Freudian Slips

For various reasons, I had to go to a local doctor recently. Because I don't really get sick often enough to warrant seeing a regular doctor, I agreed to the appointment time the receptionist offered me. It was only when I had stood up to greet him and walk into his room that I realised with horror that this was a man I had, in the past, been rather rude to over the phone (read: slammed down the receiver) when I called him in my work role. Although, to be fair, he had been rather rude to me as well, and I figure that retaliation is ALWAYS the best answer.

He didn't appear to recognise me, however, and even went so far as to ask me "what I did for a living." I wasn't quick-witted to come up with an appropriate lie at this stage (to minimise detection and subsequent poor quality of care, you see) and so told him what I did with the hope that this would shut him up and leave him to resume his rant about the quality of his laser printer (no, really!). Of course, he wasn't satisfied with this answer and pressed me for more details. In my panic, I gave him the name of a hospital situated approximately A BILLION miles from my home suburb and the medical practice, in addition to what I imagine was a significant lack of eye contact. He raised his eyebrows slightly and asked me what department I worked in. My panic increased and I latched onto the first disorder I could think of, Attention Deficit Disorder.

Lord knows why I latched onto this one, as I never even see it in my work, but out it came, and it was too late to do anything about it. I was expecting the horrible dawning of realisation and an angry index finger thrust vigorously at the door, but instead he straightened in his chair and shook my hand. Actually, that's not strictly true; he straightened up, gave a large sneeze and than proffered me the hand he had used to cover his mouth...which I SHOOK because I am an idiot or too eager to please, or was just so stunned by his reaction.

My doctor then told me that he suffered from Attention Deficit Disorder and did I know the latest research findings in relation to Ritalin? Fearing follow-up questions, I said that I hadn't, but this turned out to be a mistake as well because he got launched into statistics and recommended dosages and how he had experienced it for years and how sometimes he got so frustrated he wanted to bang his head against the wall and hey did he mention that his daughters had ADD as well and they were really smart and there was this great specialist in the city...and all of a sudden I was glad that this wasn't actually my real job, although I felt a little upset that I had (unintentionally) tricked this man into believing that my professional life revolved around something so important to him. I AM A TERRIBLE PERSON, EVEN WHEN I DON'T MEAN TO BE.

I eventually staggered out of the room with a large weight of research findings, websites of interest, specialists' contact numbers and heavy eyelids. Then I went straight to the bathroom and washed my hands.

Doctors, huh? They're all mad, you know.

I went to see a junior-high-school-rock-eisteddfod-dressed-up-as-a-professional-production-and-homogenised-for-the-Western-market production called the Divine Performing Arts Chinese Spectacular. I think the above description pretty much sums up the show.

There was no synchronised Tibetan pistol-whipping number, but there was a bit of Falun Gong beating that S referred to as "propaganda." I dared to suggest that one might want to consider the issue of the Falun Gong in shades of grey rather than the monochromatic format he was proposing, however we got into a fight on the bus and I was categorically told that I was not to criticise China in any way, shape or form from now on.

NICE WORK, CHINA. I'd be tempted to say something else, but am slightly worried that Chairman Mao is recording me from beyond the grave somehow, so I'll leave it here.

Dear Roisin Murphy, you goddess of wonky pop music,

I went to see your show in Sydney last night. Did you see me? I was the tall guy in the blue shirt. Well, never mind. I just wanted to let you know that you were great. Amazing, in fact. Really, I wasn't surprised, seeing as how you've consistently churned out rather stellar music, not to mention some Very Nice Clothes. Oh, and that song that they used on that So You Think You Can Dance group routine that spawned approximately one billion YouTube rip-offs. Super.

You wore some nice hats last night. I liked the fascinator shaped like a spider web that kept getting in the way of your microphone, and the other fascinator shaped like a slightly squashed (and very purple) wedding cake. And the videos that played in the background; I tell you, you haven't lived til you've seen someone in a spider web fascinator draped across a chair in front of psychadelic scenes from porn movies.

A lot of people there went to a lot of effort to make themselves look "arty" or "left of the middle," just like you (except you're natually superior in every single way, obvs). The guy in the black spandex was not overly successful, nor was the guy dressed like Boy George, although the guy dressed as a flower (no, really!) did very well. As you may have guessed, there were a lot of gay homosexuals in the audience last night. In fact, the audience was probably gayer than those at the Kelly Clarkson and Scissor Sisters concerts I went to (NB both of these audiences were very gay).

About the only thing I can complain about is the fact that you did not get off the stage until 12.15 this morning, which makes me very tired indeed. Don't you know that some of your fans have JOBS? The program order I originally read had you finishing up at 10.45, although I suspect now this was just to get The Man off your back so you could continue partying into the wee hours of the morning. I may have gotten Deep Vein Thrombosis from standing there for so long.

Oh, and the support act was literally a skinny man with a turntable and a bag of records and possibly the most uninspiring thing I have ever seen or listened to. What's with that? While I'm not suggesting that you should have called on Britney Spears to make her triumphant return as your support act (although the effort would have been appreciated), all this man (whose name I've forgotten, if indeed I stored it away in the first place) did was make me clench my fists into little balls of rage and wait for you to appear.

Maybe that was your plan along, who knows. If so, I take my disappointingly normal hat off to you. Well played indeed.

Come back soon,
FS

I have "worked from home" for the last two days. Because I in fact have very little work to do at present, this has involved:

• Finding exciting ways to use up all the wheat germ I bought in a fit of healthy eating (wheat germ muffins, wheat germ bread, wheat germ dog treats, except I don't have a dog so I'm not sure what I was thinking really);
• Tending obsessively to my vegetable plants on the balcony. I have cauliflower, cabbage, broccoli and eggplant, and if I don't end up killing them with kindness, I expect to enjoy my bounty all winter long. Unless the possum gets them first;
• Making my own applesauce OMG;
• Thinking of creative ways to explain the fact that I have come in WAAAY under quota for my billing this week. Hmm;
• Starting and losing approximately one billion games of Scrabble on facebook. God, why are all the chronically unemployed so good at that game?
• Looking at my work diary and sighing sadly to myself.

I hope y'all have been more productive than me.

How to make an Indian curry.

• Visit Indian spice store (mentioned below) and stock up on approximately 57 bags of spices in various shades of brown. Make joke about "never having to shop for spices again" and discover (a little late) that the Indian shopkeeper has no sense of humour. Start feeling awkward as she looks distressed at the thought of me never again darkening her doorstep with my pieces of silver.
• Run out of time to buy containers for spices, so leave them in kitchen cupboard overnight. Reel away from cupboard, eyes watering, when fetching Corn Flakes the next morning.
• Find all available spice racks in the shops to be distinctly unsatisfying. Settle for a set of 12 baby food containers instead. Start the painstaking process of transferring spices from little baggies to containers, notice that some of the original expiry date stickers were covered over, indicating that at least three of the spices are five years out of date. Bitterly vow revenge on emotional Indian shopkeeper.
• Peel and chop potatoes. Manage to slice thumb open while using a VEGETABLE PEELER FFS, think that maybe vegetarianism isn't an appropriate life choice. Do battle with cauliflower until it spontaneously disintegrates, sending florets in all directions of the compass. Curse India as a whole for their NEEDLESSLY COMPLEX RECIPES.
• Open cupboard to retrieve vegetable oil, notice several large cockroaches take off in different directions. Note with some despair how quickly our household has learned to live with the infestation.
• Chop chilli, absentmindedly scratch nose after doing so. Note to self: best not to do this again.
• Distract self from the searing pain creeping across face by adding spices to hot oil and watching it spatter everywhere. Fun fun fun. Tend to burns and put rice on.
• Flee from the treacherous food simmering on the stove and seek shelter on the couch to laugh at people on Today Tonight (DON'T JUDGE ME). Forget to stir both the rice and the curry, find large deposit of crusty black substances on the bottom of each pan. Delicious.
• Eat delicious curry that has bubbled and boiled in my stomach for about 24 hours now. Decide that this Indian thing is alright.
• Sit in front of the television with yoghurt on face to stop the burning.