeved top and t-shirt combination. It reminded me of how, in the weekend paper, they had mentioned something about wearing shorts. I am aware that this doesn’t sound particular wild, or rather new, it just made me question whether I had my dates right, and whether Australia was actually situated in the southern hemisphere. Shorts. In winter. Hooray.

When I got off the train, for any casual observer, it must have looked incredibly odd. I was wearing a jacket (with a hood), jeans, and Dunlop volleys (green yay), with a t-shirt and long sleeve top. The girl next to me was wearing gladiator shoes, a pair of small black shorts, a singlet top and a cardigan. What the? Surely we’re in the same city, right?

I think I am rather confused.

I am all for shorts, in fact, I happen to own a few pairs, but I am not one to wear them in winter. I do not want to expose my legs in the rain and sleet, and have them look especially ‘chickeny’ (in terms of looking like chicken skin with all the cold goosebumps on them!).

It’s trendy now apparently. Shorts, with stockings and heels. Or stockings and boots. Anyway. Shorts. Short-shorts even. Where did this come from? And who is it that happens to dictate fashion? I am no fashion tragic. In fact, I am probably the most unfashionable person out there due to the fact I really do not like (nor appreciate) shopping, and hence my wardrobe tends to be rather outdated, but shorts seem like such a summer item. Or something you happen to wear when you are going out clubbing (like I did back when I just became legal, ha). Skirts and leggings, ok it seems understandable, but the shorts thing just doesn’t go well with me.

Don’t even get me started on jandals/thongs and the way that they flick shit up your arse when you walk in them when it’s wet outside. (clearly not literal shit, but when you walk and they do that ‘thowock’ thing and all the crap and wetness/mud off the ground gets thrown up your back, you know what I mean, don’t think I am crazy).

I remember back a few years ago, it was all about layering. You don’t just wear a singlet top, you wear multiple ones in different colours. And you don’t just wear a t-shirt. You wear a t-shirt with an open shirt, and then a cardigan, and then a jacket, and you wrap your scarf around your neck like there was no tomorrow.

Ah, fashionable post Amanda.

So anyway, things I don’t get

1. Short skirts, and bare legs, and then ugg boots. What the. Warm feet, cold legs?
2. Shorts, and then stockings/leggings. Wear pants? Tight pants if you must?

I think this is one of the things I won’t be succumbing to. I guess that when I dress like an Eskimo, at least I won’t be shivering on the inside, wondering why I had forgotten my cardigan. Maybe a coffee would warm the bones and my legs will be thanking me, even if they look rather unfashionable.