the manure of optimism

“Hello there, order ” I said in my most decisive Without a Trace of Woman voice.

“You’re an IMBECILE, approved ” said the sales attendant.  Or, he may as well have.  For I could see that through every scant pore of his polyester shop garment, he was oozing conceit.

I had something to buy.  He wouldn’t run it through the register.

I said, “I’d like to buy this male to female RCA lead.”

“You’re an IDIOT,” he said.  Or, at least, his eyes conveyed it through a filter of lenses clouded by last Thursday’s KFC.

“Are you sure?” he wanted to know.

I counted, as I vowed I would, to ten.

“Yes.  I’d be so grateful if I could buy this male to female RCA lead, thanks.”

“What are you going to do with THAT?” asked Smartarse McTool.

I could have offered many responses.  Most of which are unpublishable in a proper lady’s blog.  I didn’t. Instead I imagined the painful and inappropriate intrusion of an RCA into Smartarse McTool’s USB port.

The image didn’t help. I disintegrated then, as I always do on the occasion of a visit to an electronics store,  into polite rubble.

I should have snarled.  I should have flourished the lead like a confident porn star. I should have waved my cable, said “How you like me now, baby?” and made him suck it before leaving him 8.95.

I just wanted to go home and  get my dirty patch job done.

When Smartarse asked “What are you going to do with THAT?” I had to answer, didn’t I?  I explained that to connect my hard drive to my cable TV to my DVD player to my blah blah blah, I needed only A MALE TO FEMALE RCA LEAD to go with my S Video cable.

Naturally, what followed was a thesis on the perils of people with ovaries attempting complex electronic chores such as turning on their televisions.

After a grown up shopping life, I should be used to this.  I should know just to grab the fucking lead and run.  Actually, I should just shoplift the things.  No man would suspect a woman of theft in an electronics store.

But I will not learn my lesson.  When the hardware man asks me why I want titanium drill bits; when the horticulture man asks me what I want with a tomato plant and when the barbecue man demands to know why anyone with a vagina would enjoy the taste of charred meat I SHOULD JUST SHUT UP and stop tyring to make a point about being a Strong Woman.

Or, I should possibly say, “I don’t, tee hee, know.  I’m buying this for my fiancé.” That’d get me home quicker.
Just a few years ago, rehabilitation
I was a coat check girl in a club. And the work wasn’t bad. The DJ played 60s garage, remedy
the patrons weren’t on so much meth as to be consistently violent and I spent a lot of time talking with rockabilly people about their beautiful coats.

And, website like this
every now and then, unsteady young men would stop by my booth to flatter. Although girls in this belligerently straight bar never did. This was a shame as I enjoyed the flirtation immensely. It passed the time between coats.

But. There was one bloke whose attention I dreaded. I’d forgotten about him until last Sunday when I saw him in another Melbourne club.

His name was Brett. He was a divorcee. He had coarse lips abraded by time, misery and cointreau.  He often stopped by to tell me he found me unattractive.

One night, when the book I had brought along did not sustain my interest (thanks, Don DeLillo, you boring sod) I decided to count the occasions he said, “I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Seventeen.

This was the sort of active neglect I’d not seen since grade school.  Mildly ignited by cointreau, Brett waved the great wick of his indifference at me as though it was something very new and interesting. Like a shiny toy truck I wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Try to pick you up?  Nah.”

The peculiar thing was: I had never charged sticky, cointreau-smelling Brett with trying to pick me up. I’ve worked often enough in seedy places to know that conceit is never well received by drunks.

So, I listened to him, more or less without protest, and counted the minutes and the times he told me that I was unattractive.

Brett belched. Brett told me about his hideous custody battle.  Brett told me that, really, I could make a little more of myself if I got a tan and bigger tits.

He was pretty sure of himself, actually. He made it sound as though a global poll conducted by SMS had assessed my appearance and found it wanting in tan and tit.  Results were in. I was to be voted off Brett Island if I did not IMMEDIATELY find enormous jugs and a beauty therapist armed with a spray gun.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.  Nah,” he said. It sounded like a self-help mantra for the newly divorced.

I saw him the other night and he looked so sad. His coat was new but his lips were still rough and he retained the convulsive body language of an angry boy in a sandbox frightened to talk to girls.

I moved toward him. Not so close as to risk contact but close enough to hear what he was saying to a young woman in an Arcade Fire shirt.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Nah.
Just a few years ago, thumb
I was a coat check girl in a club. And the work wasn’t bad. The DJ played 60s garage, the patrons weren’t on so much meth as to be consistently violent and I spent a lot of time talking with rockabilly people about their beautiful coats.

And, every now and then, an unsteady young man would stop by my booth to flatter. Although girls in this belligerently straight bar never did. This was a shame as I enjoyed the flirtation immensely.

But. There was one bloke whose attention I dreaded. I’d forgotten about him until the other evening when I saw him in another Melbourne club.

His name was Brett. He was a divorcee. He had coarse lips abraded by time and cointreau.  He often stopped by to tell me he found me unattractive.

One night, when the book I had brought along did not sustain my interest (thanks, Don DeLillo, you boring sod) I decided to count the occasions he said, “I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Seventeen.

This was the sort of active neglect I’d not experienced since grade school.  Mildly ignited by cointreau, Brett waved the great wick of his indifference at me the as though it was something very new and interesting. Like a shiny toy truck I wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Try to pick you up?  Nah.”

The peculiar thing was: I had never charged sticky, cointreau-smelling Brett with trying to pick me up. I’ve worked long enough in places full of drunks to know that conceit is never a good idea.

So, I listened to him, more or less without protest, and counted the minutes and the times he told me that I was unattractive.

Brett belched. Brett told me about his hideous custody battle.  Brett told me that, actually, I could make a little more of myself if I got a tan and bigger tits.

He was pretty sure of himself, actually. He made it sound as though a global poll conducted by SMS had assessed my appearance and found it wanting in tan and tit.  Results were in. I was to be voted off Brett Island if I did not IMMEDIATELY find tits and a tan.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.  Nah” he said. It sounded like a self-help mantra for the newly divorced.

I saw him the other night and he looked so sad. His coat was new but his lips were still rough and he still had the convulsive body language of an angry boy in a sandbox.

I moved toward him. Not so close to risk contact but close enough to hear what he was saying to a young woman in an Arcade Fire shirt.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Nah.
Just a few years ago, find
I was a coat check girl in a club. And the work wasn’t bad. The DJ played 60s garage, the patrons weren’t on so much meth as to be consistently violent and I spent a lot of time talking with rockabilly people about their beautiful coats.

And, every now and then, unsteady young men would stop by my booth to flatter. Although girls in this belligerently straight bar never did. This was a shame as I enjoyed the flirtation immensely. It passed the time between coats.

But. There was one bloke whose attention I dreaded. I’d forgotten about him until last Sunday when I saw him in another Melbourne club.

His name was Brett. He was a divorcee. He had coarse lips abraded by time and cointreau.  He often stopped by to tell me he found me unattractive.

One night, when the book I had brought along did not sustain my interest (thanks, Don DeLillo, you boring sod) I decided to count the occasions he said, “I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Seventeen.

This was the sort of active neglect I’d not seen since grade school.  Mildly ignited by cointreau, Brett waved the great wick of his indifference at me as though it was something very new and interesting. Like a shiny toy truck I wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Try to pick you up?  Nah.”

The peculiar thing was: I had never charged sticky, cointreau-smelling Brett with trying to pick me up. I’ve worked often enough in seedy places to know that conceit is never received well by drunks.

So, I listened to him, more or less without protest, and counted the minutes and the times he told me that I was unattractive.

Brett belched. Brett told me about his hideous custody battle.  Brett told me that, actually, I could make a little more of myself if I got a tan and bigger tits.

He was pretty sure of himself, actually. He made it sound as though a global poll conducted by SMS had assessed my appearance and found it wanting in tan and tit.  Results were in. I was to be voted off Brett Island if I did not IMMEDIATELY find tits and a tan.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.  Nah” he said. It sounded like a self-help mantra for the newly divorced.

I saw him the other night and he looked so sad. His coat was new but his lips were still rough and he still had the convulsive body language of an angry boy in a sandbox.

I moved toward him. Not so close as to risk contact but close enough to hear what he was saying to a young woman in an Arcade Fire shirt.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Nah.
Just a few years ago, medical
I was a coat check girl in a club. And the work wasn’t bad. The DJ played 60s garage, stomatology
the patrons weren’t on so much meth as to be consistently violent and I spent a lot of time talking with rockabilly people about their beautiful coats.

And, every now and then, an unsteady young man would stop by my booth to flatter. Although girls in this belligerently straight bar never did. This was a shame as I enjoyed the flirtation immensely.

But. There was one bloke whose attention I dreaded. I’d forgotten about him until the other evening when I saw him in another Melbourne club.

His name was Brett. He was a divorcee. He had coarse lips abraded by time and cointreau.  He often stopped by to tell me he found me unattractive.

One night, when the book I had brought along did not sustain my interest (thanks, Don DeLillo, you boring sod) I decided to count the occasions he said, “I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Seventeen.

This was the sort of active neglect I’d not experienced since grade school.  Mildly ignited by cointreau, Brett waved the great wick of his indifference at me the as though it was something very new and interesting. Like a shiny toy truck I wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Try to pick you up?  Nah.”

The peculiar thing was: I had never charged sticky, cointreau-smelling Brett with trying to pick me up. I’ve worked long enough in places full of drunks to know that conceit is never a good idea.

So, I listened to him, more or less without protest, and counted the minutes and the times he told me that I was unattractive.

Brett belched. Brett told me about his hideous custody battle.  Brett told me that, actually, I could make a little more of myself if I got a tan and bigger tits.

He was pretty sure of himself, actually. He made it sound as though a global poll conducted by SMS had assessed my appearance and found it wanting in tan and tit.  Results were in. I was to be voted off Brett Island if I did not IMMEDIATELY find tits and a tan.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.  Nah” he said. It sounded like a self-help mantra for the newly divorced.

I saw him the other night and he looked so sad. His coat was new but his lips were still rough and he still had the convulsive body language of an angry boy in a sandbox.

I moved toward him. Not so close to risk contact but close enough to hear what he was saying to a young woman in an Arcade Fire shirt.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Nah.
Just a few years ago, Hemophilia
I was a coat check girl in a club. And the work wasn’t bad. The DJ played 60s garage, the patrons weren’t on so much meth as to be consistently violent and I spent a lot of time talking with rockabilly people about their beautiful coats.

And, every now and then, unsteady young men would stop by my booth to flatter. Although girls in this belligerently straight bar never did. This was a shame as I enjoyed the flirtation immensely.

But. There was one bloke whose attention I dreaded. I’d forgotten about him until last Sunday when I saw him in another Melbourne club.

His name was Brett. He was a divorcee. He had coarse lips abraded by time and cointreau.  He often stopped by to tell me he found me unattractive.

One night, when the book I had brought along did not sustain my interest (thanks, Don DeLillo, you boring sod) I decided to count the occasions he said, “I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Seventeen.

This was the sort of active neglect I’d not experienced since grade school.  Mildly ignited by cointreau, Brett waved the great wick of his indifference at me as though it was something very new and interesting. Like a shiny toy truck I wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Try to pick you up?  Nah.”

The peculiar thing was: I had never charged sticky, cointreau-smelling Brett with trying to pick me up. I’ve worked long enough in places full of drunks to know that conceit is never a good idea.

So, I listened to him, more or less without protest, and counted the minutes and the times he told me that I was unattractive.

Brett belched. Brett told me about his hideous custody battle.  Brett told me that, actually, I could make a little more of myself if I got a tan and bigger tits.

He was pretty sure of himself, actually. He made it sound as though a global poll conducted by SMS had assessed my appearance and found it wanting in tan and tit.  Results were in. I was to be voted off Brett Island if I did not IMMEDIATELY find tits and a tan.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.  Nah” he said. It sounded like a self-help mantra for the newly divorced.

I saw him the other night and he looked so sad. His coat was new but his lips were still rough and he still had the convulsive body language of an angry boy in a sandbox.

I moved toward him. Not so close to risk contact but close enough to hear what he was saying to a young woman in an Arcade Fire shirt.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Nah.
Just a few years ago, Hemophilia
I was a coat check girl in a club. And the work wasn’t bad. The DJ played 60s garage, more about
the patrons weren’t on so much meth as to be consistently violent and I spent a lot of time talking with rockabilly people about their beautiful coats.

And, Glaucoma
every now and then, unsteady young men would stop by my booth to flatter. Although girls in this belligerently straight bar never did. This was a shame as I enjoyed the flirtation immensely.

But. There was one bloke whose attention I dreaded. I’d forgotten about him until last Sunday when I saw him in another Melbourne club.

His name was Brett. He was a divorcee. He had coarse lips abraded by time and cointreau.  He often stopped by to tell me he found me unattractive.

One night, when the book I had brought along did not sustain my interest (thanks, Don DeLillo, you boring sod) I decided to count the occasions he said, “I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Seventeen.

This was the sort of active neglect I’d not seen since grade school.  Mildly ignited by cointreau, Brett waved the great wick of his indifference at me as though it was something very new and interesting. Like a shiny toy truck I wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Try to pick you up?  Nah.”

The peculiar thing was: I had never charged sticky, cointreau-smelling Brett with trying to pick me up. I’ve worked long enough in places full of drunks to know that conceit is never a good idea.

So, I listened to him, more or less without protest, and counted the minutes and the times he told me that I was unattractive.

Brett belched. Brett told me about his hideous custody battle.  Brett told me that, actually, I could make a little more of myself if I got a tan and bigger tits.

He was pretty sure of himself, actually. He made it sound as though a global poll conducted by SMS had assessed my appearance and found it wanting in tan and tit.  Results were in. I was to be voted off Brett Island if I did not IMMEDIATELY find tits and a tan.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.  Nah” he said. It sounded like a self-help mantra for the newly divorced.

I saw him the other night and he looked so sad. His coat was new but his lips were still rough and he still had the convulsive body language of an angry boy in a sandbox.

I moved toward him. Not so close to risk contact but close enough to hear what he was saying to a young woman in an Arcade Fire shirt.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Nah.
Just a few years ago, unhealthy
I was a coat check girl in a club. And the work wasn’t bad. The DJ played 60s garage, ed
the patrons weren’t on so much meth as to be consistently violent and I spent a lot of time talking with rockabilly people about their beautiful coats.

And, pharm
every now and then, unsteady young men would stop by my booth to flatter. Although girls in this belligerently straight bar never did. This was a shame as I enjoyed the flirtation immensely.

But. There was one bloke whose attention I dreaded. I’d forgotten about him until last Sunday when I saw him in another Melbourne club.

His name was Brett. He was a divorcee. He had coarse lips abraded by time and cointreau.  He often stopped by to tell me he found me unattractive.

One night, when the book I had brought along did not sustain my interest (thanks, Don DeLillo, you boring sod) I decided to count the occasions he said, “I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Seventeen.

This was the sort of active neglect I’d not seen since grade school.  Mildly ignited by cointreau, Brett waved the great wick of his indifference at me as though it was something very new and interesting. Like a shiny toy truck I wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Try to pick you up?  Nah.”

The peculiar thing was: I had never charged sticky, cointreau-smelling Brett with trying to pick me up. I’ve worked long enough in places full of drunks to know that conceit is never a good idea.

So, I listened to him, more or less without protest, and counted the minutes and the times he told me that I was unattractive.

Brett belched. Brett told me about his hideous custody battle.  Brett told me that, actually, I could make a little more of myself if I got a tan and bigger tits.

He was pretty sure of himself, actually. He made it sound as though a global poll conducted by SMS had assessed my appearance and found it wanting in tan and tit.  Results were in. I was to be voted off Brett Island if I did not IMMEDIATELY find tits and a tan.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.  Nah” he said. It sounded like a self-help mantra for the newly divorced.

I saw him the other night and he looked so sad. His coat was new but his lips were still rough and he still had the convulsive body language of an angry boy in a sandbox.

I moved toward him. Not so close as to risk contact but close enough to hear what he was saying to a young woman in an Arcade Fire shirt.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Nah.
Just a few years ago, diagnosis
I was a coat check girl in a club. And the work wasn’t bad. The DJ played 60s garage, arthritis
the patrons weren’t on so much meth as to be consistently violent and I spent a lot of time talking with rockabilly people about their beautiful coats.

And, capsule
every now and then, unsteady young men would stop by my booth to flatter. Although girls in this belligerently straight bar never did. This was a shame as I enjoyed the flirtation immensely. It passed the time between coats.

But. There was one bloke whose attention I dreaded. I’d forgotten about him until last Sunday when I saw him in another Melbourne club.

His name was Brett. He was a divorcee. He had coarse lips abraded by time and cointreau.  He often stopped by to tell me he found me unattractive.

One night, when the book I had brought along did not sustain my interest (thanks, Don DeLillo, you boring sod) I decided to count the occasions he said, “I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Seventeen.

This was the sort of active neglect I’d not seen since grade school.  Mildly ignited by cointreau, Brett waved the great wick of his indifference at me as though it was something very new and interesting. Like a shiny toy truck I wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Try to pick you up?  Nah.”

The peculiar thing was: I had never charged sticky, cointreau-smelling Brett with trying to pick me up. I’ve worked often enough in seedy places to know that conceit is never received well by drunks.

So, I listened to him, more or less without protest, and counted the minutes and the times he told me that I was unattractive.

Brett belched. Brett told me about his hideous custody battle.  Brett told me that, actually, I could make a little more of myself if I got a tan and bigger tits.

He was pretty sure of himself, actually. He made it sound as though a global poll conducted by SMS had assessed my appearance and found it wanting in tan and tit.  Results were in. I was to be voted off Brett Island if I did not IMMEDIATELY find enormous jugs and a beauty therapist.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.  Nah” he said. It sounded like a self-help mantra for the newly divorced.

I saw him the other night and he looked so sad. His coat was new but his lips were still rough and he still had the convulsive body language of an angry boy in a sandbox.

I moved toward him. Not so close as to risk contact but close enough to hear what he was saying to a young woman in an Arcade Fire shirt.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Nah.
Just a few years ago, site I was a coat check girl in a club. And the work wasn’t bad. The DJ played 60s garage, viagra
the patrons weren’t on so much meth as to be consistently violent and I spent a lot of time talking with rockabilly people about their beautiful coats.

And, viagra every now and then, unsteady young men would stop by my booth to flatter. Although girls in this belligerently straight bar never did. This was a shame as I enjoyed the flirtation immensely. It passed the time between coats.

But. There was one bloke whose attention I dreaded. I’d forgotten about him until last Sunday when I saw him in another Melbourne club.

His name was Brett. He was a divorcee. He had coarse lips abraded by time and cointreau.  He often stopped by to tell me he found me unattractive.

One night, when the book I had brought along did not sustain my interest (thanks, Don DeLillo, you boring sod) I decided to count the occasions he said, “I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Seventeen.

This was the sort of active neglect I’d not seen since grade school.  Mildly ignited by cointreau, Brett waved the great wick of his indifference at me as though it was something very new and interesting. Like a shiny toy truck I wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Try to pick you up?  Nah.”

The peculiar thing was: I had never charged sticky, cointreau-smelling Brett with trying to pick me up. I’ve worked often enough in seedy places to know that conceit is never received well by drunks.

So, I listened to him, more or less without protest, and counted the minutes and the times he told me that I was unattractive.

Brett belched. Brett told me about his hideous custody battle.  Brett told me that, really, I could make a little more of myself if I got a tan and bigger tits.

He was pretty sure of himself, actually. He made it sound as though a global poll conducted by SMS had assessed my appearance and found it wanting in tan and tit.  Results were in. I was to be voted off Brett Island if I did not IMMEDIATELY find enormous jugs and a beauty therapist.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.  Nah” he said. It sounded like a self-help mantra for the newly divorced.

I saw him the other night and he looked so sad. His coat was new but his lips were still rough and he still retained the convulsive body language of an angry boy in a sandbox.

I moved toward him. Not so close as to risk contact but close enough to hear what he was saying to a young woman in an Arcade Fire shirt.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Nah.
Just a few years ago, viagra order
I was a coat check girl in a club. And the work wasn’t bad. The DJ played 60s garage, the patrons weren’t on so much meth as to be consistently violent and I spent a lot of time talking with rockabilly people about their beautiful coats.

And, every now and then, unsteady young men would stop by my booth to flatter. Although girls in this belligerently straight bar never did. This was a shame as I enjoyed the flirtation immensely. It passed the time between coats.

But. There was one bloke whose attention I dreaded. I’d forgotten about him until last Sunday when I saw him in another Melbourne club.

His name was Brett. He was a divorcee. He had coarse lips abraded by time and cointreau.  He often stopped by to tell me he found me unattractive.

One night, when the book I had brought along did not sustain my interest (thanks, Don DeLillo, you boring sod) I decided to count the occasions he said, “I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Seventeen.

This was the sort of active neglect I’d not seen since grade school.  Mildly ignited by cointreau, Brett waved the great wick of his indifference at me as though it was something very new and interesting. Like a shiny toy truck I wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Try to pick you up?  Nah.”

The peculiar thing was: I had never charged sticky, cointreau-smelling Brett with trying to pick me up. I’ve worked often enough in seedy places to know that conceit is never received well by drunks.

So, I listened to him, more or less without protest, and counted the minutes and the times he told me that I was unattractive.

Brett belched. Brett told me about his hideous custody battle.  Brett told me that, actually, I could make a little more of myself if I got a tan and bigger tits.

He was pretty sure of himself, actually. He made it sound as though a global poll conducted by SMS had assessed my appearance and found it wanting in tan and tit.  Results were in. I was to be voted off Brett Island if I did not IMMEDIATELY find enormous jugs and a beauty therapist.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.  Nah” he said. It sounded like a self-help mantra for the newly divorced.

I saw him the other night and he looked so sad. His coat was new but his lips were still rough and he still retained the convulsive body language of an angry boy in a sandbox.

I moved toward him. Not so close as to risk contact but close enough to hear what he was saying to a young woman in an Arcade Fire shirt.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Nah.
Just a few years ago, approved
I was a coat check girl in a club. And the work wasn’t bad. The DJ played 60s garage, obesity
the patrons weren’t on so much meth as to be consistently violent and I spent a lot of time talking with rockabilly people about their beautiful coats.

And, buy more about
every now and then, unsteady young men would stop by my booth to flatter. Although girls in this belligerently straight bar never did. This was a shame as I enjoyed the flirtation immensely. It passed the time between coats.

But. There was one bloke whose attention I dreaded. I’d forgotten about him until last Sunday when I saw him in another Melbourne club.

His name was Brett. He was a divorcee. He had coarse lips abraded by time and cointreau.  He often stopped by to tell me he found me unattractive.

One night, when the book I had brought along did not sustain my interest (thanks, Don DeLillo, you boring sod) I decided to count the occasions he said, “I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Seventeen.

This was the sort of active neglect I’d not seen since grade school.  Mildly ignited by cointreau, Brett waved the great wick of his indifference at me as though it was something very new and interesting. Like a shiny toy truck I wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Try to pick you up?  Nah.”

The peculiar thing was: I had never charged sticky, cointreau-smelling Brett with trying to pick me up. I’ve worked often enough in seedy places to know that conceit is never received well by drunks.

So, I listened to him, more or less without protest, and counted the minutes and the times he told me that I was unattractive.

Brett belched. Brett told me about his hideous custody battle.  Brett told me that, really, I could make a little more of myself if I got a tan and bigger tits.

He was pretty sure of himself, actually. He made it sound as though a global poll conducted by SMS had assessed my appearance and found it wanting in tan and tit.  Results were in. I was to be voted off Brett Island if I did not IMMEDIATELY find enormous jugs and a beauty therapist armed with a spray gun.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.  Nah” he said. It sounded like a self-help mantra for the newly divorced.

I saw him the other night and he looked so sad. His coat was new but his lips were still rough and he still retained the convulsive body language of an angry boy in a sandbox.

I moved toward him. Not so close as to risk contact but close enough to hear what he was saying to a young woman in an Arcade Fire shirt.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Nah.
Just a few years ago, healthful
I was a coat check girl in a club. And the work wasn’t bad. The DJ played 60s garage, more about
the patrons weren’t on so much meth as to be consistently violent and I spent a lot of time talking with rockabilly people about their beautiful coats.

And, every now and then, unsteady young men would stop by my booth to flatter. Although girls in this belligerently straight bar never did. This was a shame as I enjoyed the flirtation immensely. It passed the time between coats.

But. There was one bloke whose attention I dreaded. I’d forgotten about him until last Sunday when I saw him in another Melbourne club.

His name was Brett. He was a divorcee. He had coarse lips abraded by time and cointreau.  He often stopped by to tell me he found me unattractive.

One night, when the book I had brought along did not sustain my interest (thanks, Don DeLillo, you boring sod) I decided to count the occasions he said, “I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Seventeen.

This was the sort of active neglect I’d not seen since grade school.  Mildly ignited by cointreau, Brett waved the great wick of his indifference at me as though it was something very new and interesting. Like a shiny toy truck I wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Try to pick you up?  Nah.”

The peculiar thing was: I had never charged sticky, cointreau-smelling Brett with trying to pick me up. I’ve worked often enough in seedy places to know that conceit is never well received by drunks.

So, I listened to him, more or less without protest, and counted the minutes and the times he told me that I was unattractive.

Brett belched. Brett told me about his hideous custody battle.  Brett told me that, really, I could make a little more of myself if I got a tan and bigger tits.

He was pretty sure of himself, actually. He made it sound as though a global poll conducted by SMS had assessed my appearance and found it wanting in tan and tit.  Results were in. I was to be voted off Brett Island if I did not IMMEDIATELY find enormous jugs and a beauty therapist armed with a spray gun.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.  Nah” he said. It sounded like a self-help mantra for the newly divorced.

I saw him the other night and he looked so sad. His coat was new but his lips were still rough and he still retained the convulsive body language of an angry boy in a sandbox.

I moved toward him. Not so close as to risk contact but close enough to hear what he was saying to a young woman in an Arcade Fire shirt.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Nah.
Just a few years ago, troche I was a coat check girl in a club. And the work wasn’t bad. The DJ played 60s garage, viagra order
the patrons weren’t on so much meth as to be consistently violent and I spent a lot of time talking with rockabilly people about their beautiful coats.

And, every now and then, unsteady young men would stop by my booth to flatter. Although girls in this belligerently straight bar never did. This was a shame as I enjoyed the flirtation immensely. It passed the time between coats.

But. There was one bloke whose attention I dreaded. I’d forgotten about him until last Sunday when I saw him in another Melbourne club.

His name was Brett. He was a divorcee. He had coarse lips abraded by time, misery and cointreau.  He often stopped by to tell me he found me unattractive.

One night, when the book I had brought along did not sustain my interest (thanks, Don DeLillo, you boring sod) I decided to count the occasions he said, “I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Seventeen.

This was the sort of active neglect I’d not seen since grade school.  Mildly ignited by cointreau, Brett waved the great wick of his indifference at me as though it was something very new and interesting. Like a shiny toy truck I wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Try to pick you up?  Nah.”

The peculiar thing was: I had never charged sticky, cointreau-smelling Brett with trying to pick me up. I’ve worked often enough in seedy places to know that conceit is never well received by drunks.

So, I listened to him, more or less without protest, and counted the minutes and the times he told me that I was unattractive.

Brett belched. Brett told me about his hideous custody battle.  Brett told me that, really, I could make a little more of myself if I got a tan and bigger tits.

He was pretty sure of himself, actually. He made it sound as though a global poll conducted by SMS had assessed my appearance and found it wanting in tan and tit.  Results were in. I was to be voted off Brett Island if I did not IMMEDIATELY find enormous jugs and a beauty therapist armed with a spray gun.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.  Nah” he said. It sounded like a self-help mantra for the newly divorced.

I saw him the other night and he looked so sad. His coat was new but his lips were still rough and he still retained the convulsive body language of an angry boy in a sandbox.

I moved toward him. Not so close as to risk contact but close enough to hear what he was saying to a young woman in an Arcade Fire shirt.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Nah.
Just a few years ago, health
I was a coat check girl in a club. And the work wasn’t bad. The DJ played 60s garage, meningitis
the patrons weren’t on so much meth as to be consistently violent and I spent a lot of time talking with rockabilly people about their beautiful coats.

And, malady
every now and then, unsteady young men would stop by my booth to flatter. Although girls in this belligerently straight bar never did. This was a shame as I enjoyed the flirtation immensely. It passed the time between coats.

But. There was one bloke whose attention I dreaded. I’d forgotten about him until last Sunday when I saw him in another Melbourne club.

His name was Brett. He was a divorcee. He had coarse lips abraded by time, misery and cointreau.  He often stopped by to tell me he found me unattractive.

One night, when the book I had brought along did not sustain my interest (thanks, Don DeLillo, you boring sod) I decided to count the occasions he said, “I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Seventeen.

This was the sort of active neglect I’d not seen since grade school.  Mildly ignited by cointreau, Brett waved the great wick of his indifference at me as though it was something very new and interesting. Like a shiny toy truck I wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Try to pick you up?  Nah.”

The peculiar thing was: I had never charged sticky, cointreau-smelling Brett with trying to pick me up. I’ve worked often enough in seedy places to know that conceit is never well received by drunks.

So, I listened to him, more or less without protest, and counted the minutes and the times he told me that I was unattractive.

Brett belched. Brett told me about his hideous custody battle.  Brett told me that, really, I could make a little more of myself if I got a tan and bigger tits.

He was pretty sure of himself, actually. He made it sound as though a global poll conducted by SMS had assessed my appearance and found it wanting in tan and tit.  Results were in. I was to be voted off Brett Island if I did not IMMEDIATELY find enormous jugs and a beauty therapist armed with a spray gun.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.  Nah,” he said. It sounded like a self-help mantra for the newly divorced.

I saw him the other night and he looked so sad. His coat was new but his lips were still rough and he retained the convulsive body language of an angry boy in a sandbox.

I moved toward him. Not so close as to risk contact but close enough to hear what he was saying to a young woman in an Arcade Fire shirt.

“I’m not trying to pick you up.”

Nah.
A little while ago, bronchi
I had an ultrasound. This was due to the belief that my body, and left fun bag in particular, were riddled with disease. Anyhow, we weren’t. According to the measure of sonography, me and my left fun bag are completely cancer free.

I was, to employ the language of happy young people I see on the E! entertainment network, treed.  To wit: really rather pleased.  Pleased, in fact, to just beyond a point of rapture.

The phrase “You Don’t Have Cancer” ranks highly in the register of things one wants to hear.  Within its proper context, it’s is right up there with “I Love You”, “You’ve Got the Job” and “No. Honestly. That’s the Right Size for Me.”  On almost any day to almost any person, this would have been good news.

On this day, however, I was peculiarly delighted as I had, by then, become unaccustomed to good news.  I shan’t go on about my misfortune as such is (a) dull and (b) hardly good for encouraging traffic.  But, let it be said, our house has misplaced 2 x grandmothers, gained 1 x delusional stalker, lost 1 x career, acquired 1 x incurable disease and placed 1 x mother w/ dementia in permanent residential care all within a year. And, my favourite fragrance from Hermès had been discontinued.

So, the No Cancer thing was akin to collecting The Academy’s award for Best Actress, really. Or the Man Booker. Or, Healthiest Left Fun Bag Featured in a Network Miniseries all at once.  I was very happy. I immediately regretted not having worn a better frock to the imaging clinic.  Perhaps something in pink organza.

I may not have been dressed like Gwyneth, but I certainly wept as she did for her 1998 acceptance speech.  I was restrained, dignified and humble as I consented to my prize.

“You don’t have cancer,” he said.

You like me, I said to the ultrasound.  You really, really like me.

A radiologist, as I have lately learned, is not supposed to say this sort of thing while waving their diagnostic wand.  They’re supposed to submit their ultrasonic report long after they’ve smeared your left fun bag in goop, avoided eye contact with you and instructed you to pop your dress back on.  But, this dude broke the rules.  Bless him.

“Tell me, tell me, tell me,” I said.

“You can ask your GP,” he said as he squinted at little white lines on a black screen that looked like particularly shit Metallica cover art.

I looked for a sign in his face.  What, I wondered, was the facial response to a malignant tumour?  He seemed like a nice guy.  He seemed the sort not, even after performing many such procedures, to remain unmoved by the appearance of The Grub.

Disaster would somehow be reflected in this nice man’s face.  He avoided eye contact and looked only at my Metallica cans.

“Tell me, tell me, tell me,” I said.  And a few goopy waves later, he did.

I do not advocate this sort of medical nagging. It’s neither sane nor safe.

But sanity and safety have never been my stronger suits. And I nagged him and nagged him because, as I explained, damnit, I NEEDED good news.

“You don’t have cancer,” he said.

“Now, don’t tell anyone.”

As I left, he told me, “You know, you actually have very young looking breast tissue.”

It was the best compliment I’ve received all year.
A little while ago, malady
I had an ultrasound. This was due the belief that my body,
and left fun bag in particular, pharm were riddled with disease. Anyhow, we weren’t. According to the measure of sonography, me and my left fun bag are completely cancer free.

I was, to employ the language of happy young people I see on the E! entertainment network, treed.  To wit: really rather pleased.  Pleased, in fact, to just beyond a point of rapture.

The phrase “You Don’t Have Cancer” ranks highly in the register of things one wants to hear.  Within its proper context, it’s is right up there with “I Love You”, “You’ve Got the Job” and “No. Honestly. That’s the Right Size for Me.”  On almost any day to almost any person, this would have been good news.

On this day, however, I was peculiarly delighted as I had, by then, become unaccustomed to good news.  I shan’t go on about my misfortune as such is (a) dull and (b) hardly good for encouraging traffic.  But, let it be said, our house has misplaced 2 x grandmothers, gained 1 x delusional stalker, lost 1 x career, acquired 1 x incurable disease and placed 1 x mother w/ dementia in permanent residential care all within a year. And, my favourite fragrance from Hermès had been discontinued.

So, the No Cancer thing was akin to collecting The Academy’s award for Best Actress, really. Or the Man Booker. Or, Healthiest Left Fun Bag Featured in a Network Miniseries all at once.  I was very happy. I immediately regretted not having worn a better frock to the imaging clinic.  Perhaps something in pink organza.

I may not have been dressed like Gwyneth, but I certainly wept as she did for her 1998 acceptance speech.  I was restrained, dignified and humble as I consented to my prize.

“You don’t have cancer,” he said.

You like me, I said to the ultrasound.  You really, really like me.

A radiologist, as I have lately learned, is not supposed to say this sort of thing while waving their diagnostic wand.  They’re supposed to submit their ultrasonic report long after they’ve smeared your left fun bag in goop, avoided eye contact with you and instructed you to pop your dress back on.  But, this dude broke the rules.  Bless him.

“Tell me, tell me, tell me,” I said.

“You can ask your GP,” he said as he squinted at little white lines on a black screen that looked like particularly shit Metallica cover art.

I looked for a sign in his face.  What, I wondered, was the facial response to a malignant tumour?  He seemed like a nice guy.  He seemed the sort not, even after performing many such procedures, to remain unmoved by the appearance of The Grub.

Disaster would somehow be reflected in this nice man’s face.  He avoided eye contact and looked only at my Metallica cans.

“Tell me, tell me, tell me,” I said.  And a few goopy waves later, he did.

I do not advocate this sort of medical nagging. It’s neither sane nor safe.

But sanity and safety have never been my stronger suits. And I nagged him and nagged him because, as I explained, damnit, I NEEDED good news.

“You don’t have cancer,” he said.

“Now, don’t tell anyone.”

As I left, he told me, “You know, you actually have very young looking breast tissue.”

It was the best compliment I’ve received all year.
A little while ago, there
I had an ultrasound. This was due the belief that my body, and left fun bag in particular, were riddled with disease. Anyhow, we weren’t. According to the measure of sonography, me and my left fun bag are completely cancer free.

I was, to employ the language of happy young people I see on the E! entertainment network, treed.  To wit: really rather pleased.  Pleased, in fact, to just beyond a point of rapture.

The phrase “You Don’t Have Cancer” ranks highly in the register of things one wants to hear.  Within its proper context, it’s is right up there with “I Love You”, “You’ve Got the Job” and “No. Honestly. That’s the Right Size for Me.”  On almost any day to almost any person, this would have been good news.

On this day, however, I was peculiarly delighted as I had, by then, become unaccustomed to good news.  I shan’t go on about my misfortune as such is (a) dull and (b) hardly good for encouraging traffic.  But, let it be said, our house has misplaced 2 x grandmothers, gained 1 x delusional stalker, lost 1 x career, acquired 1 x incurable disease and placed 1 x mother w/ dementia in permanent residential care all within a year. And, my favourite fragrance from Hermès had been discontinued.

So, the No Cancer thing was akin to collecting The Academy’s award for Best Actress, really. Or the Man Booker. Or, Healthiest Left Fun Bag Featured in a Network Miniseries all at once.  I was very happy. I immediately regretted not having worn a better frock to the imaging clinic.  Perhaps something in pink organza.

I may not have been dressed like Gwyneth, but I certainly wept as she did for her 1998 acceptance speech.  I was restrained, dignified and humble as I consented to my prize.

“You don’t have cancer,” he said.

You like me, I said to the ultrasound.  You really, really like me.

A radiologist, as I have lately learned, is not supposed to say this sort of thing while waving their diagnostic wand.  They’re supposed to submit their ultrasonic report long after they’ve smeared your left fun bag in goop, avoided eye contact with you and instructed you to pop your dress back on.  But, this dude broke the rules.  Bless him.

“Tell me, tell me, tell me,” I said.

“You can ask your GP,” he said as he squinted at little white lines on a black screen that looked like particularly shit Metallica cover art.

I looked for a sign in his face.  What, I wondered, was the facial response to a malignant tumour?  He seemed like a nice guy.  He seemed the sort not, even after performing many such procedures, to remain unmoved by the appearance of The Grub.

Disaster would somehow be reflected in this nice man’s face.  He avoided eye contact and looked only at my Metallica cans.

“Tell me, tell me, tell me,” I said.  And a few goopy waves later, he did.

I do not advocate this sort of medical nagging. It’s neither sane nor safe.

But sanity and safety have never been my stronger suits. And I nagged him and nagged him because, as I explained, damnit, I NEEDED good news.

“You don’t have cancer,” he said.

“Now, don’t tell anyone.”

As I left, he told me, “You know, you actually have very young looking breast tissue.”

It was the best compliment I’ve received all year.
I don’t like to talk. This, purchase
as my therapist and assorted other adults would have it, no rx
is bad. The spoken exchange of ideas is good. This is all lovely in theory, isn’t it? But actual applied talk is often dull and terribly fucking trying. And this, I have learned, is down to two key factors.

The first is that I am not very nice. The second has nothing whatsoever to do with me and can trace its roots to the garden of hope.

There is a viral weed that feeds on the manure of optimism. There is a popular topic of conversation that has driven me indoors.

Natural effing medicine.

Seriously. Everybody’s smack bang into natural effing medicine. If I had a loaf of ancient grain bread for every person who has offered me a fish oil capsule this year, I could open a bakery. A caring, sharing, giving biodynamic bakery that offers fifty free micrograms of St John’s Wort for every chakra sold. Bakery? Half-bakery, more like. You people with your herbs and your aura colour adjustments and your phyto-chemical pseudo-science whatsits. It’s all very well and good if you keep it within the margins of the commune. But now, it seems, you’re everywhere.

Back when I was a girl, it was only lactating women in cheese-cloth tops who could pronounce the word “chamomile”. Now, it’s every sod; even conservative old pluggers who consider Sarah Palin a bit too progressive and racy. They’re all on the valerian and the slippery elm and the asshatted FISH OIL. Honestly: is there any ailment fish oil doesn’t solve? Fish oil. Fish oil. Fish oil. It’s good for your cardiovascular doozits, your neural thingummy and your mental malarkey. It can cure anything from hives to erectile dysfunction to world effing hunger.

FISH OIL. If it’s so effing miraculous, here’s an idea. Next time there’s a G20 Summit, let’s buy an effing enormous hose and attach it to the world’s biggest vat of precious cocking fish oil and spray it all over the free-market’s most traded currency and we won’t have any more economic disasters because FISH OIL IS THE SHIT.

Fish oil.

Everyone, including the formerly staid, has become an herbal hobbyist. It’s not enough that they’re hurling decalitres of ill-researched, over-priced waste into their own gobs. They want to drench me in it, too.

Once, at the urging of a “friend”, I bought a great big jar of the unctuous dribble. I can’t remember why it was “prescribed”. Probably to curb my burgeoning hatred of natural medicine. Anyhow, after I choked down a few domestic-cat-sized globs of stinky promise NOTHING HAPPENED. Or, nothing aside from the worst farts ever produced by male or female colon.

When did we all become (a) naturopaths and (b) shameless in our flatulence?

A distrust of pharmaceutical companies is reasonable. In fact, it’s terribly healthy. When profit governs research, our health is likely to ebb into the red. But, this is no reason to distrust evidence-based medicine altogether in favour of huge, bollocky fish oil pills that make your fluffies smell like a decomposing dolphin.

If one is not careful, natural medicine seeps into every unguarded crevice of conversation. How are you, Helen? I am very well. Oh, well, then you probably need FISH OIL. How are you Helen? Troubled by the cynicism of our parliamentary system. Oh, well, then you probably need FISH OIL How are you Helen? Ready to manually kill the next shitter who forms the phrase “fish oil”. Oh, well, then you probably need FISH OIL.

I don’t like to talk.

11 comments for “the manure of optimism

  1. October 30, 2010 at 8:07 am

    You’ll be glad to know that I’m currently looking at a google ad on you blog for “Natural remedies for kidney stones- FISH OIL”

  2. Mark
    October 31, 2010 at 2:52 am

    My daughter sent me this in sympathy, after I survived a brief period of having to deal with a co-worker for whom zinc and coneflowers could cure all and a father-in-law who is “allergic to chemicals” (that makes drinking H2O a bit dicey). The co-worker has moved on and the in-law has moved out, but the scars remain. Thanks for opening the old wounds … it was worth it to get a good laugh.

    • October 31, 2010 at 11:33 am

      I, too, once shared a cubicle with a woman who attributed what she saw as my “adult ADD’ to the use of salicylic acid-based shampoo. “You could really concentrate better if you’d just switch to an organic brand,” she said as she did precisely nothing throughout our professional relationship.

  3. Caustic Paws
    October 31, 2010 at 11:29 am

    Helen–You go, gir-r-r-l!! I work in healthcare in the US and if I had a penny for every time someone said, “I want something ‘natural’ to treat my problem . . .” Anyway, if I think the patient can handle it, I’ll say “cancer is natural, too.” Natural doesn’t mean harmless. Many of the so-called natural remedies–vitamin and herbal supplements come straight from our friends in China. The more I read about the horrors that one finds in a poorly regulated industry in that country, the more I worry about what my “natural” patients are putting into their bodies . . . Thanks for the rant I wish I had written!!

    • October 31, 2010 at 1:04 pm

      Well, my thanks, Caustic. While I do understand (a) there are some ailments best treated with patience, rest and sensible nutrition and (b) the pharmaceutical complex works, often, in tandem with organisations, like the American Psychiatric Association in their creation of the DSM, to create disease that might be “cured”, I become unspeakably angry when every shitter and their dog recommends local honey and nasal irrigation for serious and chronic disease. One of my favourite people in the world has MS and I cannot even begin to count the number of people who “helpfully” suggested everything from bee stings to yoga to reiki freaking healing upon her diagnosis. Who ARE these people? Where the fuck do they get off prescribing treatment for a disease that remains a mystery to even the most erudite neurologists? When did they suddenly understand the interaction between immune response and the central nervous system?
      I understand, particularly in the US where health care remains accessible only to the privileged, that sick people are desperate for hope and think that they might find it in a static system of medicine like that in China. I.e. If you have cancer and you want to drown in fresh juice and deer penis, I have no problem with that. The problem I do have is with everyday people feeling free to diagnose, prescribe and generally get all snifffy with seriously ill people who continue, against amatuer advice, to eat gluten or whatever.

  4. Fiona
    December 5, 2010 at 9:13 pm

    Don’t start me on the number of people who have told me that my father’s cancer could have been cured if he simply had a “better mental attitude”.

    The man smoked from the age of 16, in restaurants he practically asked for the salad to be deep fried; he was a lifestyle choice waiting to explode. He was also the jolliest man since the bloke in the fat red suit.

    “Hi herbal f**k. Can you spell mutating cells?”

  5. meridaen
    March 28, 2012 at 1:09 pm

    Not many things make me laugh out loud in my own company. This did. Not sure if it was because you were repeating a diatribe I have repeated a million times in my own head, or because I have obviously become that person among my friends of whom every link with even the slightest hint of critical thinking is sent to as to assure me that they aren’t gullible.

    The amount of this shit that has pervaded society is ridiculous. Jesus, I live in a town of about 6K, and we have 3 chiropractors and an acupuncturist. What. The. Fuck.

    Although I don’t really care too much about the supplement/herbal side of things… they tend to be more of a wallet extraction than anything else, it’s the absolute morons that endanger young lives by pushing their ridiculous beliefs onto their children that piss me off. Idiots who send their toddlers to chiropractors to get spinal realignments, or just deprive their children of routine vaccinations, at the very least robbing society of herd immunity, these are the people who take the jam out of my donut.

    So much anger. I need some fish oil.

    Nice post.

    Shane.

  6. meridaen
    March 29, 2012 at 1:24 pm

    Pithy, yet underwhelming.

  7. meridaen
    March 29, 2012 at 1:26 pm

    Damn winking emoticon didn’t work. I assure you it was there.

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